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schizopositivity · 1 year

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Hey so like

The only times I've ever really heard people talk about schizophrenia being hard is how others are affected by it, how it's "creepy/bad/evil/scary", etc

Can you talk about the stuff that's been really difficult for you in your personal experience without it just being through the lens of how it affects others?

Thank you :)

this is gonna be a long one cause schizophrenia is very complex so im gonna break it down by symptoms and how it affects me

TW: demon, self harm, suicide attempts, csa/sa mention, death mention, delusions

•hallucinations: these were at their worst when i wasnt on antipsychotics when i was a teenager, would see little monsters running around that made me really afraid and question reality. but what i most commonly saw/felt/heard wad this demon thing that was sorta representive of a grim reaper. it would tell me that self harming would help me and i listened. it made me really scared and sad all the time. this went on for about a year and i didnt tell anyone. it had a grip on my shoulders and followed me around all the time. i cant stress enough how scared it made me. sometimes it would get loud and id panic and black out, and then get "woken up" by my mom shed find me hiding and shaking under a table. it told me i had to end my own life and i attempted twice, one of the times required hospitalization and after a psych ward (which finally got me on the antipsychotics i needed). since then the hallucinations have calmed down and i dont see the demon anymore but i do hear similar things, now i just try my best to ignore it. its more annoying than scary. like feeling a poke on my shoulder at work and having to not react cause the stigma of showing symptoms. or like seeing scary faces in everyday things and just being like "huh weird" or hearing very mean or threatening things and thinking "thats obviously not actually what im thinking, id never do something like that", hallucinations still suprise me all the time especially the first few seconds of it, but now i have the experience where i can ignore it after that

•delusions: the biggest delusion i have that i still have to this day is very much influenced by my trauma of being the victim of csa and sa literally too many times to count, i truly believe that i was made to be abused and it will happen for the rest of my life, no matter what people tell me i always will not fully trust people and think they will abuse me at any moment, when people look at me i think they are planning how to abuse me, this is such a deeply held belief and it causes me anxiety and triggers my cptsd. it makes me feel very exposed and inhuman like a piece of meat it sucks. some other delusions ive had are that im the reincarnation of kurt cobain and that im gonna be rich and famous with no plans on how to make that happen. these felt good when i was in them and horrible when i snapped out of it. i kinda miss them.

•avolition: i struggle with this a lot. i have to be told to do tasks otherwise i dont do them. i never know when or how to do daily tasks. even if i can recognize that something has to be done i have no clue what steps to take to complete that task. like when i was the only one running the nursery at a spiritual center and id see kids crying id think "someone should do something about that" even though its me that has to do something. i struggle to maintain personal hygeine, do house chores or take care of my cats. if im not directly told to do it ill just let it fester. i do well at my job because im always told exactly what to do and how to do it. this symptom makes me feel lazy, childish and stupid. because of this i dont think ill ever be able to live on my own. i am dependent on other people to show or tell me what to do to take care of myself, my house and my cats.

•flat affect: this symptom makes me feel broken. like when my favorite grandpa died and i couldnt cry. it made me question my love for him. im constantly questioning my own feelings (even though im feeling them) just because my face and voice dont match what im feeling. ive fully thought that im unfeeling or unhuman because of this. i also get accused of lying a lot because of my flat affect. and i hate being accused of lying cause when i defend myself they dont believe me and there no winning.

•anhedonia: this really sucks. i used to really love doing art and playing guitar and now it feels like a chore. this is loss of pleasure in things that used to make you happy. it just makes me sad and feel like theres nothing i can do to change it. this makes me feel hopeless and useless.

•memory loss: i forgot most of what happened this year like valentines day with my partner (my first valentines day with a partner), my birthday, my partners birthday, my friends birthdays, i forgot them all and i feel like a terrible person because of it. this makes me feel dumb and careless. but i do care so much but i just cant remember so much important events. this also shows itself in smaller ways, forgetting what ive said to people, forgetting what ive bought, forgetting the last sentance ive read in a book so often that it makes reading nearly impossible.

•prosopagnosia: i cant recognize faces and mix them up often. this shows itself most with celebreties i constantly mix them up or think two different people are one person. i also dont always recognize my own face and i feel like a stranger to myself.

•consintration issues: i have a lot of trouble consintrating on things unless they are intresting to me, which because of anhedonia is not much. its hard for me to hold conversations with people and stay in focus. i feel like a terrible person when im not able to focus or remember what people have said.

•thinking issues: i have trouble thinking clearly a lot. its either i have too many thoughts at the same time, or my thoughts feel slow or empty. this makes me feel stupid.

•speach issues: i have trouble talking a lot of time. ill think im responding but im silent. it makes me feel mean and careless. when i do talk its usually short sentances. i very rarley actually talk a lot even to people im close to.

•fatigue/impaired motor function: i need so much rest in between activities just to function. i feel lazy a lot of the time. i also sometimes have trouble with normal motor function like sometimes when im walking it turns shaky and uncoordinated.

•amnesia: this showed itself most before i was on antiosychotics, when id black out often and find myself hiding under something. now it doesnt show up as much. this makes me feel confused and unaware of what i was doing or how i was acting when i was blacked out.

•isolation/social withdrawl: this showed itself more before i was on antipsychotics. i believed that everyone i knew was plotting against me and i had to be alone to stay safe. i now know thats not true but i still struggle to keep in touch with friends and family. most of the time ill see a text and completely forget to reply and people think im ignoring them. this once again makes me feel careless and mean. i really do care about the people in my life but i just have trouble staying connected.

theres probably more that i forgot but this is what comes off the top of my head. most of the struggles of schizophrenia affect me and not other people.

#answered #mental illness #nd #neurodivergent #schizophrenia #schizophrenic #psychosis #actuallyschizophrenic #mental health awareness #pseriouslypsychotic

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remakethestars · 3 years

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CABIN 7 — APOLLO

Headcanons.

❝There ought to be more drama, I think. A musical crescendo. Confetti.❞

— Jess Cooper, I Am Still Alive

Headcanon masterlist.

Oh, boy — this is my cabin, y'all; buckle up! 😁

Not all Apollo kids are good at everything their dad's good at, okay? I sure as heck can’t paint or play an instrument.

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of violence?

They run an underground tattoo parlor.

That's where Will & Butch got their respective sun & rainbow tats.

Apollo kids with lyrics tattooed into their skin.

Rick says there isn't much by way of décor inside, which is f*in' B.S. Apollo's the god of art; those walls have been graffitied Tangled style.

🎶 i'll paint the walls some more — i'm sure there's room somewhere! 🎶

The east wall is covered in a landscape of a sunrise, & the west has a sunset (because the sun rises in the east & sets in the — yeah, I'll see myself out).

The north & south walls & the ceiling are white, though, because it really brightens/opens up the space (C7 has the 2ⁿᵈ most campers under C11 because Apollo's a slut; things can get a little crowded in the summer).

When there’re celebrations, the artistically inclined kids bust out the face paint. Especially for the younger campers.

The artistically inclined are the ones that paint the camp beads for the end of the summer. Despite the numbers, it doesn’t take them as long as one might think.

Rick said the ceiling had cedar beams, but we're not gonna do Cyparissius dirty like that. Cypress wood is good for building; the beams are cypress. You know what? F*ck you — the whole dang cabin's cypress!

There’s a massive, potted aloe vera plant by the steps that gets moved into the C4 greenhouse in the winter. It’s one of those old ones — because everyone knows the old aloe plants work better for burns & blisters than these sh¡tty new ones. (It’s constantly getting broken off to heal burns & stuff.)

Rick said there are potted red & purple hyacinths in the window & yellow flowers from Delos. That's true.

I'd say the flowerbeds around the cabin are full of healing plants, but I feel like they'd be better off around the infirmary for obvious reasons.

I do feel like there's a laurel tree planted outside C7, though, because Apollo's a pining b¡tch.

And there's an actual infirmary building, okay? Rick's kinda inconsistent about that. Sometimes he says "infirmary," sometimes he says the Big House is running over with injured, & apparently there's a cot dead center for injured in C7? B.S.

Or maybe I've just read too much fanfic, and the authors don't get it right?

Either way, there's an infirmary building with surgery & delivery rooms. One floor. Locker room for C7 kids to store their scrubs & sh¡t.

They go for yellow scrubs, though, because orange C.H.B. scrubs make them look like escaped convicts.

Fun Band-Aids™

They give out little orange stickers with laurels around the edges that are like I voted! stickers, but they're injury-specific.

I got my leg(s) reattached! & Percy Jackson shot me in the butt! & I ticked off Clarisse! & I made out with an Aphrodite kid in the poison ivy! & I fell off the lava wall! & I got pranked by the Stolls!

After a war or just when there’re a lot of campers in the infirmary, there seems to be a constant flow of Apollo kids singing one hymn to their father in unison to heal someone.

Sometimes, an unconscious camper wakes in a cot & thinks they’ve died & gone to the wrong afterlife for a moment because their singing sounds like angels.

The medically inclined wash their hands like surgeons.

Kind of germophobic?

They also go around tying surgeons knots in everything.

In the summer, they’re walking Banana Boat sunscreen & after-sun aloe lotion dispensers.

The medically inclined also have the world’s sh¡ttiest handwriting.

They have to work hard to fix it if it bothers them.

Can check your vitals & run a blood test just by touching you.

A lot of them casually touch their loved ones (at least, the ones that aren’t in C7) every morning to check their vitals & see how their health’s doing.

They do it subconsciously every time they touch someone & don’t notice it until they pick up something’s wrong.

They can do this for themselves as well. Though it may not be as accurate? And they take daily vitamins depending on what they need.

Organize their lives via pill box (never lose an earring).

Fight surgically. Every blade in their hands becomes a scalpel, & every time they’re going in for a kill against an armed anthropomorphic monster, they slice the tendons in its arm required to grip its weapon to disable it before going in for the kill.

Back to C7, it’s got a little porch with a porch swing. The kids sit on it sometimes & teach people how to play instruments.

They leave the porch light on at night when they’re waiting for one of their siblings to come home from a quest.

Jumping into the depressing sh¡t, they never found Michael’s body, so they only presumed him dead. They leave the porch light on every night now, hoping he’ll come home.

Apollo kids are afraid of the dark. They use the buddy system after the sun goes down.

The cabin’s central light fixture is a papier-mâché sun that’s been charmed to glow when someone sings 🎶 clap on 🎶 & stop glowing when someone sings 🎶 clap off. 🎶

The curtains are a gold fabric. They’re only closed at night. Because, again, C7 kids are afraid of the dark.

The Wikipedia says Apollo kids are cursed to be afraid of snakes (I assume by the Python Apollo killed). I feel like they’d burn a lot of aster leaves then. I read somewhere it was said by the Greeks to ward off evil spirits & snakes.

They play Go Fish with their tarot cards. They’re really good at tarot games.

Hand-drawn tarot decks featuring figures form Greek myth.

There’s a target on the back wall they practice throwing cards at. They can throw them in combat for a distraction with terrifying accuracy.

There’s a Magic 8 ball that’s passed around on the Winter Solstice (the longest night of the year), when — as a headcanon I’m sure I’ve read somewhere has indicated — they’re up all night.

Crystal balls are allowed. However, they must be covered with a cloth or placed in a box when not in use because they’re double-convex lenses, & we don’t want another incident like the fire of 1993.

Sometimes, they make little predictions throughout the day other campers may find disturbing. Such as whipping around and catching a stray arrow without warning (spidey sense?). Or cutting you off when you’re talking about someone moments before they walk into the room.

There’s a tea cart in the corner. Because tea is good for healing & they’ve accumulated an addiction.

The cart has a radio on it that’s always on at night because a lot of C7 kids can’t sleep without noise. (Inspired by @sugarandspiceandkindanice.)

Most of the time, it’s on a nearby country station that actually plays good country at night. But sometimes they switch channels — especially when there’s a new kid settling in & they could use the comfort.

There’s a portable record player there too. The shelves under the cart are full of C.D.s & records.

I’m sure I’ve read a headcanon somewhere that they sing every morning while getting ready for the day. That’s true.

The number of times it’s been “When Will My Life Begin” from Tangled is disturbing, though.

🎶 seven a.m., the usual morning lineup! 🎶

Luke said in The Lightning Thief C11 is up at 07:00 & breakfast is at 08:00, I think, but we all know Apollo’s waking his kids up when the sun rises.

A lot of the time, someone will just start out with whatever song they have stuck in their head & everyone else will pick it up.

Sometimes, this leads to members having the aforementioned song stuck in their head for the rest of the day.

Even the people who aren’t musically inclined will sing along, as they’re usually drowned out by the music kids that get really into it.

So sometimes those not-music kids will find themselves singing by themselves during the day years later & are surprised to find — they actually sound good?? Or at least not bad??? And it’s because singing is a learned skill & they picked it up.

I’m sure I’ve also read a headcanon somewhere that they sing “Look Down” from Les Mis when they have to do menial chores, but I'm adding “It’s a Hard-Knock Life” from Annie, “Whistle While You Work” from Snow White, “Happy Working Song” from Enchanted, & the Smurf song.

They break into song all the time.

Lee was glaring at Tantalus once & made the mistake of saying, “Sometimes, I wish —” and the entire cabin broke out with “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

🎶 — i'd never been born at all! carry on, carry on… 🎶

As mentioned in at least The Lightning Thief & The Lost Hero, they spend a lot of time playing basketball. You can bet your butt they do a rendition of “Getcha Head in the Game” from High School Musical every time there’s a new camper passing by.

They have a sister named Jubilee, and every time someone greets her — "Hey, Jube!" — the entire cabin breaks into “Hey, Jude” by The Beetles.

🎶 hey, Jube! don't make it bad. take a sad song & make it better… 🎶

Sometimes, if there are two campers that really need to get together, C10′ll commission C7 to sing “Kiss the Girl” from The Little Mermaid (or the same song with different pronouns, obviously).

It’s usually a capella unless someone happens to have an instrument on them.

Rickrolling.

The “Macarena.”

Apollo takes clandestine recordings of their jam sessions & distributes them professionally. Whatever money’s made goes directly into their college funds or they periodically find it under their pillow tooth-fairy-style.

There’s a lot of denim because the artistic members like to paint on the backs of jackets & the pockets of jeans.

A lot of them have excellent aim with most projectiles, so they toss stuff to each other a lot. This results in them being oddly in sync, so they can catch something from another sibling without warning & without looking like Sam & Dean Winchester do in Supernatural.

Their life looks like a Dude Perfect trick shot video.

It also results in some funny looks when they hurl things halfway across camp to each other. Namely, the whistling Nerf football.

C7 is two stories. The second story has paint on every wall.

The east wall upstairs has arrows mounted that got Robin Hooded along with a little tag with the name of the C7 kid & the date it happened.

They also have arrows mounted from the first bullseye if there’s a member being taught.

Lots of musical instruments & art supplies up there.

There’s an old T.V. up there. They have all of Bob Ross’s show on V.H.S.

C7′s south wall (ground floor) holds the door to the bathroom on one side & a door leading to the stairs.

It also hosts framed photos of Charlotte, Lee, & Michael.

Instead of saying “shoot,” they say “loose.” For everything. Instead of saying “Shoot!” when they drop something, they say “Loose!”

It's kinda one of those things — like your friend starts saying something & you just integrate it into your vocabulary subconsciously.

They like to play a game where you shoot an arrow straight up & try to catch it as it comes back down.

That sounds really stupid on their part, but it actually comes in handy when someone tries to shoot them in combat & they catch the arrow, dumbfounding whoever's attempted to skewer them.

The cresting on their arrows is in Morse code of their nickname (·—— ·· ·—·· ·—··). They can take one look at an arrow & tell what’s whose.

And the paint color of the cresting tells them what kind of arrow it is — bullet tip, broadhead, explosive, etc.

Every bunk in C7 is made with hospital corners. No exceptions. The kids who aren’t medically inclined learn because all the beds being made the same way makes it look cleaner for inspection.

I can’t decide if Apollo kids have really good eyesight so they fit the Hawkeye bill or if they’ve all just read — Apollo’s the god of knowledge — & painted so much they’ve messed up their eyes.

The number of times one of them has used bowstring wax on an art project in a rush instead of glue is hilariously large.

I use String Snot, and it comes in a container that looks like a glue stick.

A lot of them wear bracers all the time.

When the time it takes to sling one’s quiver onto one’s back, grab one’s bow, knock an arrow, & draw is so long, one really doesn’t have time to also strap on their bracers before rushing out of the cabin to threaten a giant bronze dragon.

Not to mention if they use a recurve, they’ll also have to string their bow.

And a number of them do use recurves due to the abilities to both knock multiple arrows at once & to restring in the field.

Bows with risers coated in golden, reflective paint & limbs painted with artistic strokes.

Trick arrows are their jam. C9 is constantly being asked for new arrows.

Explosive arrows, sonic arrows, grappling hook arrows…

That’s another saying they’ve all taken to: “___ is my jam!”

There’s a bookshelf or reference material on Apollo for new C7 kids (as Rick’s indicated), but the rest of the case is full of medical journals & textbooks & books on art & poetry & divining the future.

A lot — if not all — of them have either gold flecks in their eyes or central heterochromia.

Freckles across their noses & shoulders & on the tips of their ears. Tans. Sun-bleached hair.

Long, nimble fingers perfect for playing musical instruments.

Either they hate the winter because the sun's out for less time (so you’ll find them walking around with blanched skin & faded freckles & with both a hoody & a parka on), or they’re perfectly fine with winter & are used by everyone around them as walking space heaters.

They spend a lot of time with Castor & Pollux.

Rachel sits at T7. She’s practically an Apollo kid at this point.

While her cave was being renovated, she stayed in C7.

Their dad’s the god of truth; none of these M.F.s can lie worth a sh¡t.

But, by the gods, they can tell when you’re lying.

And they take it as a personal insult. That you (A) would dare do something as immoral as lying in the first place & that you (B) would dare to insult their intelligence in such a way because you thought they couldn’t tell.

C6 & C7 are both known for reacting outrageously when their intelligence is insulted (see: chapter 10 of The Battle of the Labyrinth).

The more civil of the reactions of a C7 kid being lied to is cursing the liar to tell the truth, which I believe they can.

They can curse you to speak in rhyming couplets; they should be able to curse you to tell the truth.

You mean to tell me none of these kids have created a functioning Lasso of Truth yet?

This one's really long. 😅

A lot of people fancast Sam Claflin as Apollo, but I'm going with Ross Lynch. 'Cause I do what I want. 😎

Visit my Apollo cabin Pinterest board or my headcanon masterlist.

DISCLAIMER ━━━ These headcanons are what I consider to be canon in my fanfictions. They may be others’s headcanons I’ve subconsciously filed away in my noggin. If one’s yours and you want it removed or credited, please send me your post and let me know.

#Apollo #Apollo kids #children of Apollo #Apollo cabin #headcanons #headcannons #Percy Jackson #PJO #HOO #TOA #remakethestars #art #archery #painting #healing #doctors #sun #hcs #TW: mentions of violence

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spectrumed · 3 years

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8. book

I decided to start writing a book. A novel, it’s going to be fiction. It’s a big project. I dread big projects. I don’t feel as if I am ever able to complete them. It’s going to be left unfinished, why do I even bother? So many projects that I’ve started and never finished. I get an idea, then I can’t make myself do the actual work to make it a reality. Why do I think I can write a book when I can barely read books without becoming distracted and doing something else instead? I give up too easily. But, then again, do I really have it in me to produce something that is good? That people would want to read? Insecurity creeps in, telling me that I will fail. I fear failure. Of course I do, who doesn’t? Whenever people say that their greatest fear is failure, all I wonder is who out there is not afraid of failure? Is there someone out there with so much confidence that they absolutely do not in any way fear failure? Even narcissists technically fear failure, it is what leads them to such ridiculous overcompensation, putting on the facade of bravado to mask their actual dire sense of insecurity. Do not fall for the scams, no person is truly without self-doubt. (Well, I guess maybe psychopaths, but there’s a whole lot of things amiss with them.)

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve entertained myself by coming up with stories, fictional universes that I would populate with characters of my own invention. When I was a kid, what I really wanted was to become a comic book writer and artist. Well, in between other gigs I imagined would suit me, including at one point wanting to be a “singing farmer,” as I put it. Still, I’ve always returned to fiction and storytelling. There’s something about creating a world that lets you so fully distract yourself from all the stressful daily hullabaloo that goes on around you. Escapism, it’s fun, it’s therapeutic, I think. There’s a reason why humans have been telling each other stories for millennia, since even before we lived in houses. Back when we were all huddled around the fire, wearing our best comfortable animal furs, sharing tales of the hunt. Your uncle who once took part in killing a mammoth, the impressive beast nearly gorging him with its big tusks. How clever he was when he noticed that the mammoth had one leg weaker than the others, and used that to his advantage. How the entire hunting party banded together to bring the behemoth down, getting all that meat to feed their families with for months! Stories make you feel good. Like as if you have something to celebrate, even when you might be starving due to the more recent hunts not having gone as well. Damn that saber-tooth tiger that killed your uncle…

Storytelling is linked to acting. Both with acting and with storytelling you have to commit. Whatever you are doing, whatever role you are performing, you have to sell it. You may be on stage talking about that time you went scuba diving with your future wife, and how you encountered an oyster with the most magnificent pearl inside, and how you made a ring for the pearl and used it when you proposed to her. You have to sell it. You have to get the audience laughing, gasping, crying, going “aww,” feeling as if they were there with you that day. Of course, they don’t know it is all just lies. You made it up. It’s all fiction. But you committed, so they won’t ever know. Storytelling is a gift to others, people will appreciate you if you tell good stories, but you’re also kinda deviant. Even if it’s technically based on a true story, you’ve certainly added your embellishments. You’re a trickster, a devious individual. No wonder actors have historically been seen as dubious folks. They come into town, romances all the young women and men, telling them big tales of their lives on the road, and they can’t possibly know if you are telling the truth or not. You may just be lying. You probably are lying. Let’s be honest, you’ve probably not told a single true thing in your life.

I am bad at the hustle. No, I can talk quite well, and I can keep people’s attention for a long while. But I can’t be a huckster. Going out there, putting myself on the line hoping people will swallow my bullshit. I can’t really avoid speaking from my heart when I do speak. Or when I write, as I happen to be doing now. This blog has so far been thoroughly candid in places, in such a way I may come across like I’m at a confessional. Not that I have much evil to confess, but I can’t help but be transparent. I can’t flip into different kinds of personalities, each with its own schemes and plots, being some master manipulator, someone who you can never figure out what they're truly up to, or what they truly want. No, what I am is clearly written on my face. I’ve got one self, and it is the one before you. He’s hairy, and tall, and a bit of a dork. I am happy to talk to you, to engage with you, but I won’t be anyone but myself. I am me. I hope that’ll do.

Of course you are familiar with all those pick-up artists that plagues the internet. Or well, not just the internet. Go into any old-fashioned bookstore (where they store books on paper, not in digital code,) and you are bound to find some sleazy book written by a sleazy guy about how to sleazily seduce women. Those books don’t want you acting like me. According to them, seduction is all about manipulation. To figure out the very right thing to say to get women to fawn all over you. They don’t want you to be sincere, telling the truth as you see it. Nah, you gotta keep that stuff bottled up, deep down inside your soul, because most likely, your true self is ugly. It’s interesting how you can get little details from these pick-up artists depending on the sort of things they say, the tips they provide. The fact that all of them seem to harbour this festering misogyny is no big surprise, but every so often, you get these little glimpses of these people’s true worldview, one where power is everything, true love is a fallacy, and happiness is a lie manufactured by Hollywood to make us all into docile consumers. No wonder the “red-pill” so often leads to people taking the “black-pill.” First hucksters will lure you in, telling you that they’ve got the secret as to how to be a success, then when they’ve got you isolated, they reveal to you how truly misanthropic and bleak their actual beliefs are.

I am fascinated with cults, for much of the same reason why I am fascinated with storytelling. What is a cult leader if not just a great storyteller? They’re something like the modern day shaman, capable of spellbinding people with their weird idiosyncratic way of speaking. High-functioning people with autism are often said to have an idiosyncratic way of speaking. No, I am not suggesting that cult leaders are all somewhere on the spectrum, though it wouldn’t surprise me if some famous cult leaders did turn out to have been on the spectrum. However, for an autistic person to become a cult leader, I think they would have to be a true believer, and not some fraud just looking to scam others. Ultimately, no autistic person would want to surround themselves with people unless they truly do believe it is essential, to like, save mankind from damnation or something. It’s the difference between sincerity and insincerity. It is difficult for autistic people to be insincere, as insincerity requires a lot of social skills that autistic people struggle with. Having to juggle all these balls in the air, making sure you keep the big lie going, that you remember to change your behaviour depending on who you are speaking to in order to keep them from figuring out that you’re a bullshitter. Hollow people are great at being insincere. People like L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of the highly profitable cult that is Scientology, was at his core a hollow individual. He had no problems twisting the minds of the people around him, because he never felt a need to be sincere. If an autistic person were to become a cult leader, I can guarantee you that it wouldn’t be a profitable cult. Nah, autistic people aren’t in it for the money, we’re all about keeping it real.

Being a sincere person, surely I should be able to write a novel and make it feel earnest. Like it was delivered with passion, because I wouldn’t be able to write anything that wasn’t true to myself. Well, I do hope so. Having something I’ve made be referred to as genuine is something I see as a great compliment. I’m a student of art history, I’ve made some “serious” art before, I know how terrible art can be when it is not delivered with good faith. Sure, some art is cynical, or ironic, but even then, it tends to come from a real place. Good artists, even when they’re fully armed with the dada mindset, must believe in what they are doing. Whether they are doing it for a laugh or not, that’s irrelevant. Even if all you wish is to be silly and make something that is comical, you have to believe in what you are creating. Or else people won’t bother engaging with it. Why look at a painting by someone who is just interested in making money? Insincere artists do exist, and they can end up becoming quite successful, but ultimately, history won’t be kind to them. Damien Hirst comes to mind, heard he's into NFTs now.

Sure, I don’t like insincere people. Does that make me a bigot? Like, it’s not as if they can help themselves. It’s just who they are, spineless maggots with no soul. It doesn’t mean we have to hate them. No, no, no... I am just generalising. Don’t go thinking there’s just two kinds of people in the world, the sincere and the insincere. It’s not a binary. Most people are both, just like with introverts and extroverts, humans are complex. But there are definitely those that decide to feed into their insincere side, realising that it is often the key to success. Through insincerity, you learn to let go of self-doubt, you stop worrying so much about what others think of you, because you are never truly yourself. If they hate you, then so what? They don’t actually hate you, they just hate a role that you are playing. So what if you seduced that woman, made her feel as if you were the perfect match, then you ghosted her and completely forgot about her? It’s her fault for falling for your tricks. You were clearly just playing the game, being a super-seducer, she should have known better. By embracing insincerity, it’s like gaining a superpower. No longer do you have to care about the impact you have on others, no longer do you have to worry about what it means to be a social human being making choices that affect the others around you. Because you’re not the person they think you are. Actually, you’re not quite sure you’re the person you think you are… Who are you?

I’ve got the plot all laid out in my head for the novel. It’s going to be based in the fantasy world that I’ve been working on for the last few years. I’ve been working on this world for almost half a decade now, come to think of it. Why do I keep feeling as if I am never able to keep to a project, when I’ve clearly been working on a massive project all this time? Sure, it’s all just in my head, but it’s not as if most people have the kind of patience to keep going back to a single big project, even if it is just in their head. Not once, while thinking about my fantasy world have I been distracted and started thinking about cute puppies, instead. And you know how difficult that is. Maybe I am too hard on myself. Maybe I will finish this book, and maybe people will want to read it. Maybe it will even get a minimal number of angry reviews, like, I may get a book published without some folks trying to harass me into committing suicide for daring to think I can write. Some people may even be enthusiastic, blowing up my ego with great praise. Maybe someone will come along and tell me that they want to buy the rights to make my book into a movie or a television series. Maybe I will get rich? Maybe I will get famous! Woo! Success here I come!

Well, no, here I go being insincere. That’s not what it’s about. I should be writing this book because I want to write it. Because I want to prove to myself that I am able to write it. Sure, it’s not as if there’s not a little brain goblin inside my mind whispering sweet nothings about how one day I might turn out a real respected author. One with real fans that gets to do big book tours talking about how brilliant I am, how brilliant my work is, and how brilliant things are going for me. I am not going to pretend I don’t have the same aspirations for success that others have. Inside of me you will find the same greedy piglet of an ego hungry for more adoration and more validation that you will find in any person. Humans don’t know when to quit, we always want more. But I am at least safe knowing that I will never debase myself, descending to the same depths as those inhabited by soulless grifters who go through life abusing the trust of others in order to get by. I’m sincere, in the end. I always turn out sincere, in the end. I am a good boy.

And I am also really sexy. I don’t think I’ve mentioned this before on this blog, but I am really, REALLY, sexy. Like, you wouldn’t believe it. Oh, I am so hot. And if you follow and subscribe and hit that bell, I will teach you how you can be just as sexy as I am! And buy my book! And my merch! And my new single! And of course, my new cryptocurrency, by the name of “autism-coin.” It’s going to be a real success on 4chan, let me tell ya!

#neurodivergent #neurodiversity #autism spectrum disorder #autism #aspergers #mental health

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radrita · 3 years

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Radical Forgiveness!

Pain like I never knew entered my life on August 23rd, 2018. And believe me when I tell you I've been in pain a lot as a child. When I was three, my mom left my brother and me with our dad and grandpa (his dad). When I say left, I mean, never came back. I should mention when I was 15, I found out my mom lived two miles from me my whole life and had another family, complete with a new husband and 3 kids she raised that I never knew about. I met up with her and spent the rest of my days until she passed away, trying to get her to love and accept me like the children she raised. But that would never happen. When my sister, who was raised by my mom, was told she had cirrhosis of the liver from alcoholism and would succumb to it, my mom wished it was me that was going to die instead. Those words would pervade my soul for a LONG time!We were in some foster homes from the ages of 3 to 5. Then our dad, who was an alcoholic, couldn't take care of us anymore, so we were sent to live in an orphanage, and I remained there for seven years. My brother got to go live with our dad and grandpa when he was around 13. I didn't, and I will explain why. We visited home on weekends and holidays until my dad molested me on a few different occasions between 10 and 12. I finally told someone, and then I wasn't able to see him anymore for several years. It may seem to you that it would have been the rational thing to do. But I already lost my mom, and my dad was all I had left. So, it was very heart-wrenching to tell someone. Also, my grandpa (my dad's dad) would pleasure himself in front of me all the time for several of my early teen years. And when I was pregnant with my daughter, my stepdad tried to get me to give him oral sex. Ugh, no wonder I had men issues.

When I turned 15, I had a chance to live with my dad and grandpa again. My caseworker (I was a ward of the state) had me explain what my dad did to me. I was screaming in my head (no, please don't make me). But she did, and his then-wife blamed me, saying I dressed sexy around him (I was 10 lady, geez), and my dad chose her over me. As a result, I only saw him one time over the next 30 years when his mom died (my grandma), and we saw each other at the funeral. Even though my dad and his wife said they would be in touch with me, they never did. I probably don't need to say that my life took some dark turns through addiction and lots of self-abuse. Ready for the real pain that surpassed even all that excitement?

Here is the story of losing my daughter when she was just 33 and the lengthy voyage through anguish like I've never known! Nicole Marie Cuneo was her birth name, and she was the angel in my life that lit up my whole world. I never knew love like that before she was born. It's like my heart didn't even know how to beat before her. And she was the happiest baby and always smiled. At least until she was about 2, and then something changed in her attitude. I didn't know until she was 5 when I started taking her for counseling that she was sexually abused. It occurred while I was working, and she was in her father's care. I can't even tell you the sick feeling that came over me, and as a result of the changes in her, I would spend years taking her for counseling. It was like I had a different child, and I did. Because when you have something like that happen to you, especially at such a young age, it changes your DNA.

When this beautiful child was twelve, she started on the road to using drugs, and as a family, we would watch her struggle with that for the rest of her days. I should mention that I met a man (a wonderful man) that adopted Nicole and my other daughter Samantha Lynn. And, to this day, he is still the constant, stable man in Samantha's life. For that, I will be forever grateful. There are so many details I'm not covering about this journey because it would become a book. I aspire to keep the focus on the journey to forgiveness, but for now, It's time for me to take a break from writing because it's still too painful for me to focus on the loss for too long…... I'm back after a night that was once again filled with tossing and turning physically and mentally. I mentioned that I also had struggles with addiction, which would plague my life from the time I was in my early thirties, and I still battle it as a 56-year-old. For the most part, I have a program and a higher power that keeps it at bay. Still, as all addicts know, it takes daily commitment contingent on our spiritual condition.

Forgiveness is a term defined in the dictionary as: in a psychological sense, is the intentional and voluntary process by which one who may initially feel victimized, undergoes a change in feelings and attitude regarding a given offense, and overcomes negative emotions such as resentment and vengeance. So, by this information, it means I wish no ill will on the people in my life that have caused me harm or malice. Phew, let me tell you that I have had numerous times that wasn't the case! Visions and thoughts in my mind had me showing up and shooting the people that hurt my sweet girl.

My daughter, as I mentioned, struggled with addiction, and due to that fact, she had three stints in prison. The last stretch, she was sentenced to six years, and she served all but five days of it. She was about to be free when……two weeks before this, she was pounded in the head on two different occasions —once with soap in a sock and one instance with a payphone. I was told she died from long-term methamphetamine use, and it caused a brain aneurysm. This means she was using the entire time while being incarcerated. Oh God, NO, and please help me was all I could think when I was given that news. It's a complex kind of hell to not know what your child died from, and almost 3 years later, I still don't understand a lot of the details. Was it, in fact, the beatings, or was it the drug use? Prisons aren't forthcoming, as you can probably assume. Did they have something to hide? I'm pretty sure they have plenty to hide! Nicole was a sweet, kind, and caring person. Her nickname in prison was Shine because she always spread Sunshine and tried to keep up everyone's spirits. And she was capable of being that way while incarcerated and having to literally fight for her life.

This leads me to the how and why of my journey to forgiveness. I think I was somehow inspired to forgive from a very young age. When I was a kid, I lived my life feeling like I wasn't of this world because nothing made sense. Meaning, how could so many things go so wrong so early in my life? But I also remember thinking numerous times that people do the best they can, so I didn't judge them. And I felt that way pretty much my whole life and still do. A friend brought to my attention that maybe I didn't forgive people as the dictionary defines. But is it possible I had a twisted understanding of what forgiveness meant? And that perhaps I thought I was excusing people's behavior but that I didn't go through the emotions and changes needed in my heart and soul that were required. And that, in fact, I possibly just didn't love myself enough because of all the trauma I endured, that I just thought I forgave them? In other words, I thought I did, but because I didn't love myself, I was just saying It was ok that they hurt me, and (oh well) life goes on?

Um, no, I do love myself! And believe me, when I tell you, I hurt from those offenses against me to my essence (hence addiction, low self-esteem, and pushing people away for a good part of my life). Radical forgiveness doesn't derive from the belief that it's the right thing to do. Therefore, I'm just going to forgive them. And when I hear people that have lost a loved one to murder say that they are evil or are monsters, it makes me sick to my stomach. I feel we are all humans and connected to the universe and each other. If I genuinely accept that, how could I want someone to be eliminated because of my hatred for them? If you look in someone's eyes (soul), how can you want them to die? I didn't and can't give life, so taking it away is also not an option. I know it's revolutionary thinking because when I talk to most people about this topic, they look at me hastily. I TRULY, in my heart and soul, know that there is NOTHING anyone can do to me or anyone that I couldn't forgive. I also love myself enough to know that I will be the one to suffer if I don't. It's like peeing on yourself and expecting someone else to feel the wetness and embarrassment from it.

I love my daughter with the most heartfelt essence of what love means. I grieve every day that I will never be able to smell her scent, feel her embrace, see people's faces light up when she walks in a room, hear her witty sense of humor. And even miss the fact that she was a pain in my ass because of her addiction. When people ask me how many kids I have, it still throws me for a loop. Initially, if I would not have read a book about it, the response they offered the readers to make would have been incomprehensible. They said to say how many kids you gave birth to and not how many you have now. Thank God I read that book! Because that circumstance and several others I probably would have never known how to manage could have been a moment to drive me literally insane.

I have another daughter and Nicky left us a son, and the last thing on earth I want it's for her to lose me on top of losing her sister. I will never be ok that I will never give Nicky the love I have for her again. But hurting others will never provide those moments back to me!

I want people to know that forgiveness restores your soul and allows you to be of service to others and yourself. Without it, I know I will continue to struggle in life, and she would NOT want that for me. She always said that I was a strong person and that she respected me for that. I can't in good conscience have resentment for the ones that hurt or possibly murdered her. I don't want anyone to suffer pain for their actions. Just learn from them. I believe we all just live according to our experiences and do the best we can with what we have learned thus far in life. The ONLY thing I want to come out of losing her is for change to occur in the justice system. An addict that is imprisoned due to addiction is injustice! I'm not a religious person; I'm spiritual. That means we are all connected and equal and should try our best to understand and comfort those in need. And yes, that includes those with mental illness. After all, addiction is a disease (dis-ease) and is a mental illness and should be treated as such.

I'll close with this; perhaps I can forgive because, in my addiction, I have done so many things I vowed I would never do, and it has been excused too many times to count. This has given me the ability to go on and keep trying to be a better person in my life. As I discussed earlier, as a child, I felt I was able to forgive. I soundly believe part of that is the spirituality (higher power) that has always been and always will be in my life. This story is my endeavor to hopefully help others who struggle with forgiveness. And possibly give them what they need to move on past the judgments and/or stigma. I have struck the wall, cussed God, blasted the people that hurt her, and questioned how I would live another day without her. God help me has and is the continual prayer since the day I lost her. She exists in my heart memory, and I prefer to cherish all of the memories, good and heart-wrenching. Because that is the sum of the person that was given to me. She will forever be my angel. I stated that she was the light in my life and the first love in my life when she was born, and that's why I gave her the nickname Angel. She will eternally be that light, and I choose to not put darkness on that by not being able to pardon. So, if you grapple with forgiving someone, think about the freedom that will thoroughly transform your world and those around you if you can let go! I still struggle with my addiction from time to time, but I know it's a process. Forgiveness is an extraordinary place to start because it empowers me to have the opportunity of growth and faith that life is worth living in all its glory and pain.

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surveys-at-your-service · 3 years

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Survey #308

“you don’t need treats, and you don’t need tricks, and you don’t need me.”

Middle name? Marie. Or Marie Catherine, if we're technical, but as someone who loooong left Catholicism and never even agreed with many aspects of it in the first place, I don't like to include it. If you're confused, there's a ceremony called Confirmation, and while I honestly don't even remember the details of it, you adopt the name of a saint you want to stand for, kinda. I chose Catherine just because I liked the name outta my other options. Democrat/republican/other? I classify myself as Independent because I really don't relate well enough to either, but I do know I'm becoming more and more liberal with time. Do you dress according to your mood? My mood? No. I dress with what I feel like wearing at that time, but my actual mood has nothing to do with it. Are you good at doing hair/make up? No. Are you always worried or stressed about something? 24/7, my friend. Can you swim? Yeah. Are you afraid of needles? I don't like them, but I'm not afraid of them. How many kids do you want? Zero. Long/short nails? I keep mine short. Do you like wearing hats? No. Does mall Santa Clauses or Easter bunnies freak you out? Nah, I loved seeing Santa as a kid. :') Would you consider yourself clumsy? I am RIDICULOUSLY clumsy. Do you like when a guy picks you up in his arms? In concept, but I ain't easy to pick up anymore lmao. Do you like hairless cats? I do!! Females, anyway, for... obvious reasons lol. Not having fur makes some things waaay too ~obvious~ otherwise. I would love a sphynx. Do you like the color yellow? No; it's actually one of my most disliked colors. Have you ever seen a cat have a hairball? Yeah. Have you ever had a tooth pulled? Not by a dentist, no, just by myself as a kid when I was losing my baby teeth. When someone says don’t look do you look? It depends on why they're telling me to not look. Have you ever played spin the bottle? No. If you had to name three important details about you, what would you say? I'm a very emotional person, I need a lot of "me" time, and to be aware of my social anxiety so not every interaction I have is perceived as just a dumpster fire. What are your three biggest insecurities? My creativity, my goddamn body, and my lack of social skills. If you could write anonymous letters to three people, who would you send it to and what would you say? Ummm. I can only think of people I miss and don't WANT to be anonymous... Favorite photo of yourself? A senior prom picture I don't have anymore. I looked so, so happy and fuck my low self-esteem, gorgeous. Who are you disappointed with right now? I'm like, permanently disappointed in myself lol. Would you date an 18-year-old at the age you are now? No. My minimum is 21. What question do you hate to answer? "Are you a virgin?" because it's just a confusing answer. It doesn't sound like one at all, but trust me on this. The subject of sex just makes me uncomfortable anyway, so even if I was confident in the answer, I wouldn't want to talk about it. What’s your most listened to song? I don't have a way of actually finding that out, but I'd say I've been listening to "ULTRAnumb" by Blue Stahli quite a lot lately. If you were a performing artist, what would you title your first album? I mean, I don't know. It would depend on what was going on in my life and head at the time. If someone told you you could give one person a present and your budget was unlimited–what present would you get and for whom? A nice car for Mom. She's had the same shitty car for yeeeeeaaaaarrrrrssssss now because she just can't afford a new one; hell, this one was free. A dance friend hit a deer, so the front of the car is messed up, and she bought a new one, but because the car itself was still functional, she gave it to my mom. Mom is so loved at the studio. The car just has various issues by this point, like trouble starting, accelerating, it's bumpy, etc., so it's way past time for a new one. Do you like licorice? NOOOOOOOOOO that's a big 'ole "ew." Have you ever visited your country’s capital city? No, but I've seen it from a distance when riding up to NY. When was the last time you were outdoors for over an hour? WOW. I couldn't even try to guess. What is the shortest amount of time you’ve lived somewhere? The house I was born into. I actually don't know how long Mom and Dad lived there, but I was only in that house as a very little baby. I have zero memories of it. What’s your favorite kind of mint? (Peppermint/wintergreen/spearmint/etc.) ... There's a difference? lol I guess peppermint? What was the last thing to frustrate you? I wanted to draw yesterday, but I didn't know what to draw to even get started. Have you ever been to a bachelor or bachelorette party? No. Did any of your family members serve in WWII? I don't believe so? Well... maybe my grampa did? I don't remember. What’s your favorite kind of salad? Gimme an Olive Garden salad and I will deadass eat the whole bowl. Are you more realistic or idealistic? I'd say I'm more realistic with most things. Are you currently borrowing something from someone? No. Is anyone currently borrowing anything from you? No. What is your last name’s heritage/country of origin? Ireland. When did you last buy a new pair of shoes? What kind? I got new flipflops a year or so back because my old Rainbows were so worn out and blackened my feet. Have you ever experienced culture shock while traveling? If so, where? No. Are you able to see the stars at night where you live? I actually haven't checked since moving here. We're in the suburbs though, so it's questionable. Do you include your middle initial in your signature? Not unless it's required, usually. I think. When's the last time I physically signed anything, anyway? What brand of computer do you have? It's an Acer Nitro. What operating system does that computer run? Windows 10. What’s the oldest piece of clothing that you still own and wear? I don't really know, given how much my weight has fluctuated. Went drastically up, went down, now it's back up. .-. I still own a handful of shirts I want to "shrink back into" from late HS and early college times, but yeah, I don't know if I'll actually achieve that. Is the area in which you live flat, hilly, or mountainous? Flat as my ass. What is your significant other or best friend’s ring tone? No one on my phone has a "special" ringtone. Where do you keep your hair brush? There's a comb I use in a drawer in the bathroom. Which pair of shoes have you owned the longest? Multiple pairs of Converse, also from high school. When’s the last time you were sick at the same time as someone else? I'm very happy to say I don't even recall the last time I was sick. My immune system is the fuckin GOAT. What did you have for breakfast this morning? A pb&j. We've got very little rn, but thankfully Mom's picking up our Wal-Mart order today. Last time you were in pain? If I'm standing, you can bet my legs hurt, so. What color is your mom’s hair? It's growing back totally gray now. Is that also your hair color? Well, no, I'm only 25. Do you watch any daily vloggers on YouTube? Who? No. I watch people who vlog occasionally, but not regularly. It's gotta be people I'm very into to really be interested in vlogs. What room of your house do you usually do your surveys in? Sigh, I'm always in my bedroom. Really hoping Mom and I muster up the motivation to clean up the extra room soon to turn it into my "dayroom" or "office," if you will. What do you put on your tacos? I hate tacos. What is your favorite stuffed animal and where did you get it? I have a bittersweet connection to the adorable plush meerkat Jason gave me for Valentine's our first year together; I always slept with it when we were together by apart, and for a year or so after the breakup. It was a source of comfort for me, so I'm really fond of it. Fella's fur is so worn out and matted down with age and lots of love. He's on my dresser now, towards the front of all my plushies. Last thing you hung up on your wall? My Illidan poster, I believe. Do you have a full length mirror? Yeah, on the back of my door. Is it currently raining? No, finally. It's been raining for like a fuckin week, it seems like. It's finally a clear day. It's nice to hear birds outside. Does anyone you live with talk in their sleep? Does this happen often? I'M the one doing the talking/screaming in my sleep. Thanks, nightmares. When was the last time you cried, or felt tearful? I'm not positive, but I know I had a pretty rough PTSD night not too long ago where I teared up. Did you wake up with a song stuck in your head today? What was it? Ohhh yes; I've been listening to Mother Mother's "Ghosting" on repeat because it's jammed up there. When was the last time you used moisturiser or lotion of some kind? Not too long ago on my hands. They get dry this time of year, and besides, I wash my hands a lot nowadays especially. What was the last thing you owned, that was accidentally broken or damaged? Were you able to get it fixed? My laptop, and yes. Tell me about the last dream you recall having. Was it weird, amusing, etc. So this is pretty wild. I know I had a nightmare last night, but I don't remember it; the night before, however, I had a nightmare about a possibly rabid and ginormous rat (I mean like, smaller dog sized) in the house and trying to bite me. It was SUPER weird, because I was actually afraid of it, yet I absolutely adore rats in real life. What was the last video you watched on YouTube? I've really gotten into John Wolfe (a let's player) lately, and I'm going through his The Evil Within playthrough. Do your parents use any social media at all? My mom has a Facebook, and hilariously, Dad has a Snapchat to talk with my sister Nicole. He has no clue what he's doing with it and it's adorable, haha. Mom also has a Twitter, but she doesn't use it. Is there anyone in your life who regularly asks how your day has been? Regularly, no. I've always been that person, especially in the WoW guild I'm in. I'm very close and comfortable with them and ask how everyone's doing any time I log on. Lovely people who give me some social interaction every day. Tell me something positive about the day you've had. It's still early, but once again, it's pretty and bright outside. Why do you prefer Facebook over MySpace, because I know you do? Ha, you'd be incorrect. MySpace was more personal, so I actually preferred it. But it's obviously long-dead, so I just settle with Facebook. Have you read the Pretty Little Liars series? No. My sister looooves it, though. What product do you use to moisturize your lips? I don't remember, actually... It's in my purse somewhere. When did you start using Xanga? I never have. Be honest, do you judge people on their appearance? Judge, I don't think so. I can make assumptions like everyone else, but I'm not gonna think someone is beneath me just by their attire. Do you know anyone who does not like The Beatles? Me. At least, most songs. "Hey Jude" is good, but everyone agrees with that, haha. Did you have a friend in middle school that you’re now enemies with in high school? I'm long since out of HS. I had a middle school friend who I disconnected with following a fight in high school, but we weren't "enemies," and we reunited our senior year anyway. Aaaaand we're not friends anymore once again lmao. What is one thing you hope your children don’t inherit from you? If I hypothetically wanted kids, God knows I'd hope they wouldn't have my psychological issues. Do you think you’ll be married in 10 years? It'd be nice, anyway. What type of foundation do you wear? None. Who’s the most controlling person you know? Someone I'm no longer friends with, partially because of this. Do males look good in skinny jeans? Yep. Are you for or against guyliner? Ugggghhhhh guyliner makes me weak in the knees. How many jobs have you had? Where do you currently work? Three; nowhere. Who did you last hit? Um, nobody??? What way of self-care do you enjoy the most and what feels more like an obligation? I enjoy my alone time on the computer as the best self-care, especially after being social all day; I don't, however, enjoy the act of performing hygiene care. I still do it, it's just not fun. The feeling afterwards is great, though. Have you ever tried specific diet plans or fads? What made you do it and how did it turn out for you? I was briefly using NutriSystem, which didn't work for me. I hated too much of the food. More recently I stuck with flexible dieting and calorie counting for a while, but I drifted from it when I still lost no fucking weight in like a month. I want to get back to it, though... oh, and intermittent fasting. I don't think it really worked for me yet again, even though I did it correctly, but that and the aforementioned flexible dieting is all I feel like I can handle. I guess I just have to give it longer. Do you know anyone who has been directly affected by COVID-19 e.g. testing positive, losing a loved one, or their job due to the pandemic? Too many people I know have had it or had someone they loved die because of it. Take this shit seriously. Is there a kind of music you only prefer listening to during specific type of activities that you otherwise wouldn’t enjoy under normal circumstances (e.g. EDM while doing sports or instrumental music while studying, etc.)? No; I have to actually enjoy the music. If you had to start a YouTube channel and motivations/skills/resources/any other inhibiting factors weren’t an issue, what would it be about? Either animal (preferrably reptiles) education or let's plays, ig. Has anything ever happened to you that if you told someone about, they would think you’re making it up? I don't believe so. What travel destination or popular spot have you been to that you found overrated? What about a lesser known place that you thought was a hidden gem? I really don't know; I haven't traveled nearly enough for this.

#survey #surveys #questions #lyrics: ''ghosting'' by mother mother

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rachel1987 · 4 years

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Hatter’s Idea

Guys... I did a thing.

I wrote a Hatter and Hare story, guys! I’m not normally a writer but I got to thinking about this silly little story idea and I just couldn’t help myself. I’ve xposted it on AO3, but I’mma copy/paste it here too.

Also, it’s now on FF.Net.

Hatter’s Idea

Synopsis: The Hatter comes up with an interesting idea for an activity he can do with the Hare during a tea party...

It was five o’clock and Hatter and Hare were more than an hour into their daily tea party when Hatter suddenly sat upright, slamming his teacup on the table as an idea came to him. This wasn’t unusual, the pair usually came up with their best schemes when they brewed ginger root tea. And they were well into their second kettle when that wide grin crossed Hatter’s face.

“Hare!” he exclaimed, his eyes nearly glossing over as his mind raced. “I’ve just thought of something!”

“Oh! I think we may have had the same thought!” Hare replied with a smile. “But I dont think a giraffe would make a good comedian because all his jokes would go over everyone’s head.”

Hatter opened his mouth to say something, paused and shook his head, and muttered, “No… I think we need to spice up this tea party a little.”

“Maybe we should have let it steep longer?” Hare furrowed his brow and looked into his cup, swirling around his now lukewarm tea. “Mine has plenty of ginger in it.”

“Nooo!” Hatter exclaimed, waving his arms around in the air before reaching across the table and gripping Hare by the shoulders. “Wanna go for a field trip?”

“As a matter of fact, I already have my permission slip signed!” Hare smiled, pulling a yellow slip of paper from his jacket and waving it in Hatter’s face. “Where are we going?”

“I’ll explain on the way!” Hatter laughed, gripping his hat and getting to his feet, racing off with Hare on his heels.

The pair snuck up to the courtyard on tiptoe, hiding behind the hedges for a moment before peeking their heads around them to make sure the coast was clear.

The palace was deserted, as they knew it would be. This was usually the time when the Red Queen and Rabbit took their afternoon walk around the kingdom and they would be out for probably another half hour. More than enough time for Hatter and Hare to get in and out without being noticed.

“Okay, Hare, you know what to do…” Hatter stage whispered as they snuck past the heart-shaped gate and hedges.

Hare covered his mouth as he giggled, following Hatter on tiptoe to their destination. They snuck their way through the throne room and down the hall, through the kitchen and into Rabbit’s quarters. Hatter flamboyantly slammed the door and locked it tight once they were both inside.

“Here we are!” he announced as the pair looked around Rabbit’s small room. There wasn’t much to look at, a bed and desk and a wardrobe filled with vests and shin guards, but Hare giggled at a picture of Rabbit and his mother from when he was five.

“Hatter, look at this!” Hare gawked, snatching up the photo and giving it a better look. “Can you believe he let his mother cut his bangs like that?”

“Not now, Hare! We have a mission to accomplish!” Hatter furrowed his brow and waved his friend away. “How much time do we have?”

“Uh…” Hare replaced the photo and looked at his wristwatch. “Maybe another 25 minutes. We should get to work.”

“Righty roo!” Hatter exclaimed, beelining his way to the Rabbit’s bookshelf. He picked up an armful and flung them onto Rabbit’s bed, throwing his long body onto the mattress after them. Hare shrugged and also jumped onto Rabbit’s bed, crawling his way up next to his friend before taking a seat amongst the pillows. He made sure his butt was on the one that Rabbit put his head on to sleep. They were, after all, 12 year olds in adult bodies.

Hatter plucked a book up from the pile and held his hand out to his buddy. “Hare, you brought the markers?”

“Of course I brought the markers!” Hare beamed, reaching into his jacket and retrieving two thick black pens. He gave one to Hatter and watched him uncap it, sticking out his tongue as he flipped through the pages of the book. The Hare did the same with his own book, finding that it didn’t have anything he was looking for before tossing it onto the floor.

“Aha!” Hatter shouted, slapping his hand against the book as he got to a page with a small illustration on it. “Found one!”

Hare’s ears perked as he got on his knees, biting his lip as he watched Hatter slowly move his marker toward the paper.

“Hatter, wait…” Hare reached out and stopped Hatter, biting his lip a little as he started thinking about what they were doing. This was vandalism! “Don’t you think it’s kind of mean to do this? I mean, these will be permanent.”

The tall man paused and looked down at the marker in his hand, suddenly feeling a pang of guilt. “Hare, old buddy, you’re right. What was I thinking…” he frowned and tossed the marker out the window. “Pencils would be a better idea.”

“Right ahead of you!” Hare chuckled as he reached into his jacket and produced two very large pencils, one yellow and one purple. Hatter took the purple with his left hand and returned his attention to the book.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Hatter admired the image, a little bunny boy pushing a bunny girl sitting on a swing.

“Yes…” Hare agreed, picking up a book of his own and flipping through the pages. “I think they need big sombreros.”

Hatter gasped and looked at Hare with admiration in his eyes. “Hare, you’re a genius!”

Hare blushed and shrugged his shoulders, adding little devil horns and a spiked tail to an illustration of a school teacher tutoring children on their English.

The pair worked their way through nearly a dozen books each, doodling little additions to each illustration, giggling to themselves all the time. They ran the gamut from simple mustaches to adding characters to scenes. Hatter was halfway through doodling a penis on the face of an evil Queen when they heard a familiar voice from the throne room.

“Rabbit! I require more ice in my lemonade!”

Their eyes grew wide and Hare’s hands went to his face as they looked at each other.

“Yikes!” Hatter stage whispered as he got to his feet, scrambling to pick up the books strewn around the bed and floor. With lightning speed, the couple cleaned up the room so it looked more or less as it did before they had arrived. Hare took the time to rub his butt on Rabbit’s pillows one last time before the Hatter unlocked the door.

“Time to go, pal!”

Once again, they tiptoed down the hall and paused at the throne room door, peeking around to see the Queen sitting on her large chair with her feet up. The Rabbit was taking her walking shoes off her feet and she was drinking her lemonade through a straw.

“How are we going to get past them?” Hare squeaked, looking up at Hatter with a furrowed brow.

Hatter narrowed his eyes and looked around the room, his mind racing. He wished he had more of his ginger root tea, it seemed that his thinker had slowed down. After a few moments, he patted Hare on the shoulder.

“I think maybe we should just leave through the front door.”

Hare blinked, his mouth gaping open for a moment before chuckling to himself. Of course! The front door! Why hadn’t he thought of that before!? He then chuckled again, because he made a rhyme.

They tiptoed their way down the hall and, just as Hatter’s hand turned the knob on the front door, there was a noise behind them.

“Hatter! Hare! What are you doing here?”

The pair gulped and looked at each other with wide eyes again, turning on their heels and looking at the Rabbit with overly bright smiles.

“Rabbit!” Hatter greeted him with an over enthusiastic wave. “The door was unlocked and we figured we’d just walk our way in.”

The Hare nodded in agreement, tapping his fingers together in front of his chest. “We came to ask a favor.”

“A favor?” Rabbit cocked his brow at them.

“Yes!” the Hatter agreed, nodding largely at the Hare. “We need to borrow some cream.”

Rabbit looked at them incredulously, blinking slowly. “You came all the way here to borrow… cream?”

“For the tea party!” Hare nodded. “We went to the see the Cow but she’s off on her mission to the Moon and won’t be back till next Tuesday’s tea party.”

“Oh, yes…” Hatter pursed his lips. “I hope she makes it all the way over the moon this time and doesn’t get stuck in the Milky way.”

“Maybe then she can bring us back some milk too…” Hare remarked, jabbing Hatter in the ribs as he laughed at his own joke.

The Rabbit was done with this and sighed. He was about to tell them so when another voice came from the courtyard.

“Rabbit!? What’s taking you so long?” The group turned to see the Red Queen stalking her way toward them, her bare feet showing beneath her dress. “If I don’t soak my toesies soon they’re about to fall off… oh! Hatter. Hare. What are you doing here?”

Rabbit rolled his eyes. “They’re here to borrow cream, your Majesty.”

“For our tea party.” Hatter nodded, Hare agreeing with him silently from beside him.

“Oh…” the Queen muttered, suddenly very aware that she was barefoot and now ludicrous it must seem to see her indecent in front of her subjects. “Well, Rabbit, give them what they want so they can be on their way. And get me my bucket with hot water. And don’t skimp out on the bubbles!”

The Rabbit’s shoulders drooped as he returned his attention to the Hatter and Hare, both of them beaming at him with obviously guilty looks on their faces. He wracked his brain as he looked around, trying to see anything out of the ordinary as he walked them into the kitchen and to the fridge, where he gave them a pitcher of cream.

“Thanks, Rabbit!” Hatter said gleefully, slapping Rabbit on the back as Hare took the pitcher. “We knew we could count on you!”

“Yes, well…” Rabbit’s whiskers twitched as he looked at them with tired eyes. “Any time.”

“You’d better get the Queen that bucket!” Hare smiled, ears bouncing as he gestured toward the throne room with his head. “You make the queen wait much longer and she’ll put her foot up your-”

A hand was clamped down on Hare’s mouth as the Hatter stage whispered “Filter…”

Hare nodded and remained silent.

“Yes…” Rabbit agreed one final time, waiting for the pair to make their exit. The three stood there awkwardly before the Rabbit finally added, “Was there something else?”

“Oh, no no!” Hatter laughed, tapping his hat nervously. “Come Hare!”

Hare nodded his head again and followed Hatter through the throne room (and the Queen still waiting for her bucket) and through the courtyard and the heart-shaped gate.

“That was a close one!” Hare breathed as he put the pitcher of cream down on the tea table.

“Yes, well…” Hatter sighed, taking a seat on the table and looking at the platters of sweets before plucking up a tart and taking a nibble from it. “That was exciting, wasn’t it?”

“Sure was,” Hare agreed, picking up the kettle of tea and shaking it, feeling that it was still half full. “Should we brew a fresh pot while we wait for Rabbit to discover our work?”

“Indubitably!” Hatter exclaimed, scarfing down the rest of his tart before picking up the other kettle and leading the way into the Hat house.

They didn’t know they would have to wait a few days before their work was discovered. They had nearly forgotten about it when they heard a bunny wheeling his way up their walk, shouting their names at the top of his voice.

“Hatter! Hare! Get out here at once!”

The pair put their tea cups down and looked up to see both the Rabbit and Alice coming their way, each holding stacks of books.

“That's an awful lot of library books...” Hare commented, rushing forward to open the gate for them. “Are you getting late fees on all of them?”

“What have you two numbskulls done to my books!?” Rabbit didn’t waste a second laying in on them, a furious look on his face with the books in his arms. Hatter wanted to laugh, Rabbit’s face was nearly all one shade of red.

“What are you talking about?” Hatter asked, his brow furrowed.

“Someone has vandalized over half my book collection!” Rabbit shouted, stomping his foot. “And this has your name all over it!”

Hatter honestly didn’t know what the Rabbit was talking about. He lifted his hat and scratched his head with a gloved hand. “How could someone do something so awful?! Hare, clear the table, let them put the books down.”

Hatter and Hare shoved half the cups and saucers off the table to allow Alice and the Rabbit to free up their arms.

“We know it was you, Mr Hatter,” Alice sighed as she rubbed her tired arm. “You kept adding top hats to all your pictures.”

“And Hare wrote ‘Hare wuz here’ in the back of my copy of Bunnyrella,” Rabbit said, straightening up his vest.

Hare grimaced as he looked at the Hatter, who suddenly remembered what they had done.

“Oh! Oh! Wait!” The Hatter slapped his knee and laughed boisterously like he just understood the punchline of a good joke. Hare joined in and the pair laughed until they were red in the face and had tears streaming down their cheeks. The Dormouse, who was alarmed by all the shouting, stuck his head out of his tea pot and shook his head at them.

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about?” Hatter said between laughs, wiping a tear away from his eye as he approached the Rabbit.

“Oh, you don’t do you?” The Rabbit mused, picking up a book with a red cover and flipping through the pages. He stopped and cocked his brow, before he thrust the picture of the evil Queen into Hatter’s face, the one with the penis on it. “I had to explain to Alice what this was!”

“Oh, yes, I was very proud of that one!” Hatter beamed, laughing joyously as he looked at it. He turned his head to the side as he showed his handwork to everyone, only looking up when the Rabbit shouted in frustration.

“You both are going to erase every bit of profanity out of these pages!”

“Oh… but it would be such a shame!” Hare sighed, his ears drooping a little. “We worked so hard on all these.”

“I don’t care. This is vandalism and I want it eradicated from my books immediately.”

“Then why don’t you do it?” Hatter asked, thrusting the book at Rabbit.

“Because he didn’t do it, Mr Hatter,” Alice said sternly. “You did. And it was mean of you to trick Mr Rabbit like that.”

“I don’t think it was very mean,” Hare shrugged. “I think it was mostly funny.”

“Well, it wasn’t very nice. And it wasn’t something a friend would do to another friend.”

Hatter and Hare looked at each other with defeated looks on their faces. A 12 year old girl had gotten the better of them.

“How true that is, young Alice. Fiiine…” Hatter heaved, holding his gloved hand out for Rabbit to give him an overly large rubber eraser. “Get a rubbin, Hare.”

Hare scrunched up his face and took the eraser from Rabbit.

“Also,” the Rabbit added, looking Hare in the face as he spoke. “The Cow never jumped over the moon. She had to reschedule due to low cloud coverage.”

“Wash your pillows recently, Rabbit?” Hare asked with a chuckle.

#adventures in wonderland #mad hatter #March Hare #aiw #disney #fanfiction #story #writing #white rabbit #red queen #alice #dormouse #comedy #fanfic #hatter's great idea

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all-things-are-nothing-to-me · 5 years

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Anarchy: The Life and Joy of Insubordination

In this essay I substitute “wage-slave” for “worker” since there are many different ideas of what “work” could mean. I am also considering the fact that “worker” is socially loaded with congratulatory appraisal as it conceals the true nature of it’s meaning: slave. Here I criticize “wage-slave” as a role and identity assigned to individuals by a system that requires their physical and mental subjugation en masse. The “wage-slave” is only such, as long as one fulfills that role and identity. Beneath that role and identity is a chaotic uniqueness which arms the individual with emancipatory potential.

When people ask “What is “anarchy”?”, my answer is rarely a reference to the popular philosophers of history who define it academically as an “ism”. My personal relationship to anarchy is one of constant exploration and discovery. For me, what differentiates anarchy from any other political idea is the anti-politics of its practice. As an anarchist, I have no inclination to recruit a mass of people to overthrow the establishment. I have no desire to construct persuasive programs encouraging the “worker” to join a party, vote, fight for better wages -let alone remain as a wage-slave. All I have is an anarchist project of my own: the reclaiming of my life from wage-slavery and social control. It is a project of self-preservation armed with hostility to all that attempts to categorize, confine, and control me.

Things we come to familiarize ourselves with like presidential elections, the police, banks, and wage-slavery are all social systems constructed to maintain order – an order maintained through coercion, disempowerment, and fear. Together these things make up the governmental establishment which occupies and applies ownership to geographical locations. The maintaining of this occupation relies heavily on an apparatus that monopolizes violent force, as well as the subjugation of any persons residing in these locations. The subjugation of a population of people wouldn’t succeed without the normalized logic of submission and psychological warfare. In order to gain access to the monopolized resources needed to survive, the conquered population of people are forced to reproduce and maintain the establishment through wage-slavery: enslavement in exchange for a monetary wage. At the root of this social control is the domination of the individual – a domination which reinforces the logic of individual submission to the group. For the sake of the leftist wet-dream, imagine every individual wage-slave deciding to quit their job, all at once, and all those who didn’t have a job deciding against getting one. Those few who monopolize resources would quickly lose everything and everyone they needed to protect them. With the expropriation of violent force, these individuals could unite and destroy those maintaining hierarchical power. But as years have shown, the continuity of capitalism and the slave-master relationship is complex and reinforced in a variety of ways.

As an anarchist against work, I will still validate the wage-slave’s stress and fear of poverty, their personal justifications for submitting to slavery and the colossal misery that accompanies these things. I can not deny the power of materialist accumulation, consumerism, and the toxic escapism which acts to distract and pacify outrage. I have seen apathy personalized as a lifelong commitment, embraced by those too emotionally defeated to break the chains of capitalism’s captivity. The idea of mass revolt would be ideal, but is unfortunately utopian. The workplace is constantly evolving to be more accommodating to the wage-slave. This includes, but not limited to, serving as a remedy for boredom, a platform for social networking and emotional comfort through economic security. These small personal relationships with work play a big role is stunting efforts to organize mass worker revolt. In other words, many people enjoy wage-slavery, and will even sabotage efforts to organize against it. It is inaccurate to assume people are one monolithic mass willing to rise up against the establishment. But rather than relying on a mass revolt, there is the power of uncontrollable, unpredictable individual revolt. These revolts are composed of cells or “lone wolf” individuals who make revolt a daily practice rather than a future phenomena to wait for. As an ex-wage-slave, I will validate the unique history and personhood of a wage-slaving individual, their desire for freedom and the suppressed rage that accompanies their contempt for what they do. I will validate their hatred for every social construct of domination that compresses them. I will validate a wildness they keep caged up in fear of being called “crazy” or “weird”. I will validate a behavioural uniqueness they possess which society would attempt to pathologize and eliminate to maintain psychiatric standardization.

So many norms, roles, and identities shoved down our throats from birth - is it really a surprise that the oppressed “workers of the world” haven’t smashed capitalism to pieces by now? Where in the prison of society do we find the encouragement to not only be our unique wild selves, but to also weaponize our hostility towards the societal apparatus of control? Individuality, often promoted within the confinement of a pre-constructed identity – one assigned at birth and necessary for the functioning of capitalist society – is defined by society rather than the chaos of indefinite, ungoverned self-discovery. Due to the anthropocentric lens through which we view the world, wildness is moralized as an evil savagery in need of domesticating and management. Wildness is the enemy of the technological colonization of the natural world. So what does anarchist wildness look like? Anarchy as wildness refuses the control and domination of socially constructed systems which subjugate individuality. Where ever there is social constructs attempting to subjugate individual uniqueness, there is a politicized program at play. This program (which often attempts to acquire a dominating position) is responsible for normalizing a standardized way of life in which individual people are reduced from complex ever-changing beings to the identity of “worker”, or - for the sake of this essay -“wage-slave”.

What does it mean to be ungovernable? Within ungoverned self-discovery come questions of survival. Without the instinct of survival, the capitalists who profit from the products of my labor would have no leverage to enslave me. Food, shelter, etc. are essentials that require the labor of others to maintain. Under systems that require a mass of people to maintain, individuals are discouraged from finding the power to acquire their own food and/or create their own shelter. Today, shelter (industrial buildings fixed up with plumbing, electricity, etc) are manufactured by one group of people (wage-slaves) and sold to, and occupied by others (consumers). Alienation can be found here where those purchasing or renting space have no direct connection to its construction. Just the same as when people purchase food in grocery stores, they are disconnected from the true source of that food (slaughterhouses, for example) since someone else puts in the work to harvest, process, and package it. The leverage capitalist society maintains over every individual is that of survival. Through monopolizing resources, those with the most can enslave those with the least. So what way do anarchists survive if they refuse the role and identity of “wage-slave”? If an individual decides to arm their desires with action, how does that individual refuse enslavement to a boss or master and continue maintaining access to resources? Under capitalism, the expropriation of resources from those who monopolize them is considered illegal. This is where anarchism breaks away from the civilized notions of social reform and finds affinity with illegality.

I can only speak for myself when I talk about illegalist anarchy since for every individual, their interpretation will be influenced by circumstances unique to their experience. There is also an entire history rich with illegalist anarchy taking place in the early 1900s around the globe, and continuing on today. For the purpose of this particular essay I will be focusing on illegality related to resource expropriation as an argument against wage-slavery. So from this perspective, illegalist anarchy is the refusal to confine my anarchist activity to an above-ground, liberalized, mass-appeal activity. It is the daily practice of experimenting with methods of survival that refuse the limiting moral code of law and order. It is the weaponizing of chaos from which I find courage and strength in joyfully discovering new ways of surviving – all of which circumnavigate wage-slavery. I have grown sick and tired of bosses, workplaces, and forcing my body to wake up with the sound of a blaring alarm. I am in full retirement from wage-slavery at the age of thirty-three, and I have absolutely no desire to turn back. So, how do I eat? How do I survive without a paycheck from a workplace to sell my labor? A reality that is often difficult to remember is that everything one needs to survive already exists all around. In addition to poly-crop guerrilla gardening and foraging, food is stockpiled high in grocery stores. Tools for creativity and sabotage are hoarded by hardware stores. Dumpsters are filled to the brim with a variety of resources. What has been stolen from the individual is a sense of direct connection to these resources. Through learned consumerism, people see themselves as merely consumers- basically, “If I don’t have the money for this food, I just go hungry tonight.”. Through fear, capitalism along with the state has pacified a healthy outrage that could motivate us to take the resources needed to survive. This is another form of alienation – but one that keeps the consumer passive: if you make something with your own hands, you feel more connection to it as yours. But when someone else makes it and you see it in a store window, there is no direct connection. Therefore, there is less emotional justification for outrage or motivation to break the barrier of law and fear. Similar to the factory jobs I worked where a single product was put together by multiple people. If each person is only responsible for producing a piece of the whole product, there is no direct connection between the production of that product as a whole, and the individual worker. Therefore, the wage-slave doesn’t develop a relationship with what they produce, because a single product is produced by multiple people.

Rather than celebrating individualism, this process glorifies workplace collectivism- a useful tool in encouraging productivity and unifying “workers” for the common good of capitalism. What is socially discouraged in the individual is a creative rebellion that crafts plans and ideas on how to undermine the security apparatus that protects resources. Store cameras, Loss Prevention officers (or as some of us call them for short “LP’s”), magnetic security devices attached to items, etc. While one individual spends their time and energy at work and maybe planning what bills to pay next, the ex- wage-slave individual has the opportunity to utilize free time to experiment with different ideas on how to get shit for free. Eight hours of committed work at a factory (or grocery store, office place, etc.) could be eight hours of strategic planning, assessing, and experimenting with illegalist activity.

Another opportunity is the wage-slaving individual experimenting with illegalist activity within the workplace. Of course, the stakes are a little higher since the individual would have surrendered personal information to obtain the job, but an inside-the-workplace perspective can offer an opportunity to exploit weaknesses in work-place security. Though, personally, I haven’t met many people who take much advantage of this. And this is probably due to the fact that they depend on the job in a way that outweighs any advantages of work-place theft.

Coming back to the anti-work perspective on illegalism, when it comes to the resources of survival, the time not surrendered to wage-slavery can be time put towards careful planning, personal fear-assessment, and target seeking.

As society forces us into schools to begin the indoctrination sequence of behavioural conformity and obedience, we have very little opportunity to learn about ourselves and our capabilities. Between school and our homes, playgrounds and neighbourhood streets, we’re allowed a regulated time-frame of play. From my own perspective, play is the materialization of imaginative desire, exploration, and discovery. Each of these are fundamental tools necessary in observing and comprehending one’s environment and their relationship to it. Embedded in that relationship is a “self” that is composed of experiences and personal desires. But with such a narrow time-frame, a young individual only has a limited scope of exploration and instead, with development, begins internalizing the rhetoric of consumerist, productive, and responsible adultism.

For real though - what can most people say about themselves and the lives they live? Aside from a few forms of escapism or maybe hobby activities that stem from personal desire, many peoples lives are just wage-slavery, paying bills, paying for materialist shit and wage-slave some more to stockpile (save) money. Shit, people spend most of their lives using the present to prepare or secure a future- the existence of a future which is often taken for granted in the first place. So how much can one know about their self when so much of the “self” is being constricted, conditioned, and defined in terms of wage-slave productivity? Whether class or social, the status of an individual under capitalism is determined by their access to, and relationship with, materialism. But what about a “self” unbound by capitalism, and insubordinate to materialist representation? Or a “self” that refuses the traditional categorical assignments of social constructs and embraces life as anarchistic existence? A life of illegalist anarchy then allows for the limitless possibilities of creating one’s self day by day.

In my opinion, refusing the wage-slave role and identity destabilizes social control on an individual level. Since it is a firm work ethic that must be drilled into the individual to secure the foundation of capitalism (or any system that requires massified subjugation for its sustainability), individuals who refuse wage-slavery are subjected to a variety of social pressures including personal judgement, ridicule and the threat of poverty. To build up a confidence in one’s self that is immune to the social pressures of being talked down to (as well as a confidence in ones creative, determined self to avoid poverty), is to reclaim power as an individual. It is a power that reclaims “self” from the role and identity of “proletariat”, “worker”, or “wage-slave”.

Like chaotic negation to all socially fixed identities, there is power in contradicting the social identity and expectation of the “wage-slave”. This power also undermines the assumption that “the group” (or formalized organization, society, the masses etc.) is stronger than the individual. If “the group” is unable to subjugate an individual, that individual carries the potential to inspire the emancipation of other individuals from “the group”. A group, or systemic establishment, is only as powerful as the subservience of the individuals who comprise it. Without subservient individuals to reinforce the power of “the group”, there is no group - only empowered individuals.

The power of presidents, politicians, the police, and the military industrial complex, economic systems of every form and social constructs require the subservience of individuals. Without individual participation, the continuity of any system unravels. This is what makes individuality not only important but also powerful. Under capitalism, refusing wage-slavery requires courage; assimilatory subservience is psychologically coerced with the threat of starvation and poverty. The logic of submission is only negated through a fearless self-confidence and the desire to become socially ungovernable.

Could an individualist anarchist change the world? As unlikely as it seems, who am I to say no? Different people are inspired by different things. To some, a personal relationship with someone else’s words can shatter a worldview. Those same words armed with the actions of an individual could spark flames of social insubordination, possibly multiplying into spontaneous fires of joyful emancipation. It is not the leadership of deceptive, double speaking academics or committees (invisible or not), political schemes, or popular catch phrases that ignite personal rebellion. In my opinion and experience, it is the discovery and re-claiming of “self” as powerful, unique, and wild. From this perspective, anarchist illegality negates the domesticated conformity of internalized workerism. Illegalist anarchy confronts law and order with insurgency, preserving wild chaos as individuality against the homogenizing effect of society. To reclaim and reinvent one’s life as a daily exploration of personal adventure is anarchy against the socialized guilt and pressure to abandon rebellious youth.

Wage-slavery is the enemy of play, individuality, and freedom. Social systems require the subjugation of individuality to either homogenized membership or fixed group-identities in order to maintain their existence. With all social systems the formula is similar: individuality is surrendered to the group in order to be granted access to resources. Under capitalism, the wage-slave - or in Marxist terms, “the proletariat” - is an identity pre-configured with the role of reproducing capitalist society. This includes an individual surrendering their mind and body to a master in exchange for a wage that serves as the permission slip to access resources. But to the anarchist individual armed with the illegality of resource expropriation, anarchy is survival without permission.

Anarchy can not be experienced through history books, the reformation of work places nor the confines of a new societal system. Anarchy breathes with the rhythm of the wild in constant flux, ungoverned by anthropocentric laws and order. I rejoice my anarchy in the transformative abandonment of the role and identity of “the proletariat”. There is no great future revolution on the horizon to organize or wait for. There is only today, with no guarantee of tomorrow. There are no charismatic leaders to open the door to freedom. There is only the power of anarchist individuality defined by the liberating ammunition of desire.

#anarcho communism #communisnm #anarchy #anti capitalism #anti work #class struggle #egoist #illegalism #post leftism

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benjamintomes · 4 years

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COTUM V4, Play: Foreward

Intro

In today’s world, before students are classified with a formal disability, they must meet impact criteria in two of three areas: Home, School and Play. For older kids or adults, Work issues may be factored in.

We looked at life at Home in Volume 1, and life at School in Volume 2. It’s Play time, now.

For kids with ADHD, this presents a powder keg of possibilities and contradictions. Kids with the ADHD often long to play freely with others. Problem is, that the average kid in the early years can’t tolerate or keep up with kids stricken with squirrel flu. Hence, kids longing to play with others, often are left to play alone. One way or another, most play situations with kids with focus issues will lead to some level of misery; for either party.

It’s no secret that misery loves company. My 47 years on this earth have reinforced this cliché, continually reminding me that some things become clichés for a reason. I’m not sure why misery got this particular cliche all to itself, because a whole lot of things in life are looking for company.

Mischief Loves Company

While misery longs to drag others down into its sad abyss, it’s mischief that truly adores company. Working in education for over 20 years as an adult only reinforced this principle. Mischief doesn’t just love company, it hordes it. It’s rare to find a wayward scramblehead land themselves in solitary trouble. I’d just as soon let the miserables have their pity party. I was more interested in finding others with a penchant for following or a similar hatred of boredom, and convert it into actual trouble.

I’m not sure why, but trouble sure seems less imposing when you go into it with others. In reality, it is the polar opposite. This is no more true than if you are a teenage boy. As the lowest form of human life and development on the cognitive totem pole, mischief is subject to a torrent of impulses that might as well take out an ad on Facebook and advertise whatever illegal activity has occurred. More accurately, company to mischief is a false security blanket. Why get in trouble by yourself as you the break laws of man and nature, when you can do it with friends, acquaintances and associates? Sharing is caring, after all. Even in chicanahry.

My youth resonated with this undeniable truth. This meant a litany of woes not just for me, but for my friends and allies as well. I was many things, but a loner in mischief was rarely one of them. My teenage years would see a world of police tickets, groundings, suspensions and laughter rack up with impressive totals. I’m not sure I was alone for a single one of them. Someone was always along as an accomplice, even if behind the scenes. I didn’t do my best work alone, that’s for sure. Be it feeding off of the ideas of others, or sharing duties in the ritualistic slaughter of boredom, I was a total team player. Once I hit high school, it seemed as if I was never far away from someone willing to take a bad idea and run with it with me.

That’s mostly because I was rarely alone.

Once I got through the monotony of the church-tinged grade and middle school years, I exploded into the truer version of myself that would stick around into adulthood. The church years left me knowing I didn’t want to be at home much. The result was the development of a military-grade echo location system, perpetually searching for the closest party, group of people to tag along with or distraction to jump into. If there was a keg party being held in a 25 mile radius, I was going to find out about it.

Furthermore, if there was a migrating pack of reasonably attractive girls foraging through town, my radar would find it. If there were teenage thrill seekers testing the limits and patience of adults, that too would be caught by my sonar. Outside of common sense, decency, ethics, religion, morals and academic instruction, not much got past me.

Spittin’ Wisdom

This was a stark contrast to the means in which I was raised.

Growing up, my mother liked to “spit wisdom” as today’s youth might say. Typically, these were alleged to be straight from the sacred Christian bible. My parents were pretty standard boomers, with their various predictable boomer phases. They had the softball phases, poker phases, brandy phases, bowling league phases, ethnic food phases, and the like. Oh, and Jesus. That was the biggun’.

Religion was one of many, and ran concurrently with bemoaning all their youthful fun. I am not sure why so many boomers wanted to forget the fun they took part in as they aged, situational amnesia runs rampant among them. My parents were no different. Their uniqueness came in that they took it to epic levels of judgment and fear-mongering. It’s a dangerous mix when fueled by insecurities and guilt. What better way to share the gift of insecurity, guilt and judgment by taxing your children with it.

And tax they did. We got hit with one for just about every fun thing they did in their youth. Would have been a lot more fun to be issued the impunity they so enjoyed at the time, but no such luck for the Tomes children. Somehow, they convinced themselves that they could make their transgressions right by God by making us feel bad for doing the same thing. I see what they did there. My mom spit so many sayings and verses at us, it was hard to tell what was straight from her bible and what was just a bunch of shit she made up. She had a lecture dart poisoned and ready to toss our way for just about any fun that crossed paranoia-driven radar. At its zenith, she threw these with such frequency that it whittled away the credibility of everything she said. Some were easier to separate from others.

For instance, I don’t proclaim to be a Christian Historian or biblical scholar, but was fairly sure that KYPIYP, standing for ‘keep your pecker in your pants’, wasn’t from the book of Psalms. Palms, maybe. Not Psalms. No way, no how.

Still, the damnations began to wear on us though. To that end, I had not yet divorced myself fully from the imposed Christianity they branded us with, so they stung a little more than they should’ve. Eventually, when you’ve been told daily you will go to hell for drinking or pre-marital sex, you’re going to start believing it. Especially if you start both of those activities at an early age. By age 14, I was an 85 lb gangsta that had dabbled in both. By my mom’s math, I had punched a one-way ticket to hell. Once that’s in place, there’s not much to worry about as far as self-regulation goes.

To be clear, the approach didn’t work out too well. If at age 14 you are convinced that your salvation is somehow now on permanent layaway plan, all it did was eliminate a hurdle in the race to kill boredom.

Show Me Who You Go With

As I aged, I learned much of the “biblical” schtick she battered us with, wasn’t even biblical. Her favorite sure sounded like it came from God. Her most frequent go-to was “show me who you go with, I’ll show you who you are”. I don’t think my mother ever considered the possibility that it was her child that was the lynch pin of evil influence on others. Beyond that, her faux bible verse wasn’t without some wisdom.

If it rings true, I am everyone.

I went to high school in the 1980’s, when cliques ruled the land. Somehow, I transcended that trend and found a way to hang out with everyone. When my energy level, non-stop talking or annoying behaviors wore everyone out in one group, I was onto the next. I’d hang out with anyone; anything to simply not be stuck at home and alone.

Growing up in Northern and Central Wisconsin didn’t provide much of a chance to develop racial or cultural diversity in your peer group. That said, what I lacked in diversity on that front, I made up for in personalities. I would be hanging out with the school valedictorian one day, leather-clad crusties the next. I got bored with people in a hurry if just with jocks, or just with nerds. The end result was a constantly evolving and very eclectic group of people I considered friends. That trend never stopped and still true as I approach age 50. There’s such a wide variety of ages, races, backgrounds and interests among my closest friends that even I kind of wonder how the hell that happened.

I grew up in small towns with small public high schools. This meant supply and demand would play a role in peer group development. Both schools clocked in at under 500 students, meaning your options were limited from the start. It wasn’t so dissimilar from the concept behind Pokemon; gotta catch ‘em all. By the time I graduated, I would spend time with just about every native clique within each school. I might not have been a charter member, but I logged an awful of time as card carrying members of various social troupes within the two schools I went to. To fully defeat the enemy in the war on boredom required you cross familiar friend genres frequently. A win would require you engage with those outside of the norm.

It’s not the same in big cities and at bigger schools. There, you can hide in anonymity and are more likely to find a niche and by nature and circumstance, deal with less boredom than those in small towns. Podunk towns and schools don’t have that luxury.

As I grew up, the notion of fun began to morph. Over time, it became hard to discern the difference between fun and trouble. Mostly, because they became synonymous to me. I really didn’t need anyone to help me find trouble, I could find it plenty good all by my lonesome. It just wasn’t as fun to do that, though.

Little Kids, Little Problems. Big Kids, Big Problems.

My behavior in my early years was significantly better than my teens and beyond, but the signs were there that trouble was a-comin’.

At an early age, my ability to function well in social situations was ahead of my age. Some kids shy away from talking to adults, but not me. In fact, I preferred talking to adults. As a kid, my parents would entertain their friends with frequency. Their rapidly morphing religious views changed that as I got older, but it taught me a lot about friendships. They put both fleeting and lifelong friendships in front of us. I had a love-hate relationship with those gatherings. I loved it when they entertained and would do nearly anything to get a chance to be around the adults. I don’t recall feeling like I annoyed anyone, but that was not a reciprocal feeling. The scale of my persistent annoyance was brutal.

For as much as I loved adults to converse with, I loathed being sent to bed whilst they carried on. When sent to my room upon wearing out my welcome, I’d sob myself to sleep, angry over the perceived snub. It didn’t matter if the parental units had given me a couple of extra waking hours to bomb their peers with my wit and charm. I was a youthful paradox; driven to converse with adults, and mature enough to actually function in doing so. So mature on one end, but so immature on the other, that the mere thought of room banishment drove me to instant tears. Mature and emotionally labile, all in one tiny, talkative package.

Most case studies show kids with ADHD are reputed to be immature compared to same-age peers. Like many aspects of kids with ADHD, this can be a difficult read. The disorder might be the same, but the manifestation of it vastly different. ADHD drives the child’s activity level, not the child’s personality. I theorize that it is the reaction to activity level that impacts personality.

Kids are born unique, and often kind of ugly. Admit it, most babies aren’t cute at birth. Ugly or not, we’re all born with some inherent traits that play a role. Those traits elicit a reaction from teachers, parents, and of course, peers. Feedback studies for kids with the scramblehead receive thousands more negative reactions from their non-squirrelous peers.

The negativity takes a toll. In many cases, a significant one.

The Home Factor

Like personality, each kid’s has a unique home dynamic. Even in a positive environment, kids may face damage to their self-esteem. This in turn can serve as fuel for many of the negative behaviors associated with kids with ADHD.

All kids, regardless of their aptitude for focus, are subject to home dynamic. It’s a numbers game. Kids with ADHD are going to warrant more attention from others, especially adults in charge. In well-structured homes, parents on top of life at home are going to have more full-speed collisions with their superball kids. Focused kids tend to avoid the full-speed collisions on their own, even if their dynamic is disorganized and erratic. Kids with ADHD need some stability. The unfortunate reality is that ADHD is both genetic and environmental. If the hyper apple is stuck to a similar parental tree, that kid is going to have a tough road. Is true now, and was true in my day.

We were more of the latter. Our home dynamic wasn’t bad; it was just weird.

My father worked crazy hours and was somewhat disinterested in us in our early years. My mom was completely overwhelmed with three kids had in a 4 year span, all before turning 25. Poor woman had no chance. If not for the brown shag carpeting and cheap drywall, we might have all perished from full-speed wipe outs. We didn’t slow down for anyone. We lived a full 3 hours away from our closest extended family. She lacked help, maturity, and functional coping skills required to handle three relentless kids. It created a strange dynamic of resentment, poor supervision, angry outbursts, and my mom’s own battle with her own scrambled head.

My hyperactivity would come and go in the early years, but find permanent footing in my mid-teens. My lack of focus and weirdness never really went away. Instead, they shifted into different areas over time. Prior to that, I was mostly resistant to sleep, impatient, and highly curious about everything.

Some kids have a level of the disorder that makes them much more active and explorative of the world around them. This creates more chances to branch out, become social, and learn more about the world around them; with our without accomplices.

I was this child.

Hindsight

I am gifted with professional experience and hindsight as an adult. Having taught and coached for over 20 years now, I’ve gained a lot of knowledge from the other side of the disorder. I’ve always been fascinated with personality and different roles that kids take within certain situations. I’ve known people with the devil inside them that raised kids too awkward to gain acceptance into the Tri-Lams, or even take a part-time job at Microsoft.

I’ve seen the opposite as well. One of my closest friends in life is a peaceful, highly-intelligent, matter-of-fact, corporate lawyer. We’re close, but I couldn’t pick his kid out of a lineup, though. Oh, I know what he looks like. He’s just never stopped moving long enough to get a glimpse of him.

On occasion, I’ve seen rifts within the same kid; both brilliant and seemingly intellectual, but distracted by the slightest things.

I was this child.

I was playing cribbage with my father by age 5. When we had guests over, such as his college buddies or coworkers, I wanted in on the action. During one party, I resorted to taking dares to eat jalapeños in order to stay near the adults. It was with my dad’s college friends, whom I idolized. Having made a similar group of friends in college, I can’t imagine doing anything less to the children of my friends. If your college friends can’t be counted on to torment your children for you, what good are they?

I wasn’t bored hanging out with kids, but adult conversation was legit stimulating; talking to kids my age was not. It became simple math to figure out what would change that; whatever the kids were doing had to be more stimulating than adult conversation. At age 7 or 8, that’s tough to overcome, unless the kids are older and misbehaving. Whatever it is, it had to outweigh what was at hand.

Scrambleheaded kids pose a challenge to the best intentions of any teacher or parent. Many, myself included, find themselves in remedial classes that simply perpetuate boredom. No self-respecting adult is going to like having a hyperactive kid interrupting conversations and carrying on as if an equal. Social situations often find kids relegated to play with peers that move at a different speed than they do. It makes it hard to learn to play. Most kids lack the social skills to politely redirect the situation.

Most adults are better at it. They’ll ease their way out with more grace than an annoyed 8 year old. By nature, 8 year old kids with ADHD have no chill whatsoever.

That changes over time, and I was emblematic of that as well. Kids with ADHD that find success in life tend to become very fluid over time. By that I mean they gravitate naturally away from some situations where they experience rejection, and towards less tenuous situations. Most educators know that activity such as recess and art provide great outlets for kids with squirrel flu. Even in acceptable outlets, it can be a struggle.

Kids with ADHD often create their own negative outcomes during playtime; some are bossy, some are just too high-energy for other kids. Others are too physical, too emotional, or too explosive for most kids to handle. Some are just too annoying for their own good. While parents at cocktail parties might handle it politely, their kids are less likely to do the same. Over time, many kids with focus issues experience anxiety with playtime. They want to like it, they see others liking it, but experience is not on their side.

My generation lacked some of the same level of attention-consuming devices kids now have at their literal fingertips. The disorder is very much the same, but life around it is not. There’s an escape now with cell phones, computers, tablets and gaming systems. It creates a mysterious future for kids. At their core, kids are still going to be intolerant of some hyperactive peer behavior. They may get a break now, but is that good for everyone? I’m undecided.

What can be safe to ascertain, is that the kid who is the most easily distracted, will settle on the least boring peer group at their disposal. Acceptance within a core croup is hard for kids with squirrel flu, and isn’t always good when it finally happens. In fact, it can open up disaster for them. Too often, they fall in line with similar risk takers, thrill seekers or those with a malfunctioning moral compass. Prisons, jails, and Washington D.C. are filled with these kids.

Easily distracted kids face a lifetime of potential issues that extend beyond childhood. There’s always something new to get into, and once that’s been exhausted, it’s onto the next thing. With kids, it starts with phases and trends, with each new one carrying an an extra jolt of attention grabbing excitement. This is fine while young, but left unchecked, it mutates. Anything with the potential for unbridled excitement and stimulation will win out every time. Being real, most of those things, even if fun, present the chance for disaster. Little kids bring little problems. Bigger kids bring bigger problems. Adult kids bring jail sentences, divorces, financial issues and regression.

Over time, things seem to be more questionable in taste, more outlandish in style, more dangerous in risk factor. One illegal act leads to another, and the mischief turns into danger. Danger turns into a reputation. The reputation leads to trouble. Each time something goes down, it ups the life cost ante.

I was this child. I’m also probably that adult. I just learned how to navigate through it better.

I was fortunate. I preferred adult interaction, but could handle most of the kid front. I could discuss the finer points of the James K. Polk presidency by 2nd grade, but avoided being beaten mercilessly for it. As a tiny kid, this was a miracle. I didn’t spend countless days alone and without friends, which I’ve seen happen to all-too-many kids. My early intellectualism did not stop me from being robustly entertained by the confused martians on Sesame Street who couldn’t figure out what the fuck a telephone was. I don’t know if I’d have experienced that if I grew up today. I think things might have played out much different for me if born when my won was in 2001.

All We Had...

As I grew up, predicting my peer group was as hard as estimating what I’d be into next. Eventually, once I hit high school, the only thing you could accurately bank on is me finding some sort of trouble.

More accurately, that trouble would find me. To imply that I’d find trouble suggests that I was an innocent halo-sporting child that was led astray by the dastardly offspring of heathens. It wasn’t the case. I was more than capable of corrupting others. You didn’t need to sport an inner demon for me to relate to you. I had extra demons, and shared readily with those lacking such things.

My friends would run the gamut from levels of genius to, how shall we say it, not so much. My end game contained a surprising amount of diversity in personality amongst my core group of friends, even when in lily white, Northern Wisconsin. As I grew older and branched out of Door County, WI, that would blow open on another level.

Moving certainly contributed to that, but it was hardly the only factor. It took quite a drive to cut through the toxic level of cliques that polluted high schools in the 1980’s. The force was strong in me, as was my drive to know different people. You can’t do that by subscribing to a clique. You do that by meandering from one clique to another, preferably aimlessly.

The way I looked at it, why be friends with one group of people, when you could get along with everyone equally. I wasn’t quick to change who I was to fit in. I just washed out to be who I was. There wasn’t much variance in that. Some were quick to absorb me, others not so much.

As a kid, I found making friends to be part of a much different process than the one that my kids find today. Kids of my era were much more free to roam. On some levels, peers my age were more accepting of differences. Others were not.

When peers were not quick to make friends, you were left to your own devices at home. Be it fortune or bad luck, I had a pair of siblings at home. They also had the scramblehead When I was very young, under the age of 5, your playmates were your siblings. I had two at home to torment, play with, beat up or trick depending on the day. We didn’t go to daycare, and didn’t have a peer group around us.

We had each other, for better or worse.

#adhd #wisconsin #books about adhd #wisconsin authors #door county #waupaca #sturgeon bay #wausau #cotum #nonfiction humor #humorous memoir

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war-sword · 5 years

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easter break (part 2)

summary: Draco invites you to Malfoy Manor for Easter break during your last year at Hogwarts. What ypu’d hoped would be a fine visit to Draco’s house with his family is anything but. Now, you’re back at Hogwarts for the rest of the term. What will happen? warnings: cursing words: 5,948 A/N: thank you SO much to everyone who showed interest in this fic and asked for a part 2!! this is for everyone who reblogged, liked, or commented on the original story. that being said, there will be no more parts after this because i am out of ideas, haha. if you are interested in any more of my writing, please head to my ask box or send me a message to be added to my taglist for all future posts. tags: @clockworkherondale @paigeyisme // read part 1 here

You woke up to the feeling of Draco’s hot breath on your neck and sweat between your legs. You couldn’t feel your entire left arm, as Draco was lying on it. As the events of yesterday came back to you, you felt your chest constrict with anxiety. Immediately you wished for the void of sleep again. As gently as you could, you slid your arm from beneath Draco’s torso, gently rubbing it to get the feeling back. Your neck was sore- you and Draco hadn’t moved in your sleep all night.

Despite how you tried not to move very much, Draco stirred, blinking his eyes sleepily as he woke. The sight of his slate-grey eyes looking so sad first thing in the morning made you want to start crying all over again.

Today there were no ‘good morning’s’. Instead, Draco just opened his arms back up and you held each other again, this time in a more comfortable position.

After being awake for a while, you heard the telltale sound of a house elf apparating into a room. “Master Draco, I apologize for the intrusion, but your presence is required downstairs at once,” the elf growled from somewhere at the foot of the bed, disapparating without further comment.

“For the love of Merlin,” Draco muttered. He kicked off the blankets and you unattached yourselves, and Draco slipped on some pants and a robe.

You sat up, pulling the sheets around your shoulders. Draco lifts your face to his for a quick kiss. “I’ll make sure this doesn’t take too long,” he says. “I hate to leave you alone.”

You put your hand over his and lift his fingers up to your lips. “I’ll be okay,” you whisper against his hand.

Draco lets go of your hand and disappears before your eyes. You lay back on the pillows and stare out across the gardens. Today, it is sunny.

“It was mother… she said I’m not to go back to school for the rest of the term. I’m not supposed to be telling you this, any of this actually. She said I was to ask you where your loyalties lie and to make a decision about joining our family or not, but I can’t do that to you.” Draco lay flat on the bed, gaze locked on the canopy above as you stroked his fine blonde hair.

“Why? Why can’t you come back to school?” You have a sick feeling you already know.

“Father and Aunt Bella think the time is drawing near. I don’t know what Potter and the others are up to but I think we’re about at the end of the line, y/n.” He turns his head to look at you. “The war.”

Your heart catches in your throat, and your hand stills on Draco’s hair. He shoots into a sitting position and puts his hands on your cheeks. “Listen to me, y/n. I love you so, so much. I’ve already failed once. If I don’t do what my parents want, what he wants, we could all die. I can’t let anything happen to you, and I won’t. If something happens, I’ll come for you, I swear it.”

“I know,” you sigh, leaning into his hand. “Will you tell me what’s going on? Will you write?”

“I’ll tell you everything I know. I refuse to let anything like yesterday happen again,” Draco says feverently.

You spend the rest of the day in your shared room, packing and eating a small lunch. In the late afternoon, you dress in your uniform. Draco watches you in the mirror as you tie your colored tie. “Should I say goodbye to your parents?” You sort of hope the answer is no.

“Maybe we should just go downstairs as usual and hope we don’t encounter them.” Draco deadpans. It makes you smile a little.

You walk down the stairs, your trunk levitating behind you. “I’m sorry about your wand,” you say again.

“It’s fine,” he says, but you know it’s not. Draco was very attached to his first wand. “I’ll get it back.”

Outside in the manor’s driveway, your trunk gently settles to the ground. You give Draco one last hug. “I’ll miss you,” you breath into the crook of his neck.

“I’ll miss you so much,” he replies, one hand curling up into your hair to pull you closer. “Please stay safe.”

“I can handle myself,” you remind him.

“I know.” You can feel Draco’s smile against your temple. You pull away, and he kisses your forehead. One small wave goodbye, and you clutch your bag and apparate to the street outside of Kings Cross.

When you finally arrive back at Hogwarts, you try to be your normal positive self. “How was break, y/n?” Fine. “Do any of your homework?” Of course not. “Did you and Draco have lots of alone time?”, with a wink. Enough, also with a wink. “Where is he?” Still at home, he had family visiting. But as you laid in your bed back in your dorm, you couldn’t shake the cold feeling of the sheets around you, missing having a certain someone to cuddle up with.

The first few weeks back passed without much incident, but every time you heard whispers of Ron, Harry, and Hermione’s names, you would shiver. You would still listen though, just to make sure they weren’t dead.

Students from all years were being punished daily, and it seemed the only upside so far of Draco not being at school with you was no longer needing to sneak out under the noses of the Carrow twins to meet in the nighttime. You sent him a letter every other day, making sure to send your owl in the early hours of afternoon so Draco would receive them in the nighttime to reduce their chances of being intercepted. He’d write back at least bi-weekly, making sure to fill you in on any happenings. However, it seemed since the failed capture at the Manor over Easter break, Bellatrix had left and Lucius had not heard any new news from the Dark Lord. Neither of you were sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

The first evening in May, you were sitting in your dorm common room, when none other than Neville Longbottom burst in. “Neville, how in the bloody hell-”

“No time to explain,” he huffed, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “One of your dorm mates told me… that you… taught yourself how to heal?” He asked.

“Um, yes, I can. Why?”

“Come with me. Please?” He held out a hand.

You followed Neville up the staircases to the fourth floor, where he paces back and forth in front of a blank wall. “Neville, will you please-” but to words died on your lips was a small, thin door materialized out of the wall. Neville motioned for you to follow him inside.

The room was big, but almost every available spaces was crowded with hammocks strung from the walls, and mattresses on the floors. At the back of the room there was a fireplace, and in front of it were several third years who had horrible slashes up and down their arms. Instantly, your mind transported you back to the Manor, and you saw the evil glint of Bellatrix’s knife, heard Hermione’s screams.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” Neville grasped your shoulders as your fought back a gag. “I, maybe should’ve warned you. But, I can’t heal them myself, not without the right plants. I was hoping you could help.”

You steadied your breathing. “No, no… it’s fine Neville. I can do it.” You gave him what you hoped was an encouraging smile.

One by one, you healed the cuts on the third years. Your work by now was nearly perfect, and only the deep ones ended in scars. After the last student was healed, you slumped against the wall, utterly exhausted.

“Thank you so much, I knew I could count on you,” Neville said, sounding relieved.

“Of course,” you replied, but inwardly you cringed. Neville shouldn’t trust you. No one should. “What is this place?”

“We’re hiding here, from the mess outside.” Neville explained. “We figured the war is coming. We’re searching for news about Harry and the others everyday, trying to keep morale up. This room is the only safe one in Hogwarts right now.”

“Are they alive?” You can’t help but ask. “Harry? Ron and Hermione?”

“We think so,” Neville says. “I think we would hear if they’d been killed, but no ones seen or heard from them since the start of the year.”

You gulp. “No news is good news, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Neville agrees.

He offers to walk you back to your common room, but you insist you’ll be fine. The guilt of your knowledge about the trio gnaws at you, but you try to tamp it down. When you get back to your dorm, you go straight to the bathroom and turn on the shower. Sitting under the hot rain, you try to relax, but in the end your hot tears run right down the drain alongside the hot water and flecks of dried blood stuck to your hands. You miss Draco too much to think, and you lean against the wall, crying with your constellation necklace clutched in one fist and your lips pressed on your ring, hoping to Merlin he’s okay.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been sat there, but you get broken out of your stupor by one of your dorm mates yelling your name.

“Y/n! Get out of there! We’ve got to go down to the Great Hall right away, robes on!”

Shit. You shut the water off and dry as quick as you can, throwing on your uniform from earlier in the day. As you troop down to the common room with your dorm mates, you dry your hair with a wave of your wand. The Great Hall is cleared of it’s tables, and you all stand in your proper lines with the rest of your house. Complete silence envelopes the Hall as Headmaster Snape turns to address everyone The tension is palpable.

“I’m sure many of you are wondering why I summoned you at this hour,” Snape begins. “It’s come to my attention that earlier this evening, Harry Potter was sighted in Hogsmead.”

You gasp. A wave of murmurs sweeps through everyone in the room. He’s alive, he’s okay, Harry’s okay.

“Now,” Snape said loudly, cutting everyone off. “Should anyone, student or staff, attempt to aid mister Potter, they will be punished. Anyone with knowledge of these events will be treated as equally guilty.

“Now then, has anyone had any knowledge of mister Potter’s activities this evening?” Snape steps down from the front of the room, ready to walk through your rows. The only sound in the room is the tapping of Snape’s shoes, and the drag of his robes on the floor. “If so, I invite you to step forward, now.”

Three rows back on your right, you hear someone get out of line. Astonished, you whip your head around, only to see no one other than Harry standing in the aisle, dressed in a Gryffindor robe. “It seems, despite your exhaustive defensive measures, you still have a slight breach in security, headmaster.”

The doors at the back of the Hall open, and in walks a group of people you don’t recognize, except for Ron and Hermione. But Harry isn’t finished. “How dare you stand where he stood!” He yells. “Tell them! Tell them how it happened that night! How you killed Dumbledore!”

Another gasp ripples through the students. You must be the only other person in this room who knew what happened that evening on the Astronomy tower.

With one smooth movement, Snape draws his wand. Immediately, everyone backs away, and you’re nearly crushed by the wave of people moving out of the way. Harry doesn’t even have time to draw his wand, before Professor McGonagall steps in front of him. Your dorm mate reaches out and grabs your hand. You squeeze back.

Snape and McGonagall begin trading spells. Your eyes are wide as your teachers fight. You’ve never seen grown adults fight like this, and both have a face of sheer determination. But the duel only lasts a moment, when Snape suddenly disapparates in a cloud of black, bursting through the window of the Great Hall. Everyone erupts into cheers. Everyone, except for you.

Your dorm mate tries to cling onto your hand, but you’re running. Running out of the hall and up the stairs, taking them two at a time, desperate to get to your room. As you sprint down the corridors, you can see outside: a iridescent veil is criss-crossing the sky, forming a dome around the castle. Statues in the courtyard come to life, drawing stone weapons.

It’s happening, and neither you nor Draco were ready for it.

You burst into your dorm and begin ripping through your belongings. You frantically shuffle through Draco’s letters with shaky hands, searching for the one you’re looking for. But you’re hyperventilating, and your vision is getting fuzzy, and oh God, did you dream it? Did Draco not tell you a place to go that was safe in the castle? You can’t remember anymore, you can’t read the words on the page that are in Draco’s elegant, looping handwriting. You strip off your uniform cloak and try to get a hold of yourself.

You’re strong. You can fight, one of the top duelists of your year. You can fight and stay safe, and you will find Draco.

None of your roommates come back. You sit in front of the window that overlooks the east side of the school, and you wait. You wait for hours. You feel like coward, sitting in your room, watching the window, but you’re waiting, staying safe just like Draco told you to do.

You almost think for a moment that you were wrong, when you see a small part of the dome turn red, then grow larger, as if it’s almost burning away. A piece of the magical dome flutters past your window, and you know it’s time.

Outside, the corridors are chaos. Everyone is running, yelling, going to someplace they think is most safe. People are crowded in corners, bawling their eyes out. You run down the stairs, wand clutched at the ready. Down on the lower floors, you can hear jinxes hitting walls and people screaming, you pass by people laying on the floor. You try not to look too closely.

You weave in and out of familiar corridors, trying to think. Where should you go? Back to your dorm? Are Neville and the rest of those kids still in the room of requirement? Was Draco even here? You retrace your steps back the the main staircase, following a wave of students. You branch off, headed toward a corridor you know is a good shortcut to the dungeons, when you feel a hand close around the back of your collar and pull you off to the side of the corridor.

Fear takes over, and you twist out of the person’s grasp, wand at the ready. But you’re stopped by a pair of familiar lips crashing into yours, a clean scent that smells like home enveloping you as a pair of arms tug you close. As soon as the realization hits you, you push his jaw away, your eyes flying open. “Draco?”

Soft, grey eyes lock with yours. Draco runs his fingers along your jaw. “I told you I would come for you.”

You kiss him again, deeply this time. You cling to each other with desperate need, and for a moment, the sounds and feeling of the rushing people around you fade away. Draco pulls away first this time.

“Come, hurry. I need to get my wand from Potter.” You lace your fingers together as you sprint through the halls.

“How do you know where he is?” You yell as you run.

“I overheard them on the first floor, they’re headed to the Room of Requirement.”

Sure enough, as you reach the empty fourth floor, the door to the Room of Requirement is vanishing back into nothing. For the first time, you look down and notice a wand in Draco’s hand. “Who’s is that?”

“Mother’s,” Draco says, striding towards the wall. “The Dark Lord took father’s some months ago, and Mother gave me this to defend myself with tonight.” Draco spins and faces you. “I can’t leave her defenseless like that. I need to get mine back, and return this to her, then we can all get the fuck out of here.”

“Okay,” you say, your mind spinning as the large doors appear on the wall again. “But let me talk to him-- Harry. You two don’t exactly get on. Maybe I can convince him.”

Draco nods. “Okay.”

The doors open, and you step into the room for Hiding. You’d come here before with Draco to watch him work with the vanishing cabinet. As the two of you walk between the towering stacks, you think about all the things you done with Draco which could possibly be categorized into ‘The Dark Lord’s Unknowing Bidding’. It terrified you.

The two of you freeze, when you hear a clatter around a corner, and then a curse that sounds like Harry’s voice. You turn to Draco, a finger to your lips, and he nods. You go off in the direction of the noise.

You turn the corner ahead of you, and there is Harry, holding what looks like a tiara. He looks up, eyes wide, and for a moment neither of you say anything.

“Harry,” your voice comes out with a crack. “You… you’re okay.”

"Y/n." Harry’s lip twitches. “I’ve been better, I suppose.”

You stand there awkwardly for another beat. “Listen, about that day-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry cuts you off. “You did what you could. But, why? You two knew it was me. Why did Malfoy lie?”

“I… I dunno. I guess only he could answer that. He never told me,” you say, looking down at your feet. “Listen, Harry… I know you have Draco’s wand. He really needs it back.” You spare a glance at the piece of Hawthorn wood clutched in Harry’s hand.

Harry’s face takes on it’s usual look of arrogance. “Well, I sort of need it probably a little more than he does. Now if you don’t mind I’ll…”

Harry trails off, and you feel Draco’s presence behind you. You turn, and see Draco glaring at Harry, wand raised. You turn back in a huff. “Bloody fuck, Draco.”

“Malfoy,” Harry spits.

“You heard her. If you would, hand over my property,” Draco sneers. You can’t help but roll your eyes at their usual bickering, despite the circumstances.

One of them seems likely to spit another insult, when Ron and Hermione come barreling around the corner. “A SPRITE!” Ron cries, “A DUST SPRITE SET THE BLOODY PLACE ON FIRE!”

Hermione grabs Harry’s hand as she runs past, and the three disappear down the aisle next to them. You hear the fire before you see it, but the wall of orange flame quickly proceeds the crackling sound. “Oh, fucking hell!”

You grab Draco’s hand and you quickly start sprinting back the way you came. At least you think it’s the way you came, but the fire starts coming from all sides, and you don’t which way to go. Next to you, Draco looks terrified.

“Climb!” You yell. If you can get to the top of a stack and locate the door, maybe you can use a water spell to get through the fire. You and Draco frantically scramble up a pile of chairs and tables, but the smoke is getting too thick to see through. Everywhere around you is flames of orange, and they’re already starting to lick up the sides of the pile.

Both of you desperately cast water charms to fend off the fire, but it’s almost no use. You’re beginning to think you’re going to die in the Room, when you spot movement out of the corner of your eye-- It’s the trio, on brooms, headed straight towards you. As the pass overhead, Ron reaches down and grabs you by the arm, jerking you up and into the air with him.

You clamber on behind him, one hand gripping your wand and the other the broom for dear life. You look around Ron’s torso to see Hermione cast a water charm that hold back the flames just long enough for the three of you to fly through. The moment the broom exits the door, you and Ron bail, the broom hitting the far wall of the corridor and splintering. Next to you, Hermione nearly crashes as well, and Draco and Harry land beside you to your left. You curl up on your side, coughing uncontrollably. The smoke is still stinging your eyes, and they water.

“Harry, the Horcrux!” Hermione screeches. You barely have time to wipe your eyes as the trio sits up, also coughing. Harry rolls away from Draco and tosses the tiara he was holding earlier onto the floor, and Ron, who’s the only one on his feet, gives it a hard kick. It flies into the fire, emitting a horrible screech and black smoke before the doors to the Room slam shut.

“Bloody Hell,” Ron swears, putting his hands on his knees before breaking into another coughing fit.

Harry scrambles to his feet. “The cup? Is it gone?”

Hermione produces a small, blackened goblet from inside her jacket. Ron pulls her to her feet, and the three of them take off down the hall at a remarkable speed. You’re just now regaining your ability to breathe. “Hey, Dray?” You stretch your your hand to feel for Draco’s, and you’re able to hook the tips of your fingers together and you lay on the floor, catching your breath.

“What’s up, sweets?” He manages.

“I said, let me do the talking.”

Draco lets out a raspy laugh, and you turn your head to look at him. He’s got a smudge of soot on his cheek and ash in his platinum hair. “I know, I’m sorry.”

You both get up slowly. Draco still has Narcissa’s wand clutched firmly in his hand. “What do we do now?”

“We need to find a place to hide,” says Draco. “I can’t find my parents now. It’s too difficult.” He swallows thickly. “Come on, I know a place we can go.”

You take off down the halls again, this time at a slower pace. Draco leads you to a corridor you’ve ever been to before, and at the end there’s a small alcove, that leads to a tiny nook behind the wall. One skinny window offers a view to the forest side of the castle, and moonlight streams though it. Draco slumps against the wall and removes his jacket. You waste no time settling into his lap, your arms around his neck. You both smell like fire and are covered in soot, but it's the safest you've felt in weeks.

“My heart is still beating so fast,” you whisper.

“I know,” Draco replies. “Mine, too.”

After a while, the adrenaline leaves you, and you feel utterly exhausted. That combined with being back in Draco’s strong arms, it’s enough for you to fall asleep for a little while.

You wake in the same position, Draco gently stroking your hair. “Hi.”

“Hey,” you say, you voice still a bit raspy.

“You, um, you missed it. He spoke.” You don’t need to ask to know who ‘he’ is.

“How? What did he say?”

“I don’t know, but it was like his voice was everywhere.” Draco’s grip on your shoulder tightens ever so slightly when he says that. “He’s called everyone off. To let people gather the dead. Potter has one hour to turn himself over, or they’ll all come back.”

You digest what Draco has just said. “What time is it?”

“It’s just past four in the morning, I reckon.”

“Draco, I don’t want to go.” Your voice sounds small in the tiny space.

“I don’t want to go either.” He whispers.

So you don’t. You stay in the tiny room at the end of the corridor for a little while longer. Draco tells you how lonely he was at home without you, and you tell him about your equally empty-feeling month at school.

“I can’t live without you again, y/n.”

“I can’t either,” you reply immediately, grasping Draco’s hand.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“...will you be my girlfriend?”

You lift your head off Draco’s chest to look him in the eye, feeling shocked..

Draco starts again. “I’m only asking because I think it would be inappropriate to ask for your hand if we aren't officially togeth-”

You cut off his words with a kiss, not like your one in the hall hours ago, but a softer one, that reminded you of a time before, two years ago in a broom closet similar to the nook you were in now. Your lips part gently. “Of course, love,” you whisper against his mouth. “You think I wear this ring for no reason?”

Draco looks up at you. “Merlin, I don’t know how I made it one day without you.”

“I’m not sure either.”

Your limbs are tangled together, lips moving in tandem, when your attention is caught by a bright flash of red and white from outside the small window. Sparks are coming up from somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. You can Draco look for a moment before his hands tighten at your clothes. “We have to go.” Draco says.

You make your way through the empty halls, most of which are full of rubble. A whole side of the main staircase has been obviated. You near the Great Hall, and you hear voices. The two of you peek around the corner, and your breath catches. Laid in neat rows along the floor of the great hall are at least thirty bodies; students, teachers, people you don’t recognize. You pull back from around the corner, crashing into Draco’s chest. He pulls you against him instantly. “Hey, hey it’s okay. Just breathe,” he soothes.

“Draco… there’s so many. We didn’t do anything to help.” Tears spring to your eyes.

To this, Draco says nothing. You pull away and rub your eyes with the back of your hand, forcing yourself to pull it together. You peer around the corner again, your eyes sweeping the bodies quickly to see if there’s anyone you know. The only person you recognize is Ron Weasley’s older brother. His whole family is here, and Ron is sat on the ground near him, one of Hermione’s arms across his shoulders.

You’re still watching the scene in the Hall when feel Draco’s arm stiffen against your back. You turn back to ask him what’s wrong, when you your eyes catch on what he’s looking at. Through the crumbling entrance to the courtyard, you see a large group of people dressed in black making their way across the main bridge to Hogwarts. A familiar looming figure rises above the rest, a smaller body clutched in his arms.

You’re not the only person who’s noticed. People gather near you and Draco at the entrance to the Great Hall, watching the horrible procession grow closer. You and Draco both feel rooted to the spot as everyone comes closer into view-- Voldemort, live and in the flesh, stands barefoot as his Death Eaters fiil the courtyard behind him, a massive python slithering around his legs. Hagrid stands just behind him, holding a limp Harry in his arms. You feel like you can’t breath. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny push their way out of the Great Hall and run down the stairs. Other students and adults follow them.

Hagrid is sobbing, clutching Harry close to his chest. Voldemort raises his hands. “Harry Potter… is dead!”

Ginny screams in anguish, and Ron holds her back from lunging at him. She sinks to the ground with her brother, sobbing. You and Draco inch towards to the courtyard doorway, looking across the crowd. You finally get a good look at Harry laying lifeless in Hagrid’s embrace, and you put a hand over your mouth.

“Stupid girl,” Voldemort drawls. “Harry Potter is dead. From this day forward, you put your faith, in me.” He turns away from Ginny’s hunched form, and turns to the Death Eaters behind him. “Harry Potter is dead!”

They all chorus their laughs, Draco’s aunt Bellatrix’s high-pitched cackle rising over all the rest. She skips forward with glee, balancing herself on a piece of rubble to better survey the scene below. But you notice one figure in the front who is not laughing like the rest. With a jolt, you recognize her across the courtyard as Narcissa, standing next to Lucius. She’s scanning the crowd, looking for her son.

“Draco,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. You don’t dare glance over to see his reaction, but Draco squeezes your hand in acknowledgement.

“Now is the time to declare yourself!” Voldemort decrees. “Come forward and join us, or die.”

No one moves.

Then, softly across the silent courtyard, Lucius calls. “Draco.”

Your heart clamps in your chest. You didn’t know they’d spotted him.

“Draco,” he says again, this time with more desperation.

You spare a glance up at your boyfriend. His eyes aren’t even on his parents, instead they’re focused on the ground in front of him. He’s gripping your hand so hard it’s almost painful. Your eyes dart back across the courtyard, and you see his parents standing there with absolute desperation painted all over their faces. Everyone around you has turned to look, to see what Draco does. Voldemort is looking right at him.

“Draco, come.” This time it’s Narcissa. Draco squeezes his eyes shut.

You try to loosen your grip in Draco’s hand, to tell him to just go, to leave you, but he just holds on tighter. Draco gives the smallest shake of his head.

Voldemort tilts his head to the side, taking in the exchange with interest. “Well, Lucius, it seems your son is still just as insubordinate and… lovestruck as the last time we spoke.” Lucius, mortified, steps back into the crowd of Death Eaters behind him. Narcissa looks stricken by Draco’s betrayal. “Draco, it’s such a pity. Your aunt was always quick to vouch for your skills.”

Indeed, Bellatrix looks confused by the scene unfolding in front of her, arms crossed but a look of confusion on her face. She doesn’t try to plead with Draco as his parents had, however.

“Not to worry, we’ll sort this out,” Voldemort assures. He raises his hand, his knobby wand pointed at Draco.

You move on instinct, stepping in front of Draco as the spell sparks from the tip of Voldemort’s wand. You swipe your wand in front of you and Draco, effectively blocking the green killing curse. Assorted gasps rise up from both sides of the courtyard. Voldemort has a look of genuine shock on his face.

“He is not going to be the one to die today.” You say with as much confidence as you can muster.

In the silent moment hanging in the air after your declaration, Neville moves forward, a slight limp in his step. He clutches the tattered sorting hat in one of his hands. “She’s right, you know.”

Voldemort slowly lowers his wand, looking at Neville with fascination.

“Yes, Harry is dead. But he’s still with us, in here.” Neville points to his heart. “And so is everyone else lying in that Hall right now. None of them died in vain, but you will! Because you’re wrong! Harry’s heart did beat for us! For all of us!” Neville reaches into the sorting hat, pulling the gleaming sword of Gryffindor from it’s depths. At that precise moment, Harry rolls from Hagrid’s arms, very much alive. All the students and teachers erupt into cheers.

It’s chaos again. Harry shoots a fire spell at the snake around Voldemort’s feet, and Death Eaters fly away into the sky in clouds of black. Neville runs forward, the sword in hand, slashing at the snake. You pull Draco with you as you run down the side of the stairs, headed towards the hall that goes around the courtyard. “Come on, we have to get to your parents!”

Draco, the stronger one, pulls you behind a pillar instead. “Why did you do that?” He cries, nearly hysterical. “If you’d been hit I would’ve-”

“Been alive! That’s what matters to me!” You screech over the noise of battle. “Too many of my classmates died today because we didn’t help them, and I sure as hell was not going to let you join them!”

You’re not sure if Draco’s about to argue back or kiss you, but he doesn’t get the chance. Two people are running down the hall, screaming his name. His parents.

Draco lets go of your hand somewhat reluctantly, but collapses into his mother’s arms. She holds onto him tightly while Lucius stands awkwardly to the side. She pulls back and Draco puts her wand in her hands. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

“Don’t apologize, Draco. You made the right decision.” Narcissa grips Draco’s wrists, and gives him a kiss on his cheek. She catches your gaze over his shoulder and lets go of her son.

She takes a few steps towards you and takes you into a tight embrace. “Thank you. Thank you for saving him,” she whispers into your ear. In the moment, all you can do his hug her back.

Narcissa holds you at arm’s length, and turns back to her family. “We need to leave, right now,” she says.

Narcissa is still holding onto you, intending for all four of you to make your escape. But you stand firm, catching her and Lucius by surprise. “I can’t leave,” you say. “My friends are here. I won’t stand by again and do nothing while they protect our school.”

“Then I’m staying, too,” Draco says firmly.

“Draco, stop this. You made your statement, you chose her once, but now we need to leave.” Lucius almost growls.

“I’m done doing what you want, father.” Draco spits.

Lucius eyes are nearly aflame, but Narcissa steps between them. “Enough.” She turns to Draco one last time. “Please, be safe. Come back to us in one piece.” She grabs her husband’s arm, and the two of them disappear in a cloud of black smoke.

When the dust finally settles, there is only one body lying on the ground. And this time, it isn’t Harry’s. The Boy Who Lived had finally prevailed, the wizarding world safe from his thirst for absolute power. There is celebration, but it’s somber. You and Draco sit in the corner of the great hall, holding each other close. No one really comes near you two. Across the Great Hall, you make eye contact with Harry. You exchange a look of mutual understanding, and a nod. That’s all.

In time, you heal. You still wake often, in a cold sweat, Draco’s lifeless face imprinted onto the back of your eyelids, or the feeling of near death gripping your own chest. But he is always right beside you in the bed, breathing and alive.

You go with him to his parents trials, holding his hand as you listen to the minister give his father a life sentence. Dry his tears when you finally return home. His mother visits the two of you frequently.

You move the ring from your right hand to your left. You’re missing a lot of things, but at least he’s not one of them.

#draco x reader #draco imagine #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy imagine #my writing

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matildainmotion · 4 years

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Fear: A User’s Guide. Or, what do you do with your fear?

Halloween. This year my son is a vampire, blood capsules ready to burst between his teeth on the doorstep of unsuspecting neighbours. Last year he was Darth Vader. The year before that he was a pumpkin. We still have the pumpkin costume. His little sister is now big enough to wear it. The nights are growing longer and she is growing older. This year is the first that she has grown enough to grow afraid.

Every day as the light fades she tells me, “Mummy, I am getting scared.” “What are you scared of?” I ask her. “Three things,” she says, holding up three fingers, proud of this number and well versed in it because it is her age: “Of Mr Tod [the fox in Beatrix Potter’s books], Old Brown [the owl from the same] and all the other baddies.” So, she has it covered. The fox, the owl and every single other baddy. I look at her with admiration – she is so clear, so sure of herself even as she names her fears, counting them out on her young fingers, that I have one of those moments as a mother of feeling poorly qualified for the job. The memory of being a frightened child myself is too keen for me to be entirely sure that I can pull off the role of the adult in this transaction. Certain stock responses come to me. I count them out on my fingers – there are also three of these: to reassure her, to distract her and to dare her.

I try out all three. “Don’t worry love, you’re totally safe,” I say, as it gets dark, going for tactic number one, reassurance. “Now, let’s get the fire going. Are you going to help me?” – tactic number two, distraction. “I don’t like the dark!” she says again. “Come on out into the dark with me and we can get some more logs – come on!” – tactic number three, confrontation, the ‘Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway’ approach. I am unconvinced by all of these approaches, as is my daughter. “What about the baddies?” she asks. She is right. It is no use to pretend that they are just pretend - they are real enough to her and, remember, she includes ‘all the other baddies’ in her list and there are some within that category that are real enough to me as well. Nor can I simply get her to look away, nor march towards. None of these give due respect to her fear. “Trick or treat?” the ghosts and vampires on the doorstep ask, baddies in their best bad outfits. “Isn’t there another option?” I want to ask. Why do I have to pacify the fearful danger with sweets or come under its spell, its victim? Isn’t there another approach I can offer to my daughter?

When I first became a mother I did what many modern mothers do – I read the baby books. In doing so I was both shocked and amused to come across the notion of ‘self-soothing.’ Apparently, this is a skill which a baby as young as 3 months can acquire, and certainly by the age of 6 months they should be able to learn it and consequently the famous holy grail of ‘sleeping-through-the-night’ can be attained. I am in my mid-forties. I do not sleep through the night – I never have (ask my mother) - and I am still on a quest to learn the enigmatic skill of self-soothing which I should have picked up after half a year of life. As a child I relied heavily on reassurance (tactic number one) to get me through both day and night, reassurance that my mother would not die, that there were no worms in my bed, that no one would murder me or any other family member in our sleep, that I was not a bad person that should be locked away in a tower to prevent my inflicting evil on the world. As a teenager, when asking for reassurance from my mother no longer seemed appropriate, my attempt at self-soothing took the form of a chronic eating disorder.

Anorexia involves a curious mix of all three of the tactics to combat fear that I have outlined above. There is the reassurance: “As long as I can stay this weight or lower, everything will be alright.” The gargantuan act of distraction: the importance of checking the calorie content on the side of the soup packet, and the constant hunger, enables me to forget all the baddies in the world. And finally, at the same time, anorexia requires an act of daring, a kind of squaring up to the ultimate baddy, the thing that we most fear - death. It is a commitment to live with fear full-time, to confront it multiple times a day because food, and the need to eat it, are ready and waiting on every street corner. At its worst you end up looking like a Halloween character, a skeleton or member of the walking dead, though with no treats allowed -their calorie content is too high- only a great big terrible trick against yourself. I stuck by this method of self-soothing long after I was officially ‘better.’ Right through my twenties and much of my thirties, whilst I was busy being a circus aerialist and performer. I would say that a new approach to my fear only began to emerge for me when I was lucky enough to be cast in a show aptly named ‘Panic.’

At the outset of that first show I did with Improbable I climbed to the top of the set and explained to the audience that even though I was an aerialist I was still in fact afraid of heights. However, since I was also afraid of being on the ground, afraid of being here, on earth, alive, taking up a dangerous job was a relief because my ordinary, daily level of fear at last felt appropriate. In this there was a kind of key – a new way to frame my fear as a force, even a skill, that meant I was well-suited to hanging ten metres in the air. Instead of being its victim, crippled by it, fear made me strong enough to climb up a rope, to dangle by my knees. I was not very good at self-soothing, but I was, I realised, very good at being afraid.

Here is one of my favourite quotes of all time from Russell Hoban’s novel, Soon Child: “John was a good shaman because there was nothing that he was afraid to be afraid of.” I felt great joy when I first read that line. In my late thirties and forties I have begun to explore this idea of fear as a kind of super-power, a special gift. I boast that, like Hoban’s shaman, I am ready to be afraid of anything, that I can imagine disaster striking in almost any situation. And as a mother there is a whole new lot of items on my fear-list: the fear of anything happening to me, for my children’s sake, the fear of anything happening to them, and then, under it all as a constant now, is the fear of how the world will be for them as they grow up. But especially given the terrifying facts with which we are faced in relation to climate change and our children’s futures, it feels more important than ever to develop a different relationship to fear.

I read a book recently called Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert. Its subtitle is Creative Living Beyond Fear. I loved it, but I noticed that I did not agree with Gilbert about fear. She presents it as a necessary but very boring and rather annoying companion on any creative voyage, one to be tolerated but one who should never be allowed anywhere near the driving seat. I beg to differ. I am interested in whether fear could in fact be one of my key collaborators.

I know that what I am doing now – being a mother, trying to write – is far more dangerous, difficult and scary than anything I ever did ten metres in the air on my circus rope. I know for sure that fear is an invaluable guide when I am writing – if there is something I am scared to write, I need to head in that direction. This is not quite as simple as tactic number three- the daring act of bravado. I am not suggesting doing the scary thing regardless of the fear, but rather I must regard the fear all the way, have regard for it, because it has power, tremendous power. Fight or flight – both are fear-powered. I think there is an ecological issue at stake here. Rather than seeing fear as toxic, a pollutant, I am wondering whether fear could be a green resource, a form of renewable energy, like wind or sun. I am amazed how rapidly and consistently my fear renews itself, resets me, ready to run again, or stay again, ready to turn towards the present challenge, heart thumping. As we face the environmental crisis, maybe our fear of what is to come could be our best resource in tackling it if only we can learn to hold it and harness it creatively. It makes me think of a Bible story that fascinated me as a child, Jacob and the angel, a wrestling match in the dark with something unknown that seemed like a foe but turned out to be better than a friend. I am exploring whether my relationship to fear could be like this – not a thing to smooth over, hide from or muscle out the way, but rather the creature with which I wrestle and dance through the long dark night, the one whom I embrace as morning comes.

When my daughter expresses her dismay that night is coming on again (“Why does dark have to happen every day?!”) I have been experimenting with a new way to respond to her. “What could you do with your fear?” I ask her. “What would you do if Mr. Tod were at the door now?” She frowns and considers this. “We could set him a trap,” she says at last. At this her brother joins in and soon an elaborate story is unfolding which involves several pots of rancid custard and a misleading sign which will direct Mr Tod to the toilet, where my son will be stationed, ready to flush the fox away when he topples, pushed from behind by my daughter, headfirst down the loo.

I know it is not always this easy. I know not all baddies can be flushed so expediently down the loo and I know well how crippling fear can feel – remember I am 45 years late in learning the skill of self-soothing. But I am keen at least to ask whether there could be creative ways to use our fear, not tricking it, or being tricked, not treating it, but perhaps dancing a foxtrot with it, holding it close and drawing on its power.

So, here are my Mothers Who Make questions for you, for this month of lengthening nights:

What do you fear? As a mother? As a maker? And how do you use your fear?

What, if anything, could you make from it?

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kusunogatari · 5 years

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[ @wanderingmelodies ] 𝕩 𝕩 𝕩 𝕩 𝕩 𝕩 𝕩 𝕩 𝕩

Soft leather boots are soundless against the cobbled street...and even if they’d not been, her footsteps would still be drowned in the hustle and bustle of the busy little village.

Well…‘little’ is a relative term. Rin has certainly been to places smaller, but it’s still not quite the same as the large cities closer to the center of the continent. But this one suits her well enough. A place with a sizeable port of comings and goings. Perfect to receive shipments of her goods without being breathed down upon by large city inspectors and tax collectors.

For Rin, you see, is a witch. One most typically working with plants, herbs, and the concoctions one can make with them. And while she grows a great many things herself, every so often she’ll come across a spell or potion requiring something a bit...out of the ordinary. And that means finding it elsewhere. And while she’s gone galavanting across the countryside before, she’s not eager to leave her little hideaway too often.

Magic, after all, can be a bit of a dirty word, depending on the tongue it sits upon.

Rin’s own is used primarily for good! Poultices for wounds, brews for illnesses, charms that help ward against pain or evil. But...every so often, she won’t deny having crafted something a bit...devious. A poison for a deserving throat, or an acid to melt through hard-crafted locks over treasuries. Not her favorite things to do, but...one must eat. And to eat, one must have coin.

While the forests she calls home are plentiful, and her house built herself in a place few can find it (let alone scaredy cat statesmen who won’t dare venture so far to collect her dues), Rin still has expenses. She can hardly do everything for charity, though her large heart indulges when it feels it must. Hers is oft a cruel world, after all. She does what she can to lighten it.

Hood of her cloak drawn over her head, she weaves her way through the rumbling masses. The markets are in full swing, people yelling and bartering for this, that, and the other thing. The sounds of animals brought to be sold join the cacophony, and all in all, it’s a block of chaos.

Exactly what she wants.

Guards, after all, have to keep close eyes on the daily gathering to ensure nothing is stolen, illegal, or being traded without proper taxes atop them. Which means they aren’t as watchful elsewhere.

Slipping into an alley, Rin keeps her face hidden as she meets with another shady figure. Ruddy eyes and flyaway black hair peek out from beneath the hem of another hood.

“You have it?” Rin ask quietly, trying to look nonchalant.

“So long as you have my coin.”

“Of course.” From a belt at her waist she draws the pouch, which jingles pleasantly with gold.

The other woman’s eyes alight, accepting before handing over a parcel. “Do be careful with it. Getting you another won’t be so easy...and I’d have to charge you double.”

“Double?”

“I’ll bore you with the tale later, but you’ll not get me to run such an errand again on so light a payment. There’s a concealment charm you’ll have to break: thought it wise in case you’re checked. Until then, it’ll just look like some spare fabric.”

“I’ve been meaning to make myself a new blouse,” Rin replies blasely.

Giving a subtle nod, the other witch exits the way Rin came, and Rin in turn takes the other mouth out. Package tucked under her arm, she winds her way back around to the eastern gate of the village.

Home again, home again.

The cobble gives way to dirt, thankfully dry after a week of no rain. That doesn’t rid it of the deep wells from uncounted wagons, but Rin keeps to the center, shifting her path only when encountering another traveler. A few miles pass, and then she takes a trail off to the north. This she follows a ways before cutting west again to a path barely discernible to the naked eye.

Just as she likes it.

Here the trees of the forest seem to grow ever thicker, dense foliage blotting out all but the most determined light. Ivy hangs in thick sheets from sturdy branches, and after a long, silent trek, Rin waves a hand.

Heeding her call, the flora shifts to reveal a small, yet cozy cabin. Plants of all shapes, shades, and sizes grow in what looks to be chaos around it, but Rin knows every stalk and stem. A ways behind her dwelling, the chuckling of a brook can be heard.

And what a curious dwelling it is.

Formed from wood, rather than cut...it’s been grown. Several trunks meld together to form walls, the roof a conglomerate of branches and leaves thick enough to waylay any rain. The floor is flattened roots, walk to a shining after so many years of her pacing and passing. Even a hearth crackles warmly, the wood of its belly and chimney simply made so dense with magic, it can’t begin to burn.

And even inside there’s a plethora of plants. Every shelf and surface is home to bottles, planters, crystals, vials. Several of the stones glow brightly to illuminate her space, colored by the gemstone that houses the werelights.

It’s a strange, almost alien place. But for Rin, it suits her perfectly.

Clearing a space on her table, she sets her package, unraveling the string around it and finding - as Kurenai warned - a simple folded stack of velvety fabric.

To most, the charm would be completely undetectable. But Rin is both aware...and talented in magics herself. Taking a moment to feel out the particular incantation, she breaks it with a few murmured words.

The fabric is no more. In its place is a pelt.

A rather particular pelt.

Grinning widely, Rin runs fingers over the scaly hide. As she does, the pigments change to match her skin, blending perfectly.

Exactly what she’s been looking for: a chameleocan skin. A rather peculiar beast with a marvelous adaptation: it can blend into any environment and become practically invisible. While not perfect, it’s far more stable than a cloaking spell, and has no mana cost.

All she has to do with it now is tan and shape it into a cloak, and she’ll finally be able to prowl about unseen. At least, to most eyes.

Giddy with excitement, she takes it outside, giving it one last wash in the river before stretching it on a tanning rack to dry and finish curing. Admiring her handiwork, her smile vanishes as a sound reaches her ears.

A voice.

Spinning around, she tries to place it. Still a ways off, it’s nonetheless far closer than Rin would like anyone to be. She’s not expecting any guests...which means this person isn’t welcome.

Subtly, she begins tightening the ivy around her little homestead, doing her best to further hide it. Creeping quietly, she listens.

Another cry. Still too far too make out words, but...she can hear the tone. It sounds desperate, like...a call for help.

Though there’s a reflexive want to go investigate - someone might be in trouble! - her worry is tempered by experience. Often times, such a plea is a charade. A lie to draw in unaware travelers before your throat and coin purse are slit.

Weighing her options, Rin pulls her lip between her teeth before parting the ivy. Either way...she needs to make sure her home isn’t discovered. Easier to do the further away she keeps this person. A woman, judging by the pitch of the cries. For a ways she steps carefully, pausing every so often to listen for the voice. Once she’s close enough, she peers around trunks before finally catching sight of them.

Whoever they are, they’ve donned a silvery-white cloak. That immediately draws Rin’s brow. Something of that make looks costly...what would someone able to afford finery like that be doing this far out in the woods? Their gate shuffles, occasionally stumbling as they call out for help. Spinning in a slow circle, taking in the endless swaths of the same trees and undergrowth, they eventually turn to face Rin in her hiding place.

They certainly appear feminine, from what she can see. The cloak covers a gown of downy grey that sweeps the forest floor. It, too, seems fine in make. Along their front spill waves of white hair...curious. And the expression on their pale face - seemingly even paler with fright - looks far too deeply etched to be rehearsed.

Something more is going on here.

Magic humming at the ready along her fingertips, Rin cautiously steps out of hiding. “...lost?”

Sharpening their focus on her, the stranger stumbles back a few steps, gait still quite warped. Staring a long moment, they dare to ask, “...you...you’re the woman who was in the village this morning, are you not? You’re a witch!”

The words, by reflex, earn a small flinch. Typically they’re thrown with disdain...but this one utters them with a desperate hope. How did they spot her, let alone figure what she was? “...I’m learned in magic, yes.”

“Please...you have to help me. I…” Looking stricken for words, they ask, “...may we speak somewhere...private?”

“Why?”

“I...I’ve need of help regarding a curse. I…” They turn to glance around. Surely the woods are empty, but they seem fearful to risk being seen. “...I can’t let anyone know.”

Still wary, Rin considers the request a moment before murmuring, “...follow me.”

They trudge back toward the cabin, and Rin - taking the lead - continues to listen. Her companion’s gait is still...off. Not quite a limp, but not even steps, either. Almost like…

Parting the ivy, she lets them in, seeing the wonder on their face. “...try not to touch anything. Some of these are toxic,” she warns, gesturing to the plants.

Once inside, she sets a kettle to boil water, glancing up to see her guest lingering uncertainly in the doorway. “...you can come in.”

“...thank you.” Taking a few cautious steps, they offer, “...my name is Ryū.”

“...Rin.”

“I...I know this may be rather forward, given that it’s me asking for your help, but...may I ask for your silence? If anyone else were to know what I’m to tell you…”

“I don’t vomit up secrets,” Rin assures her. “So long as you’re not going to harm anyone else -”

“Oh, no no! Never that! You see, I…” A weary sigh. “...I’m of a royal line. Of a land north of here. I’m...their princess.”

Brow furrowing, Rin tries to think. She mostly keeps her dealings to this land - she knows little of any others. She barely knows her own royal family, given how low she tries to keep her profile. “...you said you’ve a question about a curse?”

“I...yes. A few weeks ago, a curse was laid upon me. I’ve been searching for help ever since. While magic is not viewed so...poorly in my homeland as it is here to the south, I couldn’t let anyone see me like...like this.”

A brown brow perks. “...like…?”

Hesitating, Ryū wilts with a sigh. “...I...I hope it doesn’t cause you alarm.”

“I’ve seen a great many things. I assure you, little can shock me.”

One last pause, and then Ryū begins to remove her traveling gear. Gloved hands lift the hood from her head, laying the cloak atop a chair. Rin’s eyes slowly widen the more she removes, until she’s left in little more than her skivvies.

From her temples grow short horns of a moonstone color. In patches along her limbs are silver and white scales. In fact, her entire left leg is distorted, looking more like a beast’s in its proportions than a human’s.

...that explains her gait.

And from her spine as she turns, posture clearly ashamed, is the beginnings of a scaly tail topped with white hair. Strange lumps stretch the skin over her shoulder blades, as though something lurks beneath the surface, ready to burst.

“...by the gods…”

“It...i-it’s been slowly taking me over. At first it was just a few scales...t-then my back started aching, and my leg shifted in shape…! I...I’m turning into a -!”

“A dragon.” Moving, Rin walks in slow circles around her, expression both horrified...and yet fathomlessly curious. “...do you know who cursed you?”

“I...I do - he’s a member of my mother’s court. I’ve always had my suspicions about him, but his influence is too great to simply be ousted. He…” Her face turns aside, expression pained. “...he’s nearly thrice my age, but has been...attempting to court me. I know he only wants to sneak his roots into my kingdom. I rejected him again and again, as softly as I could. It seems...he realized I’d never have him, and has decided to remove me instead.”

“Did you speak to your mother?”

“I couldn’t…! Before I could find her, I’d already started changing. I was scared, and unsure what to do, so...I-I fled.”

“...you should pen her a letter. Tell her what has happened, and why you left. She needs to know, and your absence may be having drastic consequences, m’lady.”

Ryū gives a sorrowful nod. “Can...can you help me…?”

The witch heaves a heavy sigh. “...transformations aren’t my forte,” she admits. “Nor are curses. Magic has many branches...and mine lie mostly in flora. It’s rare they can attain such results...or counteract them.”

“Do...do you know of anyone else who might be able to aid me…?”

A pause to think. Kurenai is skilled in illusionary magics...Anko in poisons and beast taming. But this isn’t one that needs to be calmed. “Not personally, no...and I fear by the time I find one, it may be too late. How long has it been?”

“Um…” She thinks. “...three weeks, perhaps? I...I’ve not tracked the time since I fled.”

“Why come here where magic is harder to find?”

“I didn’t want to be recognized. If my people knew their next queen might become a beast, surely they would panic…!”

“And they’ll not panic with you simply up and disappearing?”

“...I…”

Rin sighs. “...fear can rob anyone of their sense. I understand. But we really should alert your mother. This man that cursed you may very well have other schemes waiting in his sleeves...if he’s not implemented them already.”

“Yes...you’re right.”

“Here...let’s get you redressed, and then we’ll find some parchment and ink.”

Once a warning letter is written, Rin calls upon a feathered friend to bear it. “They’ll be swift.”

Seated at Rin’s table (which grows right up out of the floor), Ryū braces her brow in a hand, eyes weary. “I don’t know where else to go, what else to do…”

“Does your mother not employ a court mage?”

“Several...and he’s one of them. I feared they may reject my claims and protect him as one of their own. I could never have asked…”

“Mm...a fair point.” Sitting opposite the princess, Rin rubs at her chin, racking her brain. While she’s heard of curses like these before...she’s never seen them for herself. Nor does she know anything about them. Their casting, their effects...or their cures. Nor do any of her own types of magic immediately come to mind when it comes to a possible remedy. Transformation magics are their own branch, one she’s never really breached.

Standing, she goes to her bookshelf, looking over her collection of tomes. A finger trails over their spines, trying to find a title that might at least hint at a possible solution. She looks among her collections of flora, stretching her imagination to possible uses among theirs that might help.

...and then an idea starts to bloom.

A risky, terrible idea.

Biting her lip, Rin goes back to her shelf and pulls out a glossary of plants and herbs. Flipping through the weathered pages, she finds the proper entry, finger tracing along the text. As she thought she remembered, there’s no mention of human ingestion...just uses on blades to aid in battles…

“...have you thought of something…?”

“I…” A pause. “...I don’t know...in all honesty, it’s not a thought I’ve ever entertained before…” Sitting once more, she lays the tome atop the table, turning it round so Ryū can read. “...this is dragonsbane. Typically used to concoct an oil you coat a blade with to better your chances at slaying a dragon. In short, it reacts very...negatively to a dragon’s biology.”

She then flips a great chunk through the book to another page near the end. “And this...is wolfsbane. It has similar effects, but on werewolves. However…” A digit points to a small paragraph near the bottom. “It’s also used, in a far more diluted form, to help control werewolf transformations. Werewolves, of course, only take that form during full moons...and yours is instead happening slowly, until - I’m willing to assume - you take a fully dragonic form...or perhaps one like the old draconids, but they’re long extinct…”

At Ryū’s curious look, she expounds, “A specie of dragon that walked upright, and could speak. They were hunted after a war broke out, and it’s assumed there’s no more of them left. That might be more like what you’re facing, given that your anatomy has only changed slightly, like your leg.”

Back up she gets, on a whirlwind of thought now. “I’ve made wolfsbane potions for a very long time, for a dear friend of mine afflicted with the bite of a werewolf. I’m intimately familiar with it. But...I have no idea if the same principle could be applied to dragonsbane. I’ve never heard of it done. Then again...I’ve never heard of someone being cursed exactly as you have: to become a dragon, I mean. Werewolves aren’t cursed, per se...”

Hands trace up to the wolfsbane plant, and then over to dragonsbane. “...I’ll have to do some tests. Because if I’m wrong...that potion might kill you. If I make it too strong, and it affects you too potently…”

Ryū pales, looking quite frightened for a moment. Head bowing, eyes flicker over the table before closing with a soft sigh, resolute. “...well...I’ve nowhere else to turn. No other leads to follow. Whatever you need me to do in order to see this through, I’ll do. It’s either we take this chance...or I certainly turn into a monster.”

“Well, it depends on your view of dragons...or possibly draconids, if that’s more what you’re headed toward.” Rin then fetches her kettle, finally boiling, and begins to make tea. “In some cultures - mostly those more...remote and perhaps a bit...outdated - dragons are seen as sacred beings. Almost akin to gods. Then in other places, they’re simply nuisances. Monster, then, is a relative term. If it does fail, maybe you could go find a land where you’d be welcome. Possibly even worshipped.”

At that, the princess blanches. “I’d...rather we simply find the cure.”

“Well, of course. But that’s a better alternative than death, isn’t it?”

“...to never again see my home, or my mother? Being held aloft by strangers? I don’t know…”

Well, Rin can hardly change this young lady’s priorities. “...I’ll write to my friend. Ask him to come. Maybe he’ll have some insight into how you can best handle this. I don’t know if your...conditions have similar enough roots, but it can’t hurt.”

Another bird is sent with the invitation, and the pair get to work. Rin begins asking all sorts of questions: her routine, her diet, her birth sigils. Anything and everything that might have an impact on how her body handles the curse, and its progression.

“Curses do tend to act most slowly in those who are larger,” Rin notes, taking measurements. Ryū is returned to her undergarments, a bit pink as the witch gets all manner of personal with her person. “You’re rather tall, so that might be helping slow the transformation some. It obviously can’t stop it entirely, but it helps.”

Looking to some of the princess’ scales under a magnifying glass, Rin compares them to a few dragon scales she has on hand for potions and charms. Ryū’s are considerably smoother, and quite a bit smaller, but appear to be made of the same material. “Hm...well, given all your measurements, compared to the apparent progression of the curse...I do think it’s safe to say you’re not going to change into a full-fledged dragon. If you were, your anatomy would be changing far faster, given the rest of your symptoms.”

“Is...is that a good thing?”

“...I’m not sure.” Rin taps her glass against her chin, thinking. “...it does make you more similar to a werewolf. They too are anthropomorphic creatures, just...another breed. And also directly correlating to a celestial body. You, however, seem to be taking a permanent form.”

The word ‘permanent’ clearly doesn’t sit well, and Ryū can’t help a small whine of worry.

“But, if the dragonsbane potion does work in a similar way, then...it would simply be a matter of ingesting it more regularly. Rather than just on the worst nights of the moon cycle, you’d likely have to take it once a day, depending on how safe the maximum dosage is, and how potent it can be without harming you. All things we’ll need to test. Very carefully, of course.”

The princess gives a slow nod, brow knitted.

“Don’t worry, m’lady. I’ll do all I can.”

“...I know.”

That evening, there’s a call from beyond the ivy. “Oi!”

“Oh, that’s Kakashi.” Abandoning her work, Rin moves to let him in. “Thanks for coming.”

“Sure. Though I’m not sure what use I’ll be.”

“Neither do I, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt.” Taking him inside, Rin gestures. “Ryū, this is Kakashi. Kakashi, Ryū. She’s a princess.”

Grey brows lift in surprise. One dark eye looks her over, the other clouded with blindness, an angry scar cutting through the lid. “Wasn’t aware I’d be meeting royalty.”

“I’m hardly a proper princess at the moment,” Ryū offers somberly. At Rin’s request, she shows the scales on an arm, and then blushingly lifts her skirt to show her leg.

Squatted to a lower level, Kakashi rubs his chin thoughtfully as he observes the limb. “It’s definitely the same structure as what I change to. Just, uh...scaly rather than furry.”

“As I thought…have you ever come across this while traveling?” At Ryū’s curious look, Rin expounds, “Kakashi is a monster hunter. Rather ironic, eh Kakashi?”

He just grunts in response, still thinking. “...can’t say I have. I’ve only ever had to face one dragon...and thankfully not for very long. Never seen one shaped like this.”

“Nor have I. I’ve read about the draconids, but...that’s ancient history by now.”

“Interesting that someone would choose it as a curse, isn’t it?”

“There are dragons in my homeland,” Ryū offers, “but...none like you say. We are...neutral towards them. They can be quite wise, and have aided us in the past. But we mostly try to stay out of one another’s way.”

“Out of a dragon’s way is the best way to be,” Kakashi agrees dryly.

“Well...it’s getting late now,” Rin offers. “You should get some rest. You can take my bunk.” A hand points up to a small loft.

“Oh no, I couldn’t -”

“I insist. I’ve slept in worse places for worse reasons,” Rin offers with a wry smile.

Looking sheepish, Ryū accepts, climbing the ladder up and disappearing.

The pair below watch her go before looking to each other. With a nod of her head, Rin gestures them both outside. Out they walk to stand on the riverbank.

“...so?”

“...I don’t know,” Rin muses softly. “I’ve never heard of using the plant this way, but...it has the same basic properties as wolfsbane. There has to be a way to mirror its effects, but…”

“Testing will be dangerous.”

“...yes. And if she has to consume it every day, she’ll need a steady supply. I wish there was a way to just...rid her of it completely. But I don’t know how. Or if it’s even possible without the proper countercurse. And I have no way of knowing how to do that, given I don’t know the curse that started it.”

“...I could always go nab the guy.”

Rin gives him a pointed look. “I’d like to keep this from turning into an international incident, if you just go up there and kidnap a court mage.”

“I could explain.”

“We’ve sent a letter to her mother...perhaps we’ll hear word back. For now, though...time is my biggest enemy. If she finishes changing, there might be no going back. There’s so much unknown…”

“You’ll figure it out,” Kakashi assures her. “You always do.”

Rin doesn’t reply, not so sure.

The pair sleep downstairs, Rin waking with the dawn. Letting the princess sleep, she goes about prep work to begin making the first attempts at the potion. Thankfully she has a decent supply of dragonsbane, but...she might want to start propagating more. Out in her garden, she starts encouraging new seedlings to sprout.

By the time she returns, Ryū is back on the ground floor. “Sleep well?”

The small grimace she gives in return speaks well enough.

“Well...we’d best get started.”

Using her data of Ryū’s physiology against the wolfsbane potion, Rin starts calculating conversions. Even then, she begins with a fraction of potency. The brew takes nearly three weeks to properly simmer, so in the meantime...there’s little else to do but talk. They exchange stories of their pasts, their families, their friends. Strolls are taken within the woods and along the riverbanks, gaps slowly filled in their knowledge of each other. Little by little, Rin gets to know more about the mysterious princess and the lands she comes from. In turn, she reveals things long-buried about herself...things she hasn’t dared to think of in years.

Like a vine-covered window slowly pried open, light starts to shine through into her solitude. The air starts to clear form the years of idle dust. And things start to seem...different.

Rin starts to realize how...alone she’s felt all this time. And how much company her guest has proven to be.

...she’ll be sad to see her go.

“My name actually means dragon in the old tongue,” Ryū muses one afternoon as Rin puts the finishing touches on the first batch. “I wonder if that’s where he got his inspiration from…”

“It’s possible,” the witch muses, carefully tending to her cauldron. While wolfsbane is always a deep green, this concoction is a noxious purple. “...all right, I think we’re ready. Now, I can test it on your skin, first. See if you have any reaction before we go pouring it down your gullet.”

Ryū nods, baring an arm as Rin carefully takes a small spoonful, letting it cool before a drop is spared to a patch of scales.

It hisses, smoking and bubbling for a fraction of a second. Then, after a pause...a scale pops off onto the floor with a clatter.

Both women stare at it before looking up. “...um…”

“...it might be a bit strong,” Rin offers nervously. “I’ll...try diluting it a bit.”

“Maybe...maybe it’s something we should apply topically…? Rather than, um...internally?”

Rin nibbles her lip in thought. “...let me try one more thing.”

Baring Ryūs back, Rin takes another drop and lets it dribble onto one of the protrusions on her shoulder blade: something she can only assume will later tear and reveal wings, as the base of her spine has done for her new tail.

Immediately, the skin begins to burn.

“Ah...ah!” Curling up in pain, Ryū’s hands scramble back to try and reach the sensation. “I-it’s like...acid! R-Rin!”

Panicking, Rin summons water from a nearby bucket and tries to wash the residue away. It steams upon contact, and she can’t help but blanch at the hole left behind. Ryū’s muscles twitch and flutter in lingering pain, and Rin just...stares at the infant fifth limb now uncovered, like a lanced boil.

“That...t-that didn’t work,” she notes, tone a bit weak in residual shock.

Shaking and biting back tears, Ryū looks over. “...is...is it bad?”

“...I’ll tend to it.”

Mixing up a poultice for burns, Rin carefully applies it to the melted flesh, covering it with clean cloth. “...I’m so sorry…”

“You didn’t know.”

“But the scale, I -!”

“It’s okay, Rin.” Ryū gives her a shaking smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You...you tried. Maybe floral magic just...isn’t the way to go.”

“But…!” The witch deflates, frustrated tears in her eyes. “...I don’t know any other methods…! And I don’t know any witches who specialize in curses, we’re - we’re running out of time!”

“It’s okay. I think...I think I knew this wouldn’t work.” Ry��’s expression shifts to a somber acceptance. “Surely there’s no stronger curse than one born out of scorned love...even if he never really loved me. All he wanted was what he could take from me… and now he’s taken everything. My mother has no other daughters. She’s too old to bear another. The crown will have to find another path, and...maybe he’ll find a way to take it with me removed. Maybe this was his plan all along...”

Her own face defeated, Rin mulls all that over. Part of her is so angry, she has half a mind to drag Kakashi back here, march up to the north, and duel that bastard herself with him as her second. He couldn’t have her...so he’s turned her into a beast no one could love. He ended her line, and...he…

...wait.

Perking up, Rin scarcely dares to breathe. No...that can’t...but could it…? Looking to Ryū, whose face is turned aside with shame, she looks over the princess’ form. There’s been more changes since her arrival. Her horns are longer, ears taking a more bestial shape: long and hollow (and currently drooped in sorrow). Scales coat more than half her arms and abdomen, both legs now inhumanly distorted. Even her tail is longer, thicker. To anyone in their right mind, she’s a horror to look at. Something to be feared.

...but…?

It’s a rather cliche solution to curses. One often used simply because it’s so glaringly specific. It has to be pure, unmatched, and without any pretense or force. And given all of the lined up circumstances - she’s ugly, now removed from a royal line with no other branches, given up on by the man who sought to use her - it only makes sense.

“Ryū.”

Turning to face her, the princess stiffens with widened eyes as Rin takes the front of her gown in her curled fingers. For a moment they search one another’s gazes before Rin closes the gap, and locks their lips.

As she does, she recalls all the hours of talking, laughing, secret sharing they’ve done since Ryū has arrived. How Rin’s inherent loneliness has been lifted. How much warmer and brighter her little cabin has felt with two people within it, bound by a common goal.

It’s then Rin admits to herself that she’s grown quite fond of this cursed princess.

It’s then she admits that she loves her.

...but it can’t be one-sided if this is going to work.

Still tense with surprise, Ryū stares as Rin kisses her with closed eyes. Heat blooms in her face. She...but...what…? Her heart flutters in her chest, a warmth spreading from her mouth to every end of her nerves. Then slowly she relaxes, lids sliding closed, returning the kiss softly.

With a clatter like a box of marbles spilled upon the floor, scales shed in a torrent. Magic flares and ruffles at their clothes and locks. Horns drop from her head, flesh rippling as time seems to reverse, anatomy shifting back into human until a flawless princess slowly opens her eyes.

Rin looks up, her own gaze softened with the fog of affection, before they both turn to look at the mess. Lifting her slip, Ryū stares at her legs. Pale, fleshy, human legs. She wiggles her toes, and then breaks into a torrent of giggles.

“You...you did it! You really did it!” Eyes starry with unabashed joy, she launches forward and embraces Rin, who squeaks and topples over. Laughing and crying, Ryū then spares a moment to kiss her again, butting their brows as she looks to the witch adoringly. “...you saved me,” she murmurs, tone soft with gratitude and affection.

Face flushed and eyes wide, Rin lingers in shock for a moment before giving a curt, nervous laugh. “I...I guess I did...didn’t I?”

Still beaming, Ryū giggles a bit more, sitting up and looking around at the mess of scales. “...well, I guess you won’t have to buy any more dragon scales for a while, will you?”

Rin then does the same, and snorts. “...I guess not.”

They sweep up the silver and white shards, Ryū carefully picking up the pair of horns. “Wow...these are actually really pretty.”

“I agree. I’ll have to make them into something.”

Setting them atop the table, Ryū looks to Rin thoughtfully. “...so...now what do we do…?”

“Well...I guess you get to go home now, m’lady. Hopefully your mother has taken care of the bastard who cursed you...though we may want to be cautious until we hear back.”

To the witch’s surprise, something falls in Ryū’s expression.

“...you...do want to go home, don’t you?”

“I...I do. And I must. But…” Somber, demure eyes glance up. “...I wonder if...you would come with me…”

“Me?”

“It was love, wasn’t it? That broke the curse?”

Rin suddenly turns sheepish. “I...well, yes - but -”

“I don’t want to leave that behind.”

At a loss for words, Rin...isn’t sure what to say.

“I know you love this place, and...if you want to stay, I cannot fault you. But...if you were to come with me, you wouldn’t have to hide…! You could practice your craft without fear!”

“But...you’re a princess! Surely you need to marry a prince, bear an heir -!”

At that, Ryū laughs. “I can bear an heir without marrying a prince. My line, as I’ve told you, is matriarchal. We don’t need a king. I could very well make a witch my queen if it’s what I want,” she adds coyly. “...and...if that is what the witch wants.”

Rin flounders. “...I...I-I don’t know...I’ve lived here so long, and -”

“I don’t expect an answer now,” Ryū assures her, holding up a placating hand. “...but I should go soon. My mother is surely eager to see me...as I am to see her.”

“...I’ll send Kakashi with you. He’ll keep you safe, especially if things are still...unsettled there. And...I’ll take time to think.”

Ryū smiles softly. “...very well.”

The next day, set with supplies and with the werewolf at her side, Ryū stands outside the ivy. Silvers lock with umbers, unnamed emotions flitting through both.

“...be careful,” Rin murmurs.

“I will be. I’ll write soon.”

“Okay…”

Drawing her hood, Ryū then leans in, giving the little witch a gentle kiss. “...I will see you again.”

Flushed pink (and ignoring Kakashi’s snickering), Rin manages a jerking nod. “...until then.” Watching them go, she feels something in her chest sink with every step. The impulsive part of her - a very large part, at present - almost goes running after her.

...but for now...she has thinking to do.

It’s not every day you fall in love with a princess, after all.

.oOo.

Day three! This time RyūRin with @wanderingmelodies‘ Rin! Which is...technically a ship we never really fleshed out, more just...hinted at, and usually in crack xD But I’ve always liked the concept, so...here it is in a fantasy verse! Woo! So far this is the longest one by far up til now - had to do a lot more worldbuilding to set things up here, sooo I got a lil carried away lol - what can I say, I’m a worldbuilding nerd =w= But uh, yeah! I dunno why, but I’ve always gotten like...flora mage vibes from Rin. Which is also how I write her in Divine Light! Hence her being a wee plant witchy here. And ofc Ryū’s got dragony things going on! Was tempted to let her keep the ability to transform, but this is long enough as-is xD Mey, I know you don’t write on that blog anymore, but I miss yer beans and I hope you enjoy this...very random story, lol And with that, I’m gonna sign off! We’re about halfway through the week, woo! Ngl I’ma be sad when this is over...but it’s fun while it lasts!

#narutoocxcanonshipweek #noxcsw #wanderingmelodies #nohara rin #suigin ryū #like magic [ au ]#gore //

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focusontheeasternlightning-blog · 5 years

Text

Trials Are Special Blessings of God

By Xuanxuan, Taiwan

After my husband and I met and fell in love, we got married, and then I gave birth to an adorable son and a lovely daughter.

I managed our marriage with my heart, but gradually, I found that it was not easy to do it well. Because of differences in our family backgrounds and life habits, my husband and I often quarreled and it got more and more bitter. We went so far as to even want a divorce. Just when my marriage was on the rocks, I accepted the Lord Jesus’s gospel. After I knew that the Lord Jesus was nailed to the cross and shed His precious blood to redeem mankind, I was moved by His love. Later, from the Bible I saw that the Lord Jesus has patience and tolerance for man, so I resolved to follow the Lord Jesus’ example to be humble and patient. I discussed it with my husband and then became a Christian. Brothers and sisters often shared the Lord’s grace together, supported and helped each other, living in God’s love. I was filled with joy and peace.

As time went by, most of my brothers and sisters in the church began to become busy making money, and during the small group meetings, what they talked about had nothing to do with the faith in the Lord, but instead were eating, drinking, and playing. Additionally, the pastor’s sermons were the same old platitudes. I got no enjoyment out of listening to them, with my mind often being empty.

Sometimes as soon as I attended meetings, my eyelids started fighting to stay open. In my daily life, I also involuntarily committed sins, my relationship with my husband didn’t improve, and I couldn’t live out the requirements of the Lord at all. I felt more and more like the Lord was not with me, and all I could do was pray to the Lord in my heart and ask Him not to abandon me. Meanwhile, I practiced spiritual devotions more and read the Bible more. However, my spiritual condition was without any improvement.

In June, 2017, I got acquainted with the brothers and sisters of The Church of Almighty God. Through fellowshiping about the truths together with them several times, I understood: The reason why our church is desolate is that the Holy Spirit’s work has moved. Because now God has begun His new work, the work of the Holy Spirit has moved to those who have accepted it. I also understood: In the Age of Grace, in order to redeem us, the Lord Jesus personally became flesh and was crucified as the sin offering for man. When we confessed our sins to the Lord in His name and repented, the Lord would forgive us. But we haven’t escaped from the bonds and the restrictions of sin, so we still need God to do another stage of work of removing sins so that we can be purified. Then the brothers and sisters also fellowshiped about various truths, such as the three stages of God’s work and the formation of the Bible, and so forth. I felt what they fellowshiped was quite in line with the Bible and contained the enlightenment of the Holy Spirit. Meanwhile, it solved many confusions and problems that I had in my belief in the Lord as well. Thereupon I decided to seek and study Almighty God’s work of the last days.

Once, when I was surfing online, I inadvertently clicked on a link, and found that it was all the negative propaganda from the Chinese Communist Party government and the religious world judging and convicting Almighty God. This struck cold to my heart at the time. I thought: The CCP government, an atheist party, has been persecuting religious beliefs all the time, and also has labeled the Bible as a cult book. For the sake of its dictatorship, the CCP is capable of doing any evil thing, such as falsifying, discrediting, smearing, and framing, this is a fact known to all. So what the CCP says cannot be relied upon. But why do so many prestigious pastors and elders in the religious world unite with the CCP government to judge and condemn The Church of Almighty God? What is really going on here?

Subsequently, when I came into contact with the brothers and sisters of The Church of Almighty God, I started observing them secretly. After a period of time of contact, I found that they were sincere, behaved properly, and were moderate in their words and actions. When in gatherings, they would communicate the truths, such as how to be an honest person, how to live out a normal humanity, how to revere God and shun evil, and other aspects. Especially at the time that I encountered difficulties, the brothers and sisters all fellowshiped about the truths to me so that I could know God’s will. Attracted by the truths they shared in fellowship and moved by their sincerity, slowly, I no longer guarded myself against the brothers and sisters of The Church of Almighty God. Afterward, as long as I had time, I would watch all sorts of videos and movies on The Church of Almighty God’s app. The more I watched the more spiritual nourishment I obtained, and I enjoyed the living water of life that flows from the throne. I confirmed that Almighty God is the appearance of the Lord Jesus, thus feeling even more at ease, and also happy to have contact with the brothers and sisters of the Church.

However, I still could not understand why the religious leaders condemned The Church of Almighty God, so I raised this question in a meeting. Then a sister fellowshiped with me, “Let’s first look at some verses in the Bible. In 1 John 5:19 it says: ‘the whole world lies in wickedness.’ And in Luke 11:29: ‘This is an evil generation.’ We all know that since ancient times, the true way has always been suppressed. Just like in the Age of Grace, when the Lord Jesus did His work, He not only gave us man the way of repentance but also performed many signs and wonders, such as feeding 5,000 people with five loaves of bread and two fish, making cripples walk, making the blind see, resurrecting the dead, and so on. The scribes and Pharisees of that time all admitted that the Lord Jesus’ words and work had authority and power, yet in order to protect their own positions and livelihoods, they intentionally made up rumors and framed the Lord Jesus, did their utmost to block believers from following the Lord Jesus, and in the end even colluded with the Roman government to crucify the Lord Jesus on the cross. From the fact we can see that the true way will always suffer the rejection and condemnation of atheist regimes and religious world.

In the last days, Almighty God has expressed the truth to do the work of judgment and chastisement, and all kinds of MVs, movies, and the books of God’s words have been posted on the internet to openly bear witness of Almighty God’s work of the last days. All those who love the truth and long for and await the appearance of the Lord have begun to return to Almighty God, one by one, whereas those who hate the truth and resist God have been revealed by God’s work. Like the Pharisees, today’s religious pastors and elders see that the words expressed by Almighty God are all the truth, yet because more and more believers have returned to Almighty God, to protect their status and livelihoods they fanatically resist and condemn The Church of Almighty God. From this we can see their nature and essence of hating the truth and resisting God. If we are not able to discern or seek the truth, but just blindly listen to the words of men, then we will lose the opportunity of God’s salvation. In fact, in the last days God uses the forces of Satan to do service for perfecting His chosen people, so that we can see through their essence, and then reject and betray them. This is precisely the wisdom of God’s work.” Through the sister’s communication, I came to know: The reason why these pastors and elders of the religious world condemn the work of Almighty God is because they know Almighty God’s words are the truth, and that as long as those who love the truth and thirst for God’s appearance hear these words of Almighty God they will follow Almighty God and reject them. So, for the sake of preserving their own positions and meal-tickets, they do everything possible to block people from coming before God, and they even spread various rumors, making people not dare to study Almighty God’s work of the last days. Being deceived by the rumors, untold numbers of people have lost this once-in-a-lifetime chance to meet the Lord. These religious pastors and elders are too despicable and too evil. If it weren’t for God pitying and saving me, I would also miss the chance to greet the Lord.

As I was awash in the joy of welcoming the return of the Lord, a spiritual battle secretly befell me. When my husband knew I believed in Almighty God, he searched for “The Church of Almighty God” on the internet, and saw a lot of words originating from the CCP and the religious world that resisted and condemned the Church. Deceived by the negative propaganda, my husband angrily said to me, “Do you know anything about The Church of Almighty God? Do you know there are many negative words online about The Church of Almighty God?” I replied to him, “I accept the work of Almighty God because I have read many Almighty God’s words. His words not only have solved lots of my problems in my real life, but also teach me to live out the normal humanity. The words of Almighty God are the truth and God’s voice. Almighty God is the appearance of the Lord Jesus. Furthermore, after this period of interacting with the brothers and sisters of The Church of Almighty God, I can see they are all devout Christians.” At the moment, I remembered that the sister had fellowshiped with me: Since we believe in God we must have a heart that reveres God, otherwise we will become Satan’s accomplices and follow it to resist God. Just like when the Jewish people at that time blindly listened to the lies of the Pharisees, but didn’t investigate whether or not what they said was true; in the end, they followed the Pharisees to nail the Lord to the cross, walking the God-resisting path. This led to the destruction of Israel. At the thought of this, I told my husband that he couldn’t follow the herd and blindly believe the rumors on the internet, for they were all lies. But my husband didn’t listen to my words at all. He said to me: “From now on, you are not to attend meetings with them. I forbid it!”

Afterward, whenever my husband discovered that I still had gatherings, he would seem to change into another person, with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. Seeing him like this, I was very afraid in my heart, for during the years of our marriage, though sometimes we quarreled, I had never seen that kind of expression in his eyes. I recalled that in the past when I believed in the Lord, he never persecuted me, but now when it came to my believing in Almighty God, he seemed to completely lose his reason. No matter how I explained it to him, he didn’t listen to me, making me feel restrained in gathering with the brothers and sisters of The Church of Almighty God. Later, a sister heard my situation and fellowshiped with me, “From the outside, what you have encountered today appears to be the obstruction from your family, but in reality this is a spiritual battle. God intends to save us, but Satan is unwilling to see that. Therefore, it thinks up every conceivable way to disturb us and use our weak points to attack us, attempting to make us stray from God. At the same time, this is also God’s trial of us. God wants to see whether we can maintain our faith in Him and stand witness for Him in persecution.” The sister also read me a passage of God’s words: “In every step of work that God does within people, externally it appears to be interactions between people, as if born of human arrangements, or from human interference. But behind the scenes, every step of work, and everything that happens, is a wager made by Satan before God, and requires people to stand firm in their testimony to God. Take when Job was tried, for example: Behind the scenes, Satan was making a bet with God, and what happened to Job was the deeds of men, and the interference of men. Behind every step that God does in you is Satan’s wager with God—behind it all is a battle. … When God and Satan do battle in the spiritual realm, how should you satisfy God, and how should you stand firm in your testimony to Him? You should know that everything that happens to you is a great trial and the time when God needs you to bear testimony.” Thank God for His enlightenment. Through the sister’s fellowship, I understood: In fact I am experiencing a spiritual battle. The thing that happens to me now is a wager Satan makes with God. From the outside it is my husband obstructing my belief in Almighty God, but actually, it is Satan using my husband to disturb me. Satan wants me to become negative and weak, blame and misunderstand God, and eventually leave my church life, betray God, and return under its domain. After knowing this, I was determined to bear witness for God and not to be used by Satan and become its captive anymore. However, I still felt some weakness in my heart, for every time when I was going to the meetings, my husband would make some sarcastic remarks. Once the meeting time came, I always felt very nervous, afraid that if in future we quarreled every day then life would be difficult for me.

In pain, I came before God and prayed: “Oh God, the environment I am facing now is Your test for me. I don’t want to be restrained by my husband, but I am very weak. God, please give me strength and courage. Amen!” A few days later, a sister sent me two passages of God’s words: “You must have My courage within you and you must have principles when facing relatives who do not believe. But for the sake of Me, you must also not yield to any of the dark forces. Rely on My wisdom to walk the perfect way; do not allow the conspiracies of Satan to take hold.” “You must quiet your hearts at all times, live within Me; I am your Rock, your Backer.” After reading these God’s words, I had faith and strength inside. I also felt God was by my side, that He understood my situation and knew I was flustered, and that as long as I called on Him He would help and guide me. Right! God is my reliance. God is my strong rock. I can’t shrink back any longer, I should rely on God to face such an environment. With this in mind, thereupon, I said to my husband, “I will do all the housework properly, but please don’t interfere with my belief in God. My resolution to believe in God will not be changed anyway.” Hearing my words, my husband was extremely angry, yet I was not restrained by him anymore, and after that, I still regularly gathered with brothers and sisters.

Later, my husband changed his attitude toward me. He suddenly treated me very well and said that we should work on our relationship. Then, every day he would actively accompany me to do exercises in the morning, and invite me to watch TV and chat with him at night. On holidays, he asked me to take our children to my former church, and he also said that he was gonna believe in the Lord with me. Previously, I looked forward to living such a life, but now, faced with my husband’s attentions, I just couldn’t feel happy anyhow, for in my heart I knew it was also a trick of Satan. Satan used various tricks to entice and deceive me, didn’t it want me to give up believing in God and ultimately lose the opportunity of God’s salvation? Satan is too despicable and too evil! Then I thought of some God’s words: “You must not throw away the truth for the sake of a peaceful family life, and you must not lose your life’s dignity and integrity for the sake of momentary enjoyment. You should pursue all that is beautiful and good, and should pursue a path in life that is more meaningful. If you lead such a vulgar life, and do not pursue any objectives, do you not waste your life? What can you gain from such a life? You should forsake all enjoyments of the flesh for the sake of one truth, and should not throw away all truths for the sake of a little enjoyment. People like this have no integrity or dignity; there is no meaning to their existence!” Yeah, I cannot lose the opportunity to gain the truth for the sake of coveting the comforts of the flesh. Now that Almighty God’s work is the true way, I should walk the path without hesitation. At the moment, I thought of Job. He had principles in treating any person, event, and thing, and he treated his wife, sons and daughters, and friends all based on the principles of truth instead of emotions. I should follow Job’s example and be a person who acts with principles. So, I said to my husband, “As your wife, I can accompany you, but when it is time for me to attend meetings I must go.” To my surprise, this time my husband didn’t say a single word, and I felt that his attitude toward my faith was slowly changing.

Not long after that, my husband tried another trick—he asked me to give a call to the pastor’s wife of my former church in Taipei. I did not think it was necessary to do so, yet he insisted, and in the next few days he kept asking me whether I had called her or not. Unable to bear that, finally I called her telephone. At first, when we made small talk my pastor’s wife spoke to me in a gentle tone; however, when I asked what she thought about The Church of Almighty God, her tone suddenly changed, and she said many words that opposed and blasphemed against God. At the moment, my heart leapt into my throat, because my phone’s speaker was turned on and my husband could hear every word she said. I worried that after he finished hearing these words, he would prevent me from believing in Almighty God even more. Very nervous, I silently prayed to God in my heart: “Oh God, in the face of such an environment, I don’t know what to do. I ask You to give me Your wisdom.” At this time, some God’s words occurred to me, “Almighty God, the Head of all things, wields His kingly power from His throne. He rules over the universe and all things and He is guiding us on the whole earth. We shall often be close to Him, and come before Him in quietness; never shall we miss a single moment, and there are things to learn at all times. The environment around us as well as the people, matters and objects, all are permitted by His throne. Do not have a complaining heart, or God will not bestow His grace upon you.” God’s words made me understand: Almighty God is the one true God who created heaven and earth and all things and rules over all things. All matters and things are in His hands. The environment I encounter today is authorized by God, and within this is His good will. Now what the pastor’s wife says is resisting God and blaspheming Him, I should stand up and bear witness to God so as to shame Satan. So, I asked her, “Is there any factual basis for your words?” She hesitated a bit and said, “No. I just heard this from others.” Hearing her words, I said to her, “Without any factual basis, you’d better not speak randomly. If it is so, say it is so. If it isn’t so, say it isn’t so. We, as a Christian, must have a heart of reverence for God; otherwise, we will resist God easily.” When I finished my words, the atmosphere became embarrassed, and then we closed our talk hastily. After hanging up the phone, I had an unspeakable joy within. Meanwhile, I also saw that God’s wisdom is exercised based on Satan’s scheme. Through this call, I gained some discernment about the essence of the pastors and elders. These shepherds did not have a shred of reverence for God nor a heart of seeking the truth, and toward God’s new work, they took a convicting, resisting, and blasphemous attitude. From this I saw their truth-hating and God-hating nature. I said to my husband, “Thank you for asking me to make this call. If not, I wouldn’t be able to discern these false shepherds.” My husband found it quite unbelievable, saying, “How could your pastor’s wife be like this? Without knowing the truth, she actually shot her mouth off. As a shepherd, she is too irresponsible.”

Since then, my husband didn’t obstruct me from attending meetings any longer. Moreover, he told me that since I believed in Almighty God, he had felt my changes—I could tolerate and understand others, no longer lost my temper easily, and also wasn’t in a high position suppressing our children anymore. Now he has installed the new network on the third floor of our house, and told me that only in this way could I attend meetings in peace. I know behind all of these things it is God who has opened up the way for me. I also have felt God is by my side, and that when Satan’s tricks come upon me, as long as I rely on and look up to God, He will guide me to get through every difficulty.

After experiencing the twists and turns of these days, I have understood some truths, and gained some discernment about the schemes carried out by Satan in the spiritual world. All of these are the most precious wealth God has granted me. In retrospect, it is God’s hand that has led me along the way. Thank God for allowing me to hear His voice and return before Him. All the glory be to Almighty God! Amen!

#Christian Testimonies #Spiritual Warfare #God’s salvation

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melodramaticarting · 5 years

Photo

My first fanfic on Tumblr! This is for an anime called Bungou Stray Dogs. I’m a little obsessed with the character called Osamu Dazai in it. He’s named after a real life author, and his power “No Longer Human” is named after one of the guy’s works, which I read for research purposes.

After getting an image in my head (concept art picture above this text), this is my take on some thoughts/diary entry things Dazai has on different things other characters have said to him so far. Spoiler alerts for the anime and manga, which is all I've gone through for now.

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Life Had a Meaning?

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No Longer Human. Hah, I was never human.

Other than surviving for as long as possible (a human’s common sense), there’s very little meaning to life for me. I am a creature…that is somewhat emotionally deprived, generally speaking. I knew that much. The term was…psychopath, I think? An old man I tortured said that to me once. Most people set values and goals in life because of a feeling called “I want this to happen” has urged them to do so.

Allow me to present my resume. The world is my oyster. I am cunning and uninhibited by the laws of common men. I am dedicated and relentless with virtually no emotional fatigue if there is a goal. My record of “136 murders, 312 cases of extortion, 625 cases of fraud, along with various other sundry crimes” should prove these points if nothing else. Or did I really do those things for a reason in the first place?

So tell me.

What exactly is the point of living? I can own the world around me, destroy it, nip it’s buds and watch it re-grow in morbid fascination, but it wouldn't even be worth the work put in for it. Logically speaking.

Why does it matter? Is it because someone assigned the act of living a value?

“...man fears death and yet, at the same time, man is drawn to death… It is a singular event in one’s life that none may reverse.”

I wanted to unravel the secret in that phrase. I thought it would give me reason to live if I solved it’s puzzle, so I decided to use life for it instead. It became my raison d’etre, for death. That which has evaded me to this day. Successful suicide has proved to be a long-term project I must put everything into. And sadly, In the meantime, I’ll have to live. Ah, how I want to sleep till the end of the world like a log instead. The physical pain suicide attempts usually give me aren't that nice. As opposed to what everyone thinks, I’m just used to it.

The pain of drowning in your own blood when your lungs are punctured by bullets, it gives a burning sensation like your chest is on fire. The pain of involuntarily gasping for air when they don’t fill up because it’s leaking at the same time. The pain of actual water flooding your lungs when you drown in a river, when you can’t fight the involuntary response of your mouth opening to breathe anymore. The nausea that takes over your head when low blood pressure settles in, because you lost too much blood. Your body fights when you tell it to stop wasting effort, so you just let it. Then it gets excited all on it’s own, pumping blood more fiercely than ever to keep you awake and functioning. Sometimes weird things pop up, like that “life flashing before your eyes” thing. I just see a hole most of the time though.

It’s like an alarm clock you can’t snooze, so annoying. Then it gets really, really cold. I totally can’t stand those things. Just like that GSS Soldier who attacked Randou-san. I asked him if he wanted me to cut it short. Even though it was more than he deserved. I thought I’d be kind, but Chuuya stopped me.

Oh…right. A human doesn't think like this. I must carefully manage my persona on display. Like that scene I staged for him when we went to rescue Q in one of The Guild’s basements. I threw the knife down and muttered a logical half-hearted excuse for not killing him, like keeping myself valuable to the mafia. In truth I could already think of so many other ways to achieve the same effect, but one must be tactful when playing human. A moment of giddiness bubbled across the surface of my sinful pride as Chuuya said, “how naïve. Your goody two-shoes act also puts me off.”

Despite practicing over ten thousand hours, I've yet to achieve true mastery. Dogs can still sniff me out if I don’t keep them occupied, even the occasional human that acts like one. When someone comes close enough scratch the surface, they see The Hole, and they run in fear. I am a hopeless cannibal, serving this bottomless pit that will never be satisfied. If only I could find something that could fill it up.

“You told me that you might find a reason to live if you lived in world of violence and bloodshed..”

My hand slipped off the edge. No, don’t talk about that Odasaku. Now’s not the time.

“I did, but who cares-“ The edges of the hole are further crumbling away. Didn't that man see it?

“You won’t find it.”

…What are you saying, Odasaku? That’s not true. Don’t tell me that. It’s not. You’re wrong, Odasaku, please be wrong. Stop it.

“You must know that already. Whether you’re on the side who kills people, or the side who saves people. Nothing beyond what you expect will appear. Nothing in this world can fill that lonely hole you have. You will wander the darkness for eternity.”

What are you doing? You’re scaring me. I’m shaking. No. Stop. Stop digging this hole more. Stop making It bigger.

“…What should I do?” An inhuman voice is crying to the sky. Is it mine?

“Be on the side that saves people. If both sides are the same, become a good man. Save the weak, protect the orphans. Neither good nor evil means much to you, I know... but that would at least be a little more beautiful...”

“How do you know?” I stopped trying to mend the edge. A pit so deep, there’s not even blood.

“Of course I know. I know better than anyone.”

Does a monster have to be alone forever? Can they be with others?

“Because…I am your friend.” I had a hole in me too.

“Your methods…your sadistic way of hollowing out your enemies’ heart…Your blood…is Mafia black, more so than anyone else’s in this country.” Higuchi sounded so cold when she said that. I just wanted to share myself and connect sincerely with others, just like Kenji. People always ended up confessing their hearts to him, didn't they? It was just the same thing.

But it’s alright, she doesn't have to understand. Odasaku taught me that day already. Monsters could make friends, too.

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One day I found a guide. Someone who had been where I am, and he found a way out. He told me how.

I didn't cry when he died, because only humans cry. I've long been disqualified as a human, but I’ll take a look at where he pointed. He gave me a new direction.

…maybe a reason to live, too.

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“Nakajima Atsushi-kun, do you know whose grave this is?”

“No, but it’s someone dear to you right?” Did he just mean sentimentality? An emotion reserved for humans?

“…Why do you think that?”

“I've never seen you visit a grave after all.”

“Does it look like I’m visiting a grave?” Am I acting like a human?

“It does…why?”

…He’s just like a dog.

“Was it someone you loved?”

Haha, what a naïve face. Great for molding. I've been trying to do that. A little differently than my hellhound back at Port Mafia. My little kouhai that is strongest when he is chasing after me. Like a beast, without a single care for dignity. Another reason I left the mafia.

What? I didn't just leave because Odasaku told me to. No, even my tolerance had a limit sometimes. Mori sacrificed my friend to get a Gifted Business Permit (I do acknowledge it was a logical course of action.) All I could see from then on was a piece of paper dyed in his blood, that would stain my hands forever, if I stayed. That would be a liability for me in the future. I also placed a bomb in Chuuya’s car before leaving.

Exploited Ango to erase all my past crimes on paper.

Severed the connection between the accelerometer and Ango’s airbag to make sure he landed within an inch of death.

Just a little exchange to clarify personal boundaries between old friends. A natural course of friendship. Then there were the women, right. I didn't know what to do with the women.

“I’m gonna send your address to every woman you've left crying.”

I think real fear struck me for a moment. Chuuya…sometimes I think he’s a woman too. He fucks like one.

He also…doesn't leave me alone like one.

“Enemy of all women!!” His name-calling that night reverberated in my head for a while.

As a mentor, I love both Atsushi-kun and Akutagawa equally, but they just couldn't be raised the same way. It would be best he didn't realize, but I do wonder sometimes why Akutagawa doesn’t understand that. His strength is best brought out by pulling out the rug beneath him. He developed an intense desire to survive in his childhood days, and I attached that to a leash (what good is training a dog that you can’t control?). A pathological need for approval from me. It’s like a drug that makes his growth self-sufficient. Atsushi-kun on the other hand, needed a warm and loving environment. He’s too paralyzed by trauma.

When Atsushi-kun asked me how he should feel about the headmaster’s death, I repeated what I most commonly saw. “When someone’s father passes away, they will cry.” (The only death that ever arrested my conscious for more than a moment was Odasaku’s. I can only say it made the hole bigger, which I didn't know how to explain in words.)

Another reason being his first teacher already having taken up residence in that part of his heart, where his abuse carved out a gaping cavern. It would be unwise to compete for the same space, or use the same paralyzing trauma as a motivational device. Atsushi-kun’s fragile mentality requires my daily presence right now, but I do see him improving as time goes by. In a way he’s actually stronger than Akutagawa because of that.

“Victory is yours, Atsushi-kun.” I remember how his face lighted up at those words. I was right. “Your spirit prevails, and this city is saved.”

And with that setup, Akutagawa will crash at him repeatedly for me, and Atsushi-kun will always stop him. Iron sharpening iron, meaning I have less work to do. There’s too much to prepare for before judgment day, I can only nurture so many soldiers at the same time. Especially if they’re in two different organizations that can butt heads anytime. I even have to take care of the toys around Atsushi-kun to make sure they don’t break.

Kyouka-chan was so distressed because she killed thirty-five people, so I gave her some inspiring pep-talk—and compared her case with Atsushi-kun. I couldn’t let her know how many people I've killed. How annoying. I reminded myself again it was for Atsushi-kun’s growth. Raising him was essential in the quest Odasaku guided me to ---save people. To save myself.

“People exist to save themselves...”

Can I believe Odasaku had a feeling called “care” for me, and I for him? Did we need to be certified humans for that?

“A mafia member who doesn't kill...huh,” Odasaku…are you telling me I’m in the right place? Were you leading me to Atsushi-kun? Hah…if only you could see this. He even made the hellhound I trained swear off killing for six months. That’s so incredible. You were right. Being on the side that saves people just might be way more beautiful.

A/N: Yes, I researched how people die and what it feels like in case you’re wondering.

#bungoustraydogs #nakajimaatasushi #osamudazai #anime #manga #fanart #nakaharachuuya #dazai #fanfic #no longer human

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jarienn972 · 6 years

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The Inbetween - Chapter Six

My apologies that this is being posted a day later than scheduled, but due to a minor family emergency, I didn't have access to my laptop yesterday. Anyway, here is the final chapter of my @cssns story, The Inbetween! I've had a lot of fun writing my first ghost story and I hope some of you out there have enjoyed reading it! Thanks @kmomof4 for being such a great cheerleader, to @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 for her wonderful accompanying artwork and to everyone else for their lovely comments and encouragement! (edited to add links and art)

From the beginning on Tumblr: One Two Three Four Five

AO3 FF.net

Scarce seconds would elapse before Emma and Killian were greeted with a cloud of deep violet smoke which gradually dissipated to reveal the forms of both Regina and David, now standing in the middle of the Apprentice's living room with them.

"That was quick," Emma commented sarcastically as her initial surprise faded, mentally questioning why Regina would resort to using magic while in such close proximity to a ghost that fed off of it.

"I wasn't about to go traipsing through the overgrown landscaping in the middle of the night," Regina replied, echoing Emma's sarcastic tone. "And right now, the best course of action for all of us to take would be to leave this place right now, seal it up permanently and forget it exists."

"Sealing the ghost inside?" Emma asked skeptically. "For some reason, after all we've experienced tonight, I highly doubt that would work. There's too much magic here and if this ghost is already capable of enacting his own protection spells, what's to stop him from trying to break ours?"

Regina practically snorted as she chuckled at Emma's unfounded worry. "He's not that powerful," she scoffed.

"Maybe not today, but that could change," Emma reminded her. "The ghost even told us that as All Hallow's Eve approaches, he can draw from even more dark magic, but I have a feeling you already know that. And I think there's a lot more to this story…" She stood to face Regina in the candlelit room, wanting to make sure she could see the mayor's face if she tried to lie to them. "When you lifted the spell that enchanted the hearts, Killian said the spirits went quiet - at least for a couple of minutes. We know that there's at least one very angry spirit still in there. Why didn't he cross over? Don't you have his heart?"

Regina's face scrunched in thought as she fought for a way to relay the story, exhaling a deep sigh. "I'm fairly certain I know where this particular heart is located…"

"It sounds as though there's something you don't want to share with us, your majesty," Killian pressed, disdain practically dripping from his tongue as they awaited the rest of this tale. "The spirit, Jeremiah - David informed us that you believed he was dangerous. Perhaps you would like to clarify that statement?"

"He told us that he was one of your Black Guard," Emma added, "but I have a feeling that we're not getting the whole story…"

"That part is true," Regina stated, although reluctant to reveal details from so long ago. "He was a member of my Black Guard, but he was also a troublesome aspiring warlock."

"A warlock?" Emma repeated, incredulously. "The ghost we've been fighting all night was some sort of warlock? No wonder he's hanging out here in his afterlife with so much magical energy at his disposal. Still doesn't explain though why he didn't cross over with the others, assuming that really was his goal… Why stick around if you've fought so hard to move on?"

"Jeremiah was a special case," Regina began, glancing about the room looking for the least dusty and dingy place to sit, finally deciding simply to lean her weight against a wall. "My Black Guard were the inner circle of my army, hand-picked either by myself or my closest confidants and entrusted to carry out my orders without question. They were required to be a particularly ruthless bunch by design and I expected loyalty from them. One night, I caught Jeremiah snooping through my spell books without permission and even though I probably should have turned him into a toad or something right then and there, it was just before I cast the first curse so I must have been feeling somewhat benevolent that night because I simply ripped out his heart and made him my slave instead."

"Why is it that so many of your stories sound alike?" David asked rhetorically as Regina ignored his sarcasm - even though he was correct. "I had a feeling you remembered who he was when I mentioned his name earlier."

"If it was just before the curse, was he brought to Storybrooke then or did he come here later?" Emma wondered, trying to place where he might have fit into Storybrooke daily life.

"He came with us during the first curse. I know he was working at the Post Office during that time, but I lost track of him after the curse was broken. I honestly don't know when or how he died. You'd have to check with the town clerk for that information, but since he knows his real name and who he was in the Enchanted Forest, obviously he died after the curse broke."

"So, let me guess - you can't actually find his heart?" was David's next question. "Even though you say you know where it is, I have a suspicion that he didn't cross over because his heart isn't actually here…"

"Oh, I know precisely where Jeremiah's heart is located," Regina snapped back defensively. "I just can't be sure if the enchantment actually lifted or if he simply doesn't want to cross over."

"He tried to possess Killian again after the other ghosts departed, so to speak," Emma said as she tried to put the new information Regina had provided together with their interactions with Jeremiah. "We think he might be after something that requires a physical body to obtain. Any idea what that might be?"

"My first guess is that he's trying to find a way to get to me - to get his heart back before I crush it," Regina stated.

"I don't think he'd actually need a physical body to try to kill you, especially since he tried to drop a chandelier on us earlier tonight. I'm still thinking there's something you're not telling us…" Emma's green eyes darkened, sparking angry with the flickering candlelight as everyone was now staring at Regina, awaiting an answer.

"Why would you have told us he's dangerous and why come all the way out here if you could stop him simply by crushing his heart?" David questioned. Something simply wasn't adding up here.

"Fine!" Regina huffed impetuously. "I've known the ghosts were here for a while and I knew Jeremiah was one of them." She took a deep breath before continuing. "When I took Jeremiah's heart, I looked him in the eyes and told him I wasn't going to crush it, but that instead, I was going to punish him for his insolence. I sealed his heart into a little silver box and locked it away in my vault - and in doing so, bound his magic and sent him to my dungeon until the curse was cast."

She paused to gauge their reactions before going on but no one seemed to be particularly horrified by her revelation. Had everyone grown so accustomed to tales of her evil deeds that they weren't even the least surprised by her actions anymore?

"When the curse created Storybrooke," Regina continued, "everyone had false memories implanted into their psyche, so I saw it as a chance to make Jeremiah useful again. I gave him a new civil service job - one as monotonous as possible - as punishment. But it seems that sometime after the curse broke, Jeremiah regained enough of his memories to realize he was missing his heart. Most never regain that memory, but in his case, not only did he remember about his heart, but the curse breaking must have freed him from the spell that I'd enacted to bind his magic. With magic returned to Storybrooke, he tried to resume his experimentations, but without a heart, he wouldn't have been able to summon the emotion necessary to grow and guide his powers so, while we were all distracted dealing with my mother, Greg and Tamara, Jeremiah apparently went on a quest to find his heart - to no avail. While we were in Neverland searching for Henry, he broke into my vault, but his heart wasn't there…"

"Do we even want to know it's actual location or how Jeremiah ended up being a cranky, magic-absorbing spirit haunting the Sorcerer's mansion?" Emma asked, curious as to what Regina would answer, yet somewhat afraid what that same answer might be.

"His heart was still sealed inside its little silver box back in my castle, where it would have remained probably for eternity, but then, as you know - Zelena happened. When the Wicked Witch took over my castle, she also took control over all of the magical objects I'd left behind, one of those being Jeremiah's heart. The curse your mother cast to bring everyone back here to Storybrooke of course also brought Zelena, and with her, many of those same magical trinkets and enchanted hearts. She had no idea who any of those belonged to yet somehow, Jeremiah knew his heart was back here in Storybrooke and the fool attempted to ally himself with Zelena, then still pretending to be Snow White's midwife, to get it back. When I found out the traitor was helping my sister, I got a bit irate and snapped his neck, leaving his body out in the forest. I know Henry wanted me to try being the better person, but I wasn't exactly there yet and since Jeremiah was working for the Wicked Witch of the West, he was as much of an enemy to us as she was. Honestly, I didn't think another thing about what I'd done until the first time someone reported a presence in the Sorcerer's mansion. At first, I thought it was just Gold up to no good again, but I later discovered it was actually paranormal activity. Ghosts don't exactly scare me so I ignored their existence - until David came knocking on my door tonight."

"Damnit, Regina! Why didn't you tell anyone else about this?" David chided her. "Especially if you thought it was Jeremiah?"

"Because at the time, I had a lot more to worry about than a ghost!" Regina shouted back at him. "And at the time, I had no reason to believe that he might be dangerous, but that changed tonight when you told me he'd possessed the pirate's body."

"Okay," Emma interjected, putting an end to the bickering, at least temporarily. "That's all in the past, but we still have to find a way to deal with Jeremiah here in the present. How are we going to stop him from getting any more powerful before Halloween and leaving this house to reign terror on the citizens of Storybrooke? I witnessed one ghostly possession tonight and I really don't want to ever see another. How do we deal with this spirit once and for all?"

"Would crushing the heart now dispatch his trapped soul to the Underworld?" Killian asked.

"Perhaps - If we can get to it," Regina replied sheepishly as another important fact she'd been concealing was about to surface.

"You told us just minutes ago that you knew where it was." David reminded her.

"Oh, I do," Regina assured him, extending her index finger in the direction of the main house. "It's in there."

"Inside the mansion?" Emma couldn't believe what she'd just heard. "You put the heart of the ghost who's hunting for it inside the same mansion he's haunting?'

"In my defense, I didn't actually put it there." Regina retorted. "It seems to have landed here during the curse. I remember seeing it here in one of those little secret rooms when we were hunting for the Author. I should have come back for it, but once Isaac was freed, things escalated pretty quickly around here…"

Emma sighed as she dropped back onto the sofa, sinking into the cushions beside Killian who was rubbing his bleary eyes with his thumb and index finger. "Okay - so where do we find it and how are we going to get in there to look?"

"It's in a little room off of the library - some narrow chamber that Henry located when we were looking for the door pictured in the book," Regina explained.

"A little narrow, tunnel-like corridor?" David asked, seeking clarification as Regina nodded in reply. "I think I know where it is. The kids tonight got themselves stuck in a secret passage connecting the living room to the library. There's a false stone built into the fireplace that opens up a panel in the wall. That has to be the same one, so if we can get back inside, I can go retrieve the box."

"If we can get around Jeremiah's protective spells. I highly doubt he'll let us back inside without trying to kill us all again," Emma responded, struggling to think of another way to do this.

"I'm hardly worried about a ghost's spell," Regina chuffed. "I can get us through that easily. Jeremiah wasn't ever that skilled of a warlock and I doubt he's gotten better in death. I can lower the spell long enough for you to get inside."

"Someone would have to go with me," David stated. "The door doesn't stay open long so someone has to stay inside the living room to reopen it once I get the box. What exactly am I looking for anyway?"

Regina closed her eyes as she pictured the box so she could describe its appearance to David. "It's a rectangular box made out of silver - about four by six inches and maybe two inches deep. Just large enough to hold a heart. There's a polished, oval onyx stone on the latch and the lock is sealed with blood magic so that only someone of my bloodline can open it. It'll be tucked away in an alcove just off of that corridor. There isn't a lot inside there so you should be able to locate it quickly."

"Alright then," David said with a smile. "Let's go find it."

"I'll go with you," Emma offered, "as long as someone can manage to keep Jeremiah occupied long enough for me to poof us inside and grab that box."

"I can distract the spirit," Killian spoke up. "He wants to possess me, so what better way to maintain his attention than to let him try again."

"No way," Emma said, shaking her head vigorously. "It's too dangerous. Even if he can't fully possess you anymore, his presence still seems to have a negative effect on you. You went into some sort of trance and if that happens again, he could kill you!"

"Unfortunately, I happen to agree with the pirate," Regina countered. "It would be perfect to use him as bait - so to speak." She added the latter in response to Emma's glare. "Don't worry. I'll be there with him. I won't allow Jeremiah to harm him."

"I suppose we don't have much choice," Emma scowled. "Let's go then. We've got a ghost to bust and get this night over with."

True to her word, Regina made quick work of Jeremiah's protective barrier, lowering it and surreptitiously enacting one of her own. She informed Emma and David that they'd have approximately ten minutes to retrieve the heart before Jeremiah's spirit energy would begin draining their magic so they'd have to make this quick. David recited a silent prayer to whatever god might be listening as he and Emma transported into the living room, enveloped in a swirl of grey smoke. Switching on his flashlight, he wasted no time hurrying to the fireplace to show Emma the location of the fake stone that would allow her to open the panel concealed inside the wall.

As the panel slid open, David aimed the flashlight beam into the dark recess, but couldn't see much in the inky blackness. At least so far, they'd been left alone. Whatever Regina and Hook were doing to keep the ghost entertained appeared to be working because they'd yet to face any resistance.

"Be back in a moment," David promised his daughter before ducking his head and stepping inside the hidden passageway while she waited impatiently in the living room, listening for their agreed upon pattern of knocks so she'd know when to press the stone. Please make this quick, she whispered as she heard the panel snap closed.

Regina, in the meantime, had transported Killian and herself into the vestibule, wisely avoiding entering the mansion anywhere near the kitchen. They were here simply to draw and maintain Jeremiah's undivided attention, keeping the ghost away from the living room so that David and Emma could retrieve the heart. They weren't here to chase a ghost throughout the depths of the property and Regina wanted this night to end just as rapidly as Emma did.

"You really should have spent more time practicing how to conjure a proper protective spell, Jeremiah," Regina announced her presence with a statement clearly designed to antagonize him.

"And as if he wasn't angry enough…" Killian muttered under his breath, nearly convinced that Regina actually was trying to get them both killed. "You certainly got his attention, Love," he added as he heard the spirit's unenthralled response.

"That was my intention. He was an unskilled, second-rate warlock - barely deserving of that description," she continued to goad the invisible entity as above their heads, the vestibule's light fixture began to sway on its chrome chain, the heavy crystal sphere hovering precariously over them. Regina managed to throw a protective barrier around them just as that chain snapped, deflecting the sphere away from them where it shattered against the marble floor sending lethal glass shards flying in every direction.

"I do believe our host is a tad irate," Killian quipped sarcastically.

"Good," she stated in reply. "Let him use all of that energy throwing things at us…"

"And what if he starts draining your magic?" he asked, recalling the challenges Emma had faced earlier in the evening.

"He's only one ghost. He can't draw all of it away that swiftly, but for all of our sakes, let's hope that Charming makes it snappy locating that box!"

"Agreed," Killian nodded as they watched a new scene unfold before them. The shards of broken glass began to draw together, swirled up and around in a miniature cyclone of shiny, deadly projectiles. "I do hope this magical barricade you've enacted is powerful enough to withstand that…" The spinning vortex began to pick up speed and girth as it moved towards them, mercifully repelled by Regina's protective spell, but as the shards scattered back across the marble surface, the spell faltered, leaving them incredibly vulnerable to another attack.

"Damn!" she exclaimed, shaking her hands furiously as she tried in vain to raise the spell again, but she simply couldn't draw enough magic. "He can't possibly be that strong…"

"I hate to disappoint you, Regina, but it would appear that you've misjudged this entity!" Killian shouted, a split-second before some manner of malevolent force struck them both from behind - one strong enough to send them both sprawling to the floor.

"I don't like what I'm hearing out there, Dad," Emma shouted anxiously toward the panel in the wall, startled by the sound of something heavy - and apparently very breakable - striking a solid surface. "Have you found it yet?"

On the other side of the wall, David crouched with the silver box clutched tightly beneath his arm while he pounded furiously against the wall. He'd remembered, a little too late, one very important fact Tyler Sprat and his friends had told him earlier - the passageway allowed them to hear sounds from outside, but no one outside could hear sounds from inside the tunnel. Emma was out there waiting for him to knock, but she wasn't going to be able to hear him and he'd stupidly left the radio back in the butler's quarters. But on this early morning, he couldn't have been more thankful for his daughter's impatience when the panel slid open and he could see the beacon of her flashlight.

"Everything okay in there?" she called out into the darkness as she made her way from the fireplace over to the passage entrance right as David scrambled out.

"I forgot that you wouldn't be able to hear me," he confessed. "I'm so glad you decided to open up the panel anyway."

"Did you find it?" she cut him off even more impatiently. "I'm hearing all sorts of loud noises coming from out there…"

"Yes, I found it," he replied, holding up the tarnished silver box where she could see it.

"Well, then, we'd better hurry up before that ghost drains all of Regina's magic."

"This way then," David said as he clasped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her toward the arched doorway that would lead back to the vestibule, arriving just in time to see both Killian and Regina be tossed to the floor by an invisible force, landing amidst a scattering of shiny objects that reflected the glow of her flashlight. Broken glass from the light fixture, she realized as the beam illuminated the metal chain coiled on the floor.

Regina was livid as she pressed her bloodied hands to the floor, catching glimpses of Emma's flashlight in the hallway to her left, maintaining hope that she and Charming had located the heart. On her right, the pirate had pushed himself up onto his knees and even though she couldn't see his facial expression in this dark vestibule, she assumed that Killian would be equally angered at Jeremiah shoving them around. In actuality, Killian had scarcely been given a moment to recover before the ghost turned his full attention on him and drew the pirate into a trance-like state yet again.

As Emma and David approached, they heard what sounded like clanking metal which Emma immediately realized was the sound of the chain she'd just spotted on the floor now moving on its own. She directed her light to where she'd seen it lying earlier just as the chain lifted off of the floor to encircle Killian's neck.

"Killian!" she wailed, hoping he would hear her cry and break from the trance, but he remained unmoving, making no attempt to fend off strangulation as the chain tightened about his neck under Jeremiah's power. Emma's jaw gaped open as she instinctively yanked the silver box out of her father's hand, offering it up to the vicious entity. "Is this what you want, Jeremiah?" she cried out, done with this spirit's antics.

"Emma, what are you doing?" Regina demanded. "Don't let him get ahold of that!" She didn't want to hand over their only bargaining chip to Jeremiah, but she understood Emma's anxiety as she grabbed ahold of the chain and tried to pull it free from Killian's neck before his airway was completely cut off. The chains weren't budging though and Regina suddenly had a feeling of helplessness wash over her as she sensed her magic being drained away only to be absorbed by the very entity they were fighting.

"Sorry, Regina. Gotta do this my way," Emma countered as she then addressed the ghost. "Let Killian go and you can have the box!" The moment she shouted the words to their invisible enemy, the box flew from her grasp and both the chain and Killian dropped to the floor. The box landed atop the marble on the opposite side of the staircase, out of the reach of any human's hand at the moment, but it rattled and vibrated wildly as though the ghost were struggling to get it open.

Emma crouched beside Killian, tossing the chain away from him as he gasped for breath, no longer transfixed by Jeremiah's spell. She drew her arms around him protectively as they glanced over at the silver box lifting off of the floor and flying into the wall. It was as though Jeremiah had become frustrated with his inability to open it and free his heart so he'd flung box and all against the wall in hopes that it would break open - but he wouldn't be so lucky.

"Why did you let him get the box?" David asked in frustration after all they'd done to recover it. "Won't that make him more dangerous?"

"It would - if we weren't a step ahead of our supernatural friend here this time," Emma replied cryptically as her right hand slipped inside of her leather jacket. "I'm sorry, Jeremiah, but it's time for you to rejoin your companions in the Underworld…" As she withdrew her hand, she revealed the deep, ruby red heart clutched in her palm and then tightened her fingers around it. She felt the entity descending upon her as she crushed it to dust, an act which she normally would have harbored immense guilt over, but Jeremiah was already dead. She was only helping him move on, as he should, Emma told herself as she squeezed it until there was nothing left but a pile of ash billowing from her fist.

No one said a word for a few seconds as a brilliant flash of light lit up the vestibule and the scattering of dust was picked up in another mini-cyclone like the one that Jeremiah had created with the glass shards earlier but this one vanished in a flash. Killian was finally the one to break the silence. "He's gone," he said in a raspy whisper before collapsing against Emma.

"Hope this afterlife is better for you, Jeremiah," Emma stated as she pushed herself to stand up and then helped her husband to his feet, carefully dusting away glittering crystal slivers with her sleeve.

Feeling her magic restored, Regina waved her hand and the front door swung open, revealing the first faint hint of the morning sunrise to the east. "I think we can all safely go home now," she smiled as she stood. "I think the mayor just might be taking today off," she announced to the others before disappearing in a purple cloud.

"I think I'm in full agreement," David laughed, taking a tentative step through the doorway, not yet convinced that they could leave freely, but there was no barrier to stop him from strolling out to the porch.

"C'mon, pirate," she urged her exhausted husband. "We should probably go get your head checked out…" Emma suggested as they followed David through the front door, pulling it closed behind them before Emma sealed the lock with magic. David started to descend the steps towards his truck, but paused as he reached the flagstone walk, turning to Emma with a look of pure confusion on his face.

"I've got a question for you, Emma," he turned, glancing up at his daughter who was still standing on the porch. "Regina said that the box was sealed with blood magic, so how did you manage to get it open and take the heart out? And how did you know that it would work?"

"Before we left the Apprentice's living room, Regina gave me a tiny vial of her blood - just enough to break the seal. She figured we might need it, and did we ever! I opened up the box and stashed the heart in my jacket while we were making our way down the hallway in the dark. The rest was just a little bit of misdirection."

"I, for one, am quite pleased that it worked," Killian stated with a weary, but grateful smile. "Now - may we please go home? I'll be fine…" He lowered his aching bones to sit on the top step and slumped his tired body against the railing, simply too exhausted to take another step.

"Looks like I'll be making a trip back for the Bug later," Emma grinned. "Thanks for all of your help tonight, Dad."

"Anytime," he assured her. "Have a good night - err, morning?" he chuckled as she wrapped her arm around Killian and they poofed away in a puff of smoke.

Emma transported them straight to their bedroom, depositing Killian atop their king-sized bed. She helped him shrug off his leather jacket while he toed off his boots then fell back against the pile of pillows, not even caring that he was still clothed. It didn't take long for him to drift off and while she had some lingering concerns about his head injury, she decided she wasn't in the mood to deal with Dr. Whale at this hour so she set her alarm to go off in two hours, remembering something she'd read somewhere that you should wake a person with a concussion every couple of hours to make sure they hadn't slipped into deep unconsciousness.

Since he'd fallen asleep atop the comforter, she yanked a quilt off of the back of the armchair sitting in the corner and draped it over him. She then slipped off her own leather jacket, tossing it right onto the same spot she'd removed the quilt from before she unzipped and removed her boots and collapsed onto the bed herself. She snuggled in close to him, tugging half of the quilt over her own body while pressing a kiss into his cheek and finally, resting her head atop his chest to hear the comforting sound of his heart beating beneath her ear.

What a night, was the last thought that crossed her mind as she faded into slumber. Maybe the Sheriff would be taking the day off too.

Thanks for reading! Here’s one more look at the character art Kayla @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 created for this story as well.

#cssns #captain swan supernatural summer #cs ff #cs ghost ff

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