#often id see people with the bigger numbers and i tell myself to be better or if im not good enough. i cant help but feel that

[pansear-doodles]

imposter syndrome is a bitch

it can happen to artists you think are already enough or are skilled and great in your eyes

as much as it motivates us to improve ourselves and do better, its still not a pleasant feeling at all

its a persistent cycle of admiring someone who doubts themselves and i dont think its selfish to think that "you're not good enough"

because life has been cruel to us and for most of our lives we've been taught to "suck it up" or that we fear that our outputs are invalid in some way or mean nothing to anyone- the outputs that have parts of ourselves in it, even if it isn't meant to take a part of ourselves- it still came from us nonetheless

posts can easily say that you should be kind to yourself more but when it comes to trauma and something that's been with you since childhood, it's not as simple to shake off

it can take years and years- varies for every individual- and even then the people around you, the world and even yourself will change

as much as its awkward or a downer to see, be kind to artists who are hard on themselves. its not your obligation to give them attention. no, i dont think every single person who sees a vent post should come up to the person and be there for them to cry on their shoulder.

i just think at the very least we should understand that every single person you meet and the artists you admire are imperfect, and they will continue to think crappy thoughts about themselves- unlike in fantasies where its some simple character arc that is a story obstacle that can be overcome and forgotten about- fantasy is meant to be a fulfillment- a desire.

we are real human beings, but we can learn and grow and live.

#this is unfortunately why some of my friendships ended. this insecurity has controlled a lot of my life but im trying to break from it #often id see people with the bigger numbers and i tell myself to be better or if im not good enough. i cant help but feel that #“trauma isnt an excuse” for shitty behavior towards others? yes. but for people thinking crap about themselves and cant help it? not really #do you think i can be not sad at the flick of a switch? you assume i can emotionally cope well as much as everyone else simply? why? #anyway to all of my mutuals who think harshly of themselves. youre all alright. we are all here to have a good time. take things slow. #this might just me being silly neurodivergent again but there's nothing wrong with being careful like this. it *may* just be me after all #but who knows but me #thoughts

[goodnightallwhites]

Welcome to the Blackworth Family By BlackingPacking

Welcome to the Blackworth Family 

By BlackingPacking 

Submitted: December 9, 2019 Updated: December 10, 2019 

Blackworth Home is one of the most prestigious boarding schools in the country. A boarding school where the students are a family. 

That's not why Ashley went there though. She went there because She's an eager young snowbunny who needs to go to the only school that lets her have all the big black cock she could ever want. 

A discord request. 

Provided by Hentai Foundry.

Chapter 1 - I go to a Blacked school 2 

Chapter 2 - I watch Dorothy get Blacked 8 

1 - I go to a Blacked school 

I spent most of my time at home in my room, behind the tall, artificial wood door that read ‘ASHLEY’ in big letters. The room wasn’t much. It was square with light blue walls, a bed right opposite from the door with a shelf on its left and a chair on its right, and my desk for homework in the corner. Nothing much fun. 

It was just another feature of my family’s plain, boring little suburban home, with a boring life forced onto me. 

I tried to have my fun of course. I kept in touch with as many friends as possible, spent plenty of time online, and even got a boyfriend. My best friend in the world was Dorothy, a girl I loved so much, most people thought we were lesbians. Not that we didn’t have our fun, but I still love dick. Well, at least as a concept. My boyfriend had a 3 inch little shrimp dick, complete with a hentai collection and getting turned on by the Human Centipede. Why I stayed with him I didn’t know. I didn’t even spend much time with him, and he wasn’t my type. What I really needed was someone more... rebellious. I was a bit of a troublemaker. I didn’t behave for teachers or parents and I skipped school often. I’d even watch porn. People said I looked like Riley Reid, but with bigger tits. I even experimented with a few drugs and got all slutty at parties, but that was a secret for only Dorothy and me. 

Dorothy was even more of a slut than I was, despite her smaller tits. I sure loves the occasional sexytime with her. A shame, though, that her ditching school and porn viewing was less safe than mine. She got caught, bad. Now she was at some boarding school, year round. It sounded awful. 

That’s what I thought, at least. 

But then, in the mail one day, I got a letter from her. Well, technically it was a few days late, since neither of my parents bother to get the mail. Still, I was surprised to get the formal letter, reading 

BLACKWORTH HOME FOR TROUBLED STUDENTS 

I opened the letter. To my shock, the first thing I saw inside were... polaroid pictures? 

Yeah, about half a dozen polaroid pictures, all with Dorothy’s tight holes by some of the biggest dicks I’ve ever seen. All the guys were black, with freakishly huge cocks. I thought cocks like that only existed in porn, and that my boyfriend’s penis was just average. But nope, those black cocks were real. Plenty looked way bigger than in porn too. 

I just had to read what she actually sent. The letter read: 

Dear Ashley, 

I’ve missed you here! I’m sorry that I haven’t been writing or texting or calling but it’s been so much fun here! I’ve totally converted to big black cock! And I want you to too. I hope you aren’t dating that 

little loser anymore but if you are you’d better stop RIGHT NOW because I’m about to change your life. 

As a fellow white girl you should really consider what nature intended...let me tell you about how great it is to be a true snowbunny. A snowbunny can help save other white girls from disappointing relationships with white guys, nature truly intended for black men to rule over us. White boys have no place here in the ideal world us girls must forge a path and share our knowledge with other girls and together we can all worship and achieve happiness with our black masters,your body should help breed more black men we need to get rid of gross white boys together. When they are all gone the world will be perfect and we can all feast on black cock. 

I’ve filled out an application for you, so don’t worry about having to bother. You deserve this, I know I did. 

XOXO, 

Dorothy 

Attached to it was an acceptance letter from Blackworth Home. 

I didn’t tell my parents about the letter or the pictures, but I was eager as fuck to tell them about the whole boarding school thing. It seemed like a sort of fantasy, going to a school like that. I fucking hated the idea of being sent a way to a boarding school that wasn’t magical, but I think this one just damn may well have been. 

My parents were thrilled at the idea. The school had great student reviews, and was said to promote a healthy racial environment. I smiled when I heard that, since I knew exactly what that meant. My parents saw it as a good thing too, since my school had a bit of a racism problem. Thankfully, the problem kids weren’t anybody I knew. 

People I know! I forgot all about my boyfriend! Little shrimp dick was small enough to always slip out of my pussy, so he totally slipped my mind too. That day was the last time I ever spoke to him, texting him simply 

I’m sorry, this isn’t working. 

I didn’t need to see him at school because I didn’t go there anymore. I worked hard to talk to the Blackworth admissions team, and managed to get myself an ASAP entry to the school. In just a few weeks, I would be boarding a train and heading to the academy. No boyfriend, no old school, no judgement. And Dorothy too! 

I had never felt so liberated. And I haven’t even left yet! 

The arrangement was that I arrive a few weeks before Winter break, and spend exam time catching up on the material for next semester. I ordered all my books ahead of time, and even began studying. I wanted to spend my time at school doing what Dorothy sent me right away, and I wasn’t going to let a bit of homework get in the way of me sitting on a massive, black cock like she told me filled the school. 

With her letters as a guide, I went shopping too. All brand new clothes that were mostly ripped, low-cut, or sluttier than anything I’d ever worn before. I loved the school uniform too. 

On the ride there, I wore a simple grey hoodie and black leggings on the train, with my black hair tied back. I had never ridden on a train before, but this wouldn’t be the last train run with where I was going. That thought made me grin as a pulled my big suitcase and full backpack into the corner I would ride in. I watched the scenery go by in a big, cushioned chair hidden in the corner. I got it wet through my leggings, I was just so horny. So ready for this. 

I pulled up some porn on my phone, put my headphones in, and listened to the star’s sweet voice narrate how she met up with her tall, muscular, black pool boy, and they fucked like there was no tomorrow. I stealthily took my arm out of my hoodie’s sleeve and snuck it down to my crotch, where I fingered my soaking pussy right there, on the public train. 

Soon, I was there. I got a few looks with how soaking wet the insides of my leggings were, and when I took the headphones out I think the sound kept playing for half a second, but I didn’t even care. I wasn’t ever going to see these people again, now that I was at my new home. Blackworth. 

It was a huge campus, in the middle of the woods on the border of the Carolinas where a massive old slave plantation used to be, before the slaves revolted in the 1830’s. Now it had a few massive, brick and stone buildings, all square, tall, and imposing. I walked in, got my picture taken, and got a photo ID with a room number- 1573. Building one, floor 5, room 73. Right where Dorothy told me her room was. 

I went up there on the old elevator. It felt like the stairs would be quicker, this thing was so old. There were drawings carved into the wooden walls. Most were “girl x boy” and “name was here”, but somewhere hotter. One was a phone number, saying ‘white girls text me’, another was a room number for the boys dorm that just said ‘orgy?’. One was a tiny dick carved next to a huge one saying ‘white vs black’. Fun. The ride took so long that I almost fingered myself right there. The floor was a little sticky, so it wouldn’t be the first time I thought. Gross, but kinda hot. 

The door opened, and there waiting for me was my best friend. 

“Ashley!” Dorothy smiled, jumping up to give me a huge hug. I was shocked to see how she was dressed. She had a peach yellow crop top on that barely went below her nipples (and her tits weren’t even that big!), and hot pink and black short shorts that where basically a small rectangle around her hips. It left nothing to the imagination, and I liked it. 

“Dorothy! You look so good!” I said, hugging her back, squeezing against her perky little tits. 

“Ow-ow!” she mutters, pulling away. 

“What is it?” I ask 

“Nothing,” she grins, “It’s just that I got a tattoo the other day and it’s still kinda sore.” 

“A tattoo? Didn’t you used to say you never wanted to get a tattoo?” 

“Well, that was before I became a snowbunny, silly. Wanna see it?” 

“Sure,” I said. She turned around, pulling up the back of her shirt to show on her back, in big, curly letters, 

SNOW - BUNNY with a little heart in the middle. 

“Like it?” my brown-haired best friend asked. 

“I love it! How do you get a tattoo in a place like this?” 

“This isn’t some stuffy old normal boarding school, you know,” she started walking down the hall, “We’ve got a tattoo parlor, a movie theater, an sex toy store, a hair salon- it’s so great. You’ll love it.” 

As I walked behind her, I noticed she had another tattoo on her thigh. A little queen of spades. It wasn’t there in the polaroids she sent. 

“So how come you can’t use your phone?” 

“Oh- that’s just because of the school’s network. We can use them in class even, but it’s really hard to communicate with people outside of campus without the computers, and I don’t much like email. Sorry about that.” 

“No problem,” I said. Then, in front of us, I saw a tall, skinny white boy turn the corner a walk into a room, looking at Dorothy with pervy eyes. “Wait-” I asked her, “Isn’t this the girl’s dorm?” 

“No, no, this is the white dorm- white boys got really uncomfortable and black guys got really weirded out by having to live in the same dorms, so they changed it. It’s kinda weird, with all these tiny white guys around, but they’re harmless. Flash your tits once a week or so and they’ll do literally anything for you. Besides, you can always just live in the black dorm if you find a guy you like,” she grinned and nudged me in the shoulder, “But I get first dibs at orgies- remember that.” 

“How often are orgies?” I asked. 

“All the time. Ah, here’s our room,” she unlocked the door and pushed it open, showing me our place. It had brown and blue walls with a wooden bunk bed, carved desks for both of us, and a fluffy carpet that Dorothy bought. I recognized it. 

“Is this-” 

“Where the polaroids were taken?” she grinned, “Yeah. I don’t like orgies on the carpet, it’s messy- they cum a lot. The beds are good though, the white boys clean it up.” 

“They do that for you?” 

“For us. If they work really hard, tell ‘em about the fun you’ve had with black guys. The white boys love it.” 

“Really? They’re always so insecure about black guys-” 

“At our old school? I know, Ash, but here they learn fast. Besides, there’s no pretense anymore about them not having little dicks.” 

I laughed. “Haha! So is that, like, more than just a rumor here?” 

She laughed too, “Yeah, it is! They’ve done all sorts of studies on it. We learned about it in Anatomy class. Ask Mrs. McMeekin about it.” 

Just my luck, Mrs. McMeekin, our grade’s science teacher, was my first tutor. Thankfully, I had everything ready from my old school. The curriculum I wasn’t caught up with wasn’t hard to get down, so I got to talk with Mrs. McMeekin. I didn’t like talking to teachers much, but I loved talking to the ones here. 

“So- um, Dorothy told me to ask you about white boys being- um-” 

“Small?” she asked, smiling. She was a beautiful woman with long, brown hair, a long, thin face, and some round but a little aged boobs. In between them was a Queen of Spades necklace. 

“Y-yeah.” I said, looking away from her cleavage, down at her feet. She had a QoS tattoo on her ankle too. Dayum. 

She smiled again. “No need to feel weird. I know Dorothy- one of the most enthusiastic little snowbunnies I’ve ever taught. And yes, white boys are uniquely sexually unsatisfying for us modern women,” she explained. 

“How?” I asked, more confident. 

“It’s about how the nerves work, you see. White males are used to growing up comfortably, as such, evolution has made them lose their defense mechanisms. When they feel something brush up against their penis, it’s usually intentional, so they cum very fast, just getting the sex over with once the stimulation gets to them. Black males come from a more dangerous life- in Africa for thousands of years, then in slavery, they had to adapt to only use their valuable seed when absolutely nescecary. So they are genetically predisposed to needing a long, long time of intense sexual stimulation to achieve ejaculation.” 

“Wow- that makes so much sense!” 

“Well, it’s just my job,” she smiled with happy blue eyes. 

“So- you said you know Dorothy? Has she been a good student?” 

“Well, she’s a lot better at English and History than science, but she’s pretty good, when she’s not with Jason,” she shook her head. Her boobs jiggled. 

“Jason?” I asked. 

“Jason Blackwolf. His family’s been going to this school for generations. You’ll probably know him soon- he’s a year older than you, but he’s huge. Tall, muscled. Big- nnf” she poked her cheek with her tongue and made a grabbing motion at her crotch like she was holding a huge bulge.” 

“And Dorothy- and him?” 

“Well, I know she’s obsessed with him. Really goes into the whole ‘master’ thing with him.” 

“Uh- Master?” 

“Oh! Did you not read the school’s webpage? The heads of houses are called the house Mistress and Master, with some houses preferring Mother and Father, usually a black man and white girl.” I nodded along, “Since that tradition started, girls have been called sisters, black guys masters, and white boys brothers. It fits the whole family thing we try to make this school. It’s called a house, not an academy, for just that reason.” 

“Oh, cool. So I’m Sister Ashley, and she’s Sister Dorothy?” 

“Yup. And No problem. I don’t blame you for reading everything this school gives you. I didn’t when I was your age, and I’m doing just fine.” 

I smiled. She sure was. Then I looked at my watch. “I- uh, have a meeting with Mr. Bates in like five minutes, so I have to go- but thank you for helping me, Miss McMeekin!” I walked off. 

“It’s Mrs!” she told me, flashing a ring with another smile. “And yes, he’s white. If you need any more help, I’ll be here.” 

2 - I watch Dorothy get Blacked 

Wow. What a first meeting. 

Sadly, none of the other teachers were that fun. They had a diverse faculty, both in sex and race, which was definitely a plus, but I guess it was a school first and foremost. It wasn’t a waste of time though, since I managed to get to know the layout of the school. 

When I went back to the dorm room, I was ready for the fun night Dorothy had promised she had every night. 

Instead, I found her walking around the white student’s common room. “Where is it? Where is it?” She kept asking. 

“What is it?” I walked up to her. 

“I wanna go introduce you to Jason, my favorite black master! But I can’t find the key card to the boy’s dorm he gave me, and I don’t wanna wait to be let in like some horny freshman girl! Help me look!” 

Looking under the couch at my feet, I saw a boy- a white boy! A small guy, looking about my age but barely masculine, with dark brown hair and a smooth face. 

“Uh- who is that?” I asked. 

“Oh- that’s Bill- or, Bob, whatever. He’s a friend of mine! He does my homework. He’s helping me look.” 

“Oh,” I got down to his level. “Hey. I’m Ashely. Nice to meet you.” 

“Hi-” He got up to shake my head, blushing as I looked into his eyes. “Everyone just calls me BP.” 

“Ok, uh, BP. Why do you do Dorothy’s homework? She’s smart. Hell, she even did my homework.” 

“Um- she spends her time outside of class with her black friends. Usually Jason. So I do it for her.” 

“Really? Nice.” 

“Found it!” Dorothy lifted the card up, now come on, I wanna see Jason!” 

I followed her, and BP walked with us to get to his dorm. 

“So,” I asked BP, “Could you do my homework too? Because I’m kinda ass at the things Dorothy’s good at.” 

He nodded. “Of course.” 

“And- could you tutor me too? I’m kinda scared, going to a private boarding school, and you seem smart enough.” 

“R-really?” he asked, looking at me with wide eyes. He’s just a little shorter than me. “T-that’d be nice. Are you going home for Christmas? I’m gonna stay here.” 

“I think I wanna stay here,” I smiled, “What about you, Dorothy?” I asked. 

“Of course I wanna spend Christmas here! Hell, I wanna spend summer here to. You’ll see soon.” We kept walking. “And you better not be flirting with my friend, BP. Trust me, Ash, his dick’s like this big,” she held up her pinky, “Don’t even bother.” 

He turned bright red. “I-I wasn’t.” 

I elbowed him. “Hey, I know. Don’t feel bad. I’m gonna see Jason anyway soon, you know that.” 

He nodded. “Trust me, you’re gonna like him. He’s-” he gulped, “Really big. And you’ll get that big bed all to yourself- the black guys get a whole room with a queen size bed.” 

“Nice,” I said, smiling. 

Dorothy opened the double doors to the boy’s dorm, then going to the black guy’s half. She made sure we quickly closed the door behind us so no freshman girls could get in. That made them mad. 

The black boy’s hallway was as beautiful as the rest of the school. It was brown wood with green carpet and big natural light pouring in with yellow evening light. In the middle of the hallway stood a huge guy, over six feet tall with perfect muscles through his Blackworth fleece and jeans. He looked like a bit of a rebel, with a fade cut with the top left messy. He had diamond stud earrings and a silver chain in his pocket. On his feet were expensive brand sneakers. He smirked possessively. 

“Ayo Dorothy!” he smiled, raising his arm. She ran up and hugged him tightly. 

“Ashley,” she said, “this is Master Jason. We’re gonna have fun tonight, aren’t we babe?” she looked up at him. 

“You know it bitch,” he smiled. “Nice to meetcha Ashley,” he shook my hand. Damn, it was so big and warm. I could already see a bulge in his pants. I wondered how big and warm that was. “Sup BP?” he fistbumped BP too. They clearly knew each other. And damn, Jason’ hand dwarfed the white boy’s. 

I noticed that plenty of white girls were kissing black guys, or getting their asses groped. I even saw some tits being sucked and dicks being choked on. Everyone walked past like it was nothing. It looked like Jason and Dorothy would join them very soon. 

“I’m sorry for not being able to come last night! I had to get the dorm ready for Ashley.” 

“It’s fine, babe. You just gotta make up for it when I cum tonight,” he said. She smiled at his little joke. 

BP walked back and sat on a bench, making himself small while I watched Dorothy feel up Jason. 

“So, how’s your first day been?” he asked me as Dorothy helped him take off his button down uniform shirt and fleece. She opened his room’s door and tossed them in. 

“Um, pretty good. I talked to some of the teachers, I really like what this school’s about. I- um- haven’t been blacked for real yet, but as soon as Dorothy introduced me to it, I broke up with my loser white boyfriend and have only masturbated to porn with black guys. It’s so much better- more real too.” 

“It damn is,” he smiled, grabbing her ass through her shorts. “Dorothy’s the best little slut at this school. Gives me the best blowjobs too- and god damn I’m horny.” I could tell. His bulge snaked down his pants, and it was fucking massive. It’d probably look bigger if Dorothy could take her hands off of it. Not that I could blame her for wanting to touch that thing. 

“Please, my black king,” she kneeled down in front of Jason, “Your snowbunny is ready to serve.” 

“Very well then, babe,” he breathed, unzipping his pants and pulling his cock ou- 

FUCK! That thing was fucking huge! When he pulled it out, the whole thing fell out like it was a waterfall. It was pretty soft, but still flopped around like a bean bag as long as my arm! No wonder Dorothy was drooling and falling to her knees. 

“Thank you master!” she drooled. With the mouth she spent hours talking about black guys with, she sloppily licked up and down his black shaft. 

“Yes baby girl, lick up and down my big rod,” He smiled at her as her mouth made his cock get hard. 

She wrapped her arm and legs around his strong leg. Still drooling, she kissed his balls, his base, and right above his cock. Then, she grabbed his bobbing dick and took it down her throat and back out with ease. I had no idea she could do that. “Stupid white cocks get awawy from me and master!” She yelled at BP and some white boys which walked past. 

“Princess- would you like to continue this more.. Privately?” 

“Y-yes black master! Let’s go!” 

“Nooo,” whined BP, getting his little dick out of his pants. I elbowed him in the ribs, not wanting his whines to stop me from seeing this. 

They entered their room without so much as closing the door. It wasn’t too long until I heard a bunch of loud ‘SLAP SLAP SLAP’. I didn’t want to just sit there next to BP as he pulled down his pants and showed off the full 2 inches he had. Jeez, he was smaller than my ex. I let myself in. 

I exptected them to be fucking already, based on the noises, but instead she was tossed over the bed on her back with his cock ramming down her throat. They were so huge and massive that when they 

slapped against her face, it was loud enough to sound like a girl’s whole ass bouncing on a guys cock. He pulled it out and covered her face with her juicy drool. 

“Yess master, slap my snowbunny face with your huge balls! It’s such an honor!” I wasn’t even sure if she noticed me. 

“How my balls taste, slut?” 

“Like hard working black sweat! Tastes like heaven, my king?” 

BP stepped up behind me with his soft little feet against the tile. “I want sis to taste my balls,” he muttered, stroking off. I told him to shut the fuck up. 

It seemed Dorothy did notice us. “Bye bye white boys I only suck black cock!” She held up two peace signs. 

“B-but she wouldn’t even have to put in an effort” he argued with a wimpy whisper. 

“The answer is no,” boomed Jason. 

“N-not even a good luck kiss?” whimpered BP. 

“No girl would ever want that little dick!” she rolled around onto her stomach. Then she grabbed his cock and deepthroated her master’s cock. 

He lit up with pleasure and began to face fuck his little princess. “Fuck yeah bitch!” The sounds of wet slapping and groaning can be heard throughout the room. She stuck out her tongue while her mouth was pounded to lick his huge balls. 

“RAAGH!” he scared BP with his scream, “FUCK YES!" 

She sucked his shaft, taking it in and out of his throat while she pulled herself in with her arms, wrapped around his legs. 

“Fuckin workin for that nigga nut God DAYUM!” He pulled it out and slapped it against her face. 

She gently kissed his shaft with each time it strongly hit her face. “Yes my black king, please cover me with your godly seed!” 

“Unnnngh SHIT!” He yelled, jacking his wet dick over her face. 

She smothered her face in his soaking wet cock. It was big enough to cover her entire face. No wonder it was so hard for him to get his dick blown well. “Please my king give me seed! Let me taste you master!” BP let out a little moan. Just like Mrs. McCaa said, he came a few dribbles on the floor. They both looked over. “HOW DARE YOU?!” she shrieked at him. I only heard Dorothy yell like that when she heard I was once groped at a party by a senior when I was a freshman. “His divine cock is only for snowbunnies to climb on!” BP was scared, and tried to run off, but slipped on the floor. Not on his cum, 

of course. I’m pretty sure it already evaporated. 

“Get out here, short lil white boy!” yelled Jason, stuffing his dick down her throat to cum down. He filled her whole stomach and esophagus. BP ran out to the hallway and got his little dick laughed at. 

“You know that doesn’t satisfy me,” breathed Dorothy. She turned around to lay on her back and spread her legs. “M-master? Please help..” 

He got on his knee, licking his lips then licking his princess’ pink pussy. “Mmmm- MMM!’ 

“P-please breed with me my kind please! I can’t control myself!” 

“Alright bitch,” he got up and slurped his lips. 

“One step closer to white boy extinction my king!” He slid his rock hard black cock into her pussy. She instantly groaned as his beast penetrates her. “O-ooooo---- my king!” He jammed the rest of his cock in her tight pussy as he cackled happily. She moaned with pure bliss as her mind got hazy. “Being blacked is great!” 

I started to give into temptation and took a seat in the corner. I slipped my hand down my leggings to touch my pussier. It had never been wetter. 

“You love my big black cock in that pussy baby?” 

She arched her back and forced herself on his gargantuan thing, “Yes my King!! A white boy could never please a woman like you can, my king!!” 

“Glad to HEAR IT!” He lifted her whole body up with his huge strength and began to fuck her. He was thorough and clearly knew exactly how to fit the whole thing in her. She wrapped her legs around him as he fucked her. The walls of her pussy squelched out juices and they tightly hugged her cock. “UNG! FUCKING TIGHT PUSSY!” he fucked her faster and harder. 

She moaned as her pussy loosened. “A-AH!” 

“You cummin on this DICK?!” 

“S-soon my king! My pussy loves black cock!” 

“Cum on this big nigga dick!!!” he slammed his cock deeper in her pussy. 

She tightly wrapped her arms and legs around her master and thrashed on his huge cock. She pulled herself up to hug close to his sweaty chest. “Black boys are so gooood!” She started squirting sticky fluids from her pussy and throbbing clit. 

“Uh! Uh! Keep cumming!” 

She groaned and moaned loudly as her pussy convulsed on his cock, “Ughhhhh master feels so 

good!!” “UNNNN! FUCK yes!” She clung to her master and gasped for air. “Oh, it ain’t over yet, bitch!” he tossed her down, forced her legs apart, and looked right into my eyes. Then, just to show off, he took out his cock and shot in incredibly thick load of ropy cum right in her gaped pussy hole. It all went in. 

“U-ughhhhh black cokkkkkk.” I’d be moaning the same thing if I were her. Fuck, I’d love to fuck a black guy half Blackwolf’s size. To shove more fingers into my converted snowbunny pussy. I ripped off my leggings. Plenty of people outside were naked anyways. 

“Damn, bitch! I’m gonna sleep well tonight!” 

I just noticed then that BP and one of his white loser friends were peeking in. The didn’t even look at me, naked and fingering myself juicily. They stared at that huge black cock, enchanted by jealousy and horniness. 

“M-hmm,” she said, closing her eyes and wiggling herself around as she enjoyed the black cum inside her. “H-hey, white boys!” she said deliriously. “You too, Ashley! Only a black man could ever make a white girl like myself have so much pleasure! Think about THAT when you sleep, white loser boys! And my king- thank you for blacking me... I love black cocks forever.” 

“That’s my girl,” he slapped her thigh, letting her legs close. 

“That makes me hard... muttered the other white boy. 

Dorothy blushed at that and put her hands over her eyes. “Be quiet loser, you never will! Go tug your little shrimp dick while thinking of master. Gross little white boys!” Jason got up and walked out of the room. I couldn’t help but laugh as I saw his huge thing swung past his knees. Compared to that, BP and his gooning friend looked like insects. 

“You’re both undeserving to be around master!” his friend opened his mouth, but Dorothy shut him up. “Your little dicks will never be good enough- because you know what? Size does matter.” 

Jason shoved his way back into the dorm, drinking a gatorade. “Spoken like a true size queen.” 

“Thank you for the praise my master.” 

BP stroked his stiff little thing. “I think it can get a little bigger...” 

“HAHAHAHAHA! Oh PLEASE!” laughed Jason. 

“You both disgust me. White dicks mean nothing to me!” She gently rubbed her master’s cock and points it to the whiteboys. “THIS is what a girl wants!” 

The new boy shook and leaked at the BBC. “Yes ma’am I am weak.” 

“D-didn’t Master Jason say he wants more?” asked BP, loyal as he promised he would be. “Master wants more? Good. Let’s mate all night long, my king! My holes will be stuffed with superior 

black seed! White boys exist only to serve their black kings and white queens!” 

“Whitebois like me are weak and pathetic. Let us worship!” moaned BP’s friend. 

“Yes you are.” 

“Worship what? You stupid loser.” 

“I- I wanna worship your ass,” begged BP, “As it’s pounded by BBC.” 

“Pathetic and Horny. Fitting for white trash like you. I bet if I twerked all the white boys here would cum instantly. You know why? Because you are all gross worthless cucks.” 

“Mm- yes I would. I’d shoot my cums all over the floor!” BP blushed, “M-master’s cum is so thick, sis.” 

“Thicker than my thighs.” She smiled at him and turned around, showing off her ass to Jason and twerking with all her might. 

“Awww, I wish I could watch...” whined BP, “I’m sure his cum’s like glue. 

“C’mon babe, spread my ass cheeks wide and cum inside! Your princess’ ass is nothing but a black man’s cum dumpster!” I climbed over onto the bed next to them, not wanting to stay next to those pathetic white boys. 

“W-what do we do when he cums?” 

“Princess? What do you think?” asked Jason, looking at her as he started finger me. His hands were huge! I tossed my head back as he did his magic. 

“Let the whiteboys lick your cum if they want, their cum goes in the trash though! And if any of their white cum touches me, please beat them up!” 

The boys just moaned. 

“SAY THANK YOU! Master’s cum is glorious, not just anyone gets to lick it up!” 

“THANK YOU SISTER DOROTHY!” the white boys yelled. 

“Now go splurt in the trash, sis is about to get pounded.” 

They both started moaning. The new one kept fapping, but BP came in pathetic seconds, before I even got to see his black cock stretch my best friend’s asshole. 

“Dangit... I always cum first!” already soft, BP walked over to grab a tissue, and got down to clean up his load. 

“Your cum is worthless,” huffed Dorothy as her asshole got pounded, “If it touches me I will vomit. And 

don’t get it on the floor! Get it into the trash! Or the toilet!” 

“I- I jerk my little white thing every time I go to the bathroom!” moaned BP as his friend ran to the toilet. TMI, dude. 

Dorothy’s master- no, our master, had enough of it too. He pushed his cockhead deeper in her stretchy asshole and smacked her cheeks. “Twerk more babygirl! Shut the fuck up about them!” 

“Y-yes my king!” She bent over further and twerked for her. Both me and him were enchanted by how she took his cock anally. 

“Unf! Some BOOTY cheeks!” He stroked the lengthy part of his monster cock that wasn’t in her ass yet. 

She bit her lip and twerked faster. He shoved another finger in my horny pussy. “Watch, white boys!” she cheered. They said something, sounding like moaning little girls. I was in too much bliss to hear it. “I’m gonna vomit if you keep talking!” 

He finally stuck the rest of his rod right into her. “UNNGH! GET IN THERE! DEEP IN THAT TIGHT BUBBLE BOOTY!” he shouted. She groaned as he fully entered her ass and she drooled on his bed. 

“M-my ass feels so good!” 

“DAMN this ass!” 

Her ass convulsed, opening up to fit his cock to the hilt as she trained it. “Ugh ughhh ohhhh fuck- mmmmm” 

“Tell daddy how you want it, and beg for it.” 

She bit her lip and twerked as he fucked her, “D-daddy please I want it rough! Show Ashley how you break my snowbunny ass!” I decided then that we would be friends for life then and there. I just closed my eyes and listen to what they said. “Stretch it out daddy please do it... I want it so bad these stupid white boys are so pathetic, show them daddy, show them how a woman should be pleasured!” She sounded delirious. I loved this school. 

“RRrrrr FUCK YEAH!” he pulled me closer with one hand, easily muscling my whole body over so he could better finger me while he fucked Dorothy’s ass. He was just fingering me, and wasn’t even paying much attention to me, but it was already the best sex I’d ever had. “You like the way Daddy FUCKS YOU, BITCH?!” 

“O-oh daddy!! YES!!!” 

For what felt like half an hour, I heard him yell about how tight her butthole was and how tight her ass was and how much he loved her butt shaking and how red he was making it. She screeched about how much she loved his big black cock, and how her asshole was gonna be permanently stretched after tonight. 

The room was filled with sharp moans. Her mind was slowly shattered as she came at least a few times from her asshole being stretched into a gaping hole.. I definitely did. 

“FUCK YES!” he tore his hands from my pussy after I came twice to slap her ass. I missed his warm fingers... “Damn, you’re STRETCHED,” he slapped her ass. She groaned in bliss as her asshole was completely broken by her master. “You want this bitch?” He ripped his hard cock out of her hole and stroked it. 

She collapsed weekly on the bed, eyes rolled back in her head as she groaned, “Black cooooooock.” 

He flipped her over to put it back in. Once again, muscled young man pounded that black ass. Her eyes opened again, then quickly crossed as she moaned as loud as she could. “UNG! FUCK! I’M GONNA NUT IN YOU, BABY GIRL!” 

I could see her stomach stretch as he slammed his cock as deep as it could go. “Cummmmmmmmm,” she moaned, her ass still gaping as she groaned loudly. 

“AAARRRRRRRGH!” he yelled, blasting a fat, huge load deep in her ass. 

Oh, fuck. I came again. I didn’t even notice I was touching myself. 

Dorothy’s tongue came out of her mouth, leaving a trail of drool as it slid off his cock, “Ugggghhhghghgh cockkkkkkkk.” Her ass was left a gaping, filled, cummy mess as she lay on the bed drooling with a soaking wet pussy. Master had broken her. 

“Fuck,” he said, plopping back on his pillows as his huge cock flopped out from between her asscheeks. “God-dayum. That was the best fuck I think I’ve ever had.” 

I got up, my own cum between my thighs. My nose wrinkled as I smelled the sweaty, dirty, cum-covered sheets. In my heart though, I loved it. “C-can I go next? I asked.” 

“Maybe later, babe. I kinda tired. Did you see.. Did you see where those white boys ran off to?” 

I shook my head. 

“Good. Fuck ‘em, right? Or don’t.” He grinned at me. I smiled black, blushing. I couldn’t believe a naked black guy who just fucked my best friend in front of me was flirting with me, and I liked it! 

“So... I’ll just take Dorothy back to her room?” 

“Sounds good, babe.” 

I got up, pulling Dorothy’s sticky body off the bed. Thankfully she was smaller than me. I carried her bridal style out of the room. 

“Hey,” he called back right before I left. He grinned devilishly. “See you tomorrow.” 

I carried my sexy, dripping friend through the halls and to our dorm, plopping her on our bunk bed once we got there. I’d have to get my clothes back tomorrow. 

Steamy black cum leaked from her ass as she groaned in monotone. She looked in pure bliss. The kind of bliss only a black man could give. To that, I sat on the floor and fingered myself again. 

My first night at Blackworth, I didn’t sleep at all. And I fucking loved it. 

#bbc #story #interracial

[parachutingkitten]

The Process of Shattering: A Next Gen Fic - Ch 4

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

Aaaaaaaand this is where stuff gets real. Also, this chapter has some shameless self referencing, go check out Good Morning, Mr. Borg. It’s good stuff. Anyway, let’s keep Birthday Week rolling!

Happy Reading!

“Hey! This is Daniel. You know what to do after the beep.”

I sighed. It’s fine. Infact, maybe it’s better this way. 

“Hey, it’s Sierra. I’ve got a doctors appointment today, so I won’t be seeing you in English. But I’ll be back later, so we can still walk home together. I, um… I’ll see you then.” I hung up as I walked through the doors of the building, swinging my backpack around to drop my phone in the side pocket.

“Circuit?”

My head shot up to find a familiar face I wasn’t expecting to run into. Drew had worked here since the beginning of time as far as I knew. Helped build me actually. She’s my grandpa’s right hand woman, started out as his personal assistant, but has since risen to be head of company communications.

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“Technically droids aren’t allowed to enroll in public school to begin with,” I shrugged.

Drew rolled her eyes, grabbing my arm and tugging me to the side. “Look, the tower isn’t a hang out, it’s a workplace.” 

“I just want to talk to my grandpa,” I pleaded. “Maybe you could hook me up with an elevator?”

“Does this have to do with why your uncle hasn’t come in today?” She crossed her arms.

“We… had a bit of a family emergency last night with my dad,” I explained. “Cryptor volunteered to look after him while the team went to try and figure out what happened. It’s weird that he didn’t tell you. I figured he would have called you about it by now.”

Drew’s eyes grew distant as she thought. “Cry and I… aren’t on the best terms right now.” Her expression had sunken from anger into melancholy in a matter seconds. “It’s complicated. Look, let’s just get you to the top floor, huh?”

“Thank you!” I smiled, following her as she led the way to the elevator. She swiped her id card on the left before pressing the call button. It arrived only a moment later as we both boarded.  

“I’ve got some time sensitive stuff going, so I’m getting off on the 83rd floor, but I trust you can ride to the top by yourself.”

“I’m not 7 anymore, I think I’ll be alright.” I ran my fingers along my backpack straps. The elevator rides are always the most awkward part of any trip to Borg Tower. No matter how fast it is, a hundred floors is quite a height to cover.

“Is your dad… doing alright?”

“He’s recovering pretty quickly,” I sighed.

“Still, I know how scary that kind of stuff can be.”

She turned towards me, sharing a kind look for the first time since I had gotten here.

“Try not to let it get to you too much. I’m sure he’ll be alright,”

The doors opened, Drew stepping out before I could respond. 

“Hey, thanks!” 

She spun around, sending me a quick smile before the doors closed again. Drew was a strange person. I always got the sense that she had way too much stress on her shoulders. I imagine working in one of the most targeted and at risk locations in Ninjago for over a decade can do a few things to your head. Let’s just say… she’s been through a lot. I’ve always wondered what she’s like once you get to know her. A lot of people seem to like her quite a bit. There has to be a reason my grandpa has kept her around all these years, right?

The elevator doors opened once again as I reached grandpa Borg’s office, and I cautiously stepped into the room.

“Whose that?” He asked from his computer at the other end of the room.

“It’s Circuit,” I announced, walking over to him. 

“Circuit!” he turned around to see me as I swung off my backpack, placing it on the floor next to his desk. “How are you, sweetie? I’ve missed you! You really should visit more often.”

I leaned over to hug him, a warmth filling my body as I spoke with him. “You’re not mad that I’m ditching school then?”

He rolled his eyes. “You and I both know you don’t need that place.” He smiled, both of us laughing a bit. “I heard about your father…” His expression faded. “Is that why you're here?”

I was caught a bit off guard. My head just sunk as I thought. “I don’t really know why I’m here to be honest. Just… needed to get away”

He studied my face for a moment, a gentle smile spreading across his complexion. “Your father has faced some rather intense consequences during his time as a ninja.” He bagan wheeling himself over to the window. “He’s been through much worse than even you’ve ever seen.”

“I know,” I sighed. 

“He’s lost a lot over the years, and he doesn’t want to risk adding you to that list.” he paused for a moment, turning back around to read me. “I’m sure he’ll begin training you once things are safer. He doesn’t want to push you into the field before you're ready.”

Grandpa could always tell what was bothering me. I guess it makes sense, he did a lot of my programming. “I get it,” I repeated, plopping down on one of the waiting chairs. “I really do get it. It’s better for the team if I wait. In the back of my mind, I know it’ll probably even be better for me in the long run. It just… gets hard to wait sometimes.”

“Time can be a difficult foe to face,” he agreed.

“I’ve just felt so… restricted lately, you know? I can’t go on missions, I can’t start training, I can’t help mom, I can’t talk to Daniel, I can’t-”

“What’s this about Daniel?” he moved closer.

“It’s not that I can’t,” I corrected myself. “But I can’t talk to him how I want to, you know? I’m mean, I’ve never really been able to, but it’s catching up to me now, and… It’s just, it’s the end of senior year, and everything feels so final, but the only thing that isn’t going to end is this whole… lie that I’m living! I mean he’s my best friend, I’ve known him for years, and he still doesn’t even know my name.” I could feel my eyes beginning to water as I spoke. “It’s stuff like that. It hurts. And I don’t think anyone else realizes it. And Daniel is a great guy! He deserves so much better than what his parents are giving him! It’s like they don’t trust him! It’s not fair for them to try and hide his potential from him like this!”

“...Did they ever tell you why they were having you monitor Daniel?” his hand on mine snapped me out of my daze as I quickly cleared the water from my eyes.

“Well… yeah, they wanted him to have a normal life before getting dragged into all this elemental stuff. They’re worried he won’t be ready for his power if he ends up inheriting his mother’s.”

A sad smile crept onto his lips as he watched me explain. “There’s a bit more to it than that.”

“What… what else? Why would they not tell me if there was something else?”

He started rolling over to his computer screen, his movement beckoning me to follow. “It was… a few months after the both of you were born that I started doing some research and tests to try and better understand the different elemental powers. I was sure that if I studied them, I would find information to help their holders utilize them better.” He pulled up a screen filled with rows of complex data all arranged by element. “We found quite a bit. Strong bonds between certain elements, keys to the elements’ lineages, and qualities specific to the creation elements. Now, when elements are passed to a future holder after reaching their true potential, there’s at least a brief period where the previous holder retains their powers as well, and the element is split between them. My prevailing theory is that the elements do this in order to allow a training period for the older generation to assist the newer one. Of course, none of this applies if the previous holder dies before the next one reaches their true potential.” I already knew most of this, but I could feel the tension in his voice as he continued.

“Now, amber is by far the most powerful element. Strangely enough though, in all my research, I haven’t been able to find a record of it having a training period. It’s users consistently die before they can see their power passed on. Additionally, because amber’s power comes from combining the energy of other elements, it is structurally much different than the rest. It is extremely dense and concentrated. It’s strength comes from entirely existing within one location. And it’s because of these unique qualities that my simulations for a potential amber training period find that it doesn't... function properly.” As he scrolled through the data for amber the numbers grew exponentially bigger, highlighted in red. “Because the element demands to exist in only one place, attempting to split it for a training period would have one of two outcomes; it either destroys the element… or it destroys it’s users.”

I looked at the data, his words ringing through my brain. “...meaning-”

“Meaning over the course of about a month, the element actively corrodes, poisons, and corrupts the bodies of one or both of it’s users… 

...to the point of death.”

#ninjago #ninjago next gen #the process of shattering #OC: Circuit #OC: Daniel #writing #birthday week

[hollybourneauthor]

“How Teen Fiction Can Change The World”

The Patrick Hardy Lecture has been running annually since 1989. Guest speakers from the world of children’s books, including the likes of Jacqueline Wilson, Meg Rosoff, Juno Dawson, and Michael Morpurgo, have taken to the lectern, and this year I had the overwhelming privilege of speaking to those who work in the industry.

“How Teen Fiction Can Change The World” Holly Bourne, Patrick Hardy speech, 2020

 Before I get going, at the risk of sounding like a yoga teacher, I want to ground us all in this room. Right here. In this moment. It’s a Wednesday night in winter, you’re sitting in a library, and you’re about to listen to me give a lecture about stories. So, high chances are...you really like books. At some point in your life, you stumbled across a story that won you over. You became consumed by the magic of fiction, and could never go back. There are probably a few key books that you’ve read that you honestly believe changed you. Improved you. And reading those books may have led to you making a number of small decisions throughout your life that paved the way for bigger decisions, that, all collected together, led to this very point in your life. Right now. This room. The people sitting around you. Your passion. Maybe even your career. Reading is likely the part of your identity that you feel the proudest of, and the most nourished by. I know that’s true for me.

 So, I just want you to take a few moments to think about the books that led you here today. Directly, or indirectly. The books that you’ve no-doubt read and reread countless times. The books that you feel are etched onto your soul. That made you who you are. That helped you through life and steered you towards becoming someone you’re proud of… And I’m going to go out on a limb here and say, I’m guessing that those books – those life-changing books – are books that you read as a teenager.

 This is the topic of my speech today. How I believe teen fiction doesn’t only have the power to change a young person’s life. But how that magical transformation can start ripples that can actually change the world for the better. I truly believe that YA books – writing them, publishing them and distributing them – is an act of activism that can start huge, positive, social change.

 But how?

 Before I talk about teenagers, I want to explore the powerful nature of stories themselves. Our brains are wired for stories – they are how we learn to survive in the world. Human survival needs two things – the basics of how to keep yourself out of danger, and how to keep in favour with the social group around you. We are pack animals. We need the surrounding community to survive. And we constantly tell each other stories about how to live. Information is more palatable if it’s in the form of a story. Rather than saying to someone “Don’t eat those red berries”, we’re much more likely to engage with that life-saving information if someone says, “Did you hear about Ig, the caveman from next door? Oh my God, it was AWFUL. He ate those red berries on the bush outside, and his stomach exploded ALL OVER THE CAVE. It was so gnarly. They’re still cleaning it up…”

 The same is true with instructions on how to be socially accepted by others. Linguistic experts have found humans spend most of their conversation time gossiping about people who aren’t there. Telling stories on each other. Gossip is actually narrative that instructs humans on what is and isn’t acceptable in their social group. Again, we’d get bored of an information manual. But if someone comes over to you, wide-eyed, saying, “Have you heard that John left his wife for his twenty-two year old secretary? And now everyone has turned on him and he isn’t welcome at the Safari Supper any more,” you’d be lapping it up. But you’d also be learning important lessons about how to behave. Instructions are boring, but stories are riveting. Our brain rejects one, and embraces the other. And, through narrative, we learn how to survive – both emotionally and physically – in this world.

 I find the work of Sigmund Freud hugely influences how I write stories, and how to ensure they connect with my readers. Some of you in this room will, no doubt, have done English degrees and will be familiar with how Freud’s theories relate to narrative. So apologies if this is a recap, but it’s something I try to remind myself of whenever I’m writing.

 Freud believed all humans lived in a state of constant conflict between three parts of our psyche – our Id, our Superego and our Ego.

 Our Id is the totally subconscious, primitive and instinctual part of us. It’s our selfish desires. Our animal selves. And it’s always there.

I’m hungry.

I want that.

I want to have sex with that person. NOW.

A newborn baby is completely Id-driven – at the mercy of its desires. And that part of us never goes away. The Id is always with us, steering us to survive. Utterly reactive and animalistic.

 Whereas the Superego is there to tame the Id. The Superego is the cocktail of messages we marinate in throughout our lives, telling us what a person should or shouldn't do. The Superego is about consequences. It’s your values. Your moral compass. Don’t steal. Don’t snatch. Don’t dry-hump that person on the Tube even if you really fancy them. Essentially the Superego socializes us. The most powerful influence on your Superego comes from your parents and your early childhood experiences. But society has a part of play. Laws are part of the Superego – telling us what is and isn’t legally acceptable. And culture plays a huge part in shaping it too. What should a man be? What should a woman be? What is right, or wrong? And the Superego isn’t always a good thing. It provokes a lot of guilt in us, and, if taken too far, feelings of shame can make us unhappy.

 And, finally, the Ego is the navigator of these two conflicts. It’s the “weigher-upper” – listening to the Id and the Superego and making the best judgement it can. I like to believe that the Ego is essentially who we are as a person, based on the decisions we make as a result of this eternal internal conflict. Rather than beating ourselves up for having “bad thoughts”, we should judge one another, and ourselves, on our actions. It’s our actions that make us who we are. We are what we do, not what we think.

 We learn about Freud in creative writing because, to some degree, every successful story represents the struggle between the Id, the Superego and the Ego. We are drawn to these stories because they reflect the battle we fight in our heads every day. If you consider the huge, ongoing success of comic book films, you can see how Freud’s theory explains their popularity. Baddies in these stories are often very Id-driven – selfish, compulsive and uncaring of how their actions impact those around them. Whereas superheroes are disguised “Superegos” – representing goodness and morality.

 But what excites me most about Freud isn’t how I can use his work to shape my books, but the belief I have that reading powerful stories can actually contribute to a person’s Superego. How the act of reading a work of fiction can actually cause a psychological change in us that makes us better people in our non-fiction lives. And the nature of the adolescent brain makes the opportunities for this even richer.

 So why books? What makes fiction the most potent vessel for activism compared to, say, films, TV, video games or even an Instagram caption? It’s because the very nature of reading itself is an irreplicable act of immersive empathy. When I go into schools, I always tell teenagers that novels are like really safe, legal, hallucinogenic drugs. I once read a funny tweet that said that reading a book is crazy when you consider what’s actually taking place. Effectively, you are staring at symbols printed onto a dead tree and vividly hallucinating. That’s pretty magical when you truly consider it. Even with all our technological advances, even with virtual-reality goggles, nothing quite recreates reading. How a reader is effectively transplanted into the mind of someone who doesn’t exist – feeling their feelings as they’re feeling them, experiencing their experiences as they experience them. When written well, and used for good, stories can educate readers about all sorts of social issues by provoking an empathetic and emotional response. You can open a reader’s eyes to the truth of what life is like for people who aren’t like them – from being on the receiving end of racism, to experiencing mental illness, trauma or physical disabilities. In To Kill A Mockingbird, Atticus tells his children that, in order to understand a person, you have to try and crawl into their skin and walk around in it. That’s exactly what books do.

 It can also be truly revolutionary and reassuring for a reader to find a book where they see themselves in a main character. Especially if this main character’s hardship or thought processes are something you believed was unique only to you. Being seen, heard, understood – sometimes the first time someone feels like that is through the pages of a novel. Alan Bennett once spoke of the magic of this moment and how it’s like a hand has come out of the pages and is holding yours. And if you’re reading about a main character suffering how you suffer, and yet this character is able to stand up and be brave... Whether that's speaking up, fighting back, or simply just asking for help...well, this connection between writer and reader could well inspire the reader to be brave themselves.

 Now, let’s go back to those books you had in your head. Your favourite books that you read when you were younger. The ones that really lodged in. What’s going on there?

 There’s actually some neuroscience that can explain this. Scientists have found that during puberty, when a child’s brain is rewiring to become an adult brain, a side effect is that we make memories more strongly compared to any other time in our lives. You can recall and connect with your teen years more easily and potently compared to your twenties, thirties and onwards. I certainly know this to be true for myself. Ask me to close my eyes and remember being fifteen and, yeah, I’m there. Hell, I don’t even need to close my eyes. I can already smell the Lynx Africa, remember who kissed who at the school disco. I can remember the full names of all the popular people in my year group. And yet, if you ask me what I was doing at twenty-five, twenty-eight, thirty-one, I’d have to think about it. Trying to recall what job I was doing, struggling to remember certain people’s names... It’s vaguer, and certainly less visceral.

 On top of this they’ve found that teenage brains are hyper-attuned to social stimuli. From an evolutionary perspective, adolescence is when you have to figure out how important you are to your social group and that impacts your chances of survival. This means teenagers are constantly asking themselves: Am I important? Do I matter? Does anyone care about me? Because of this, they’ve found that teenage memories particularly linked to identity and sense of self are even stronger. So if a teenager stumbles across a book that is holding their hand through its pages, just consider the POWER of that memory.

 And let’s not forget just how wonderfully malleable young people are. Teenagers are so much more open to change – both in society, and in themselves. They haven’t calcified yet. They haven’t had as many years of repeating unhealthy patterns and gathering biased evidence to prop up unhelpful theories – about the world and their sense of self. I saw a talk once by a psychologist who said we need to stop dismissing our younger years as being unimportant years of freedom that do not matter. Actually, your youth and what you do with it paves the way to the future, and tiny adjustments, over time, can see you end up in a totally different place. She used the analogy of aeroplanes, and I love to think of teenagers as aeroplanes taking off from Heathrow airport. The planes all soar up in the same direction, but with minor changes in angle, they land in New York or Brazil or the Arctic.

 I’ve started to see evidence of my books causing angle changes in the journeys of my readers’ lives. I’ve now written ten YA novels, and have built my career by being honest with teenagers about the hardship of their reality, as well as encouraging them to fight for a better future and a better world. I educated them about feminism through my Spinster Club series, asked the question Is mental illness preventable? in Are We All Lemmings And Snowflakes? and, most recently, wrote about an emotional and sexually abusive relationship in The Places I’ve Cried In Public. I’ve been touring the book with Women’s Aid and have become an ambassador for their Love Respect campaign that educates young people about healthy relationships. I’ve always believed that my stories were activism, and hoped they’d create positive changes in the Superegos of my readers. And I’ve now been in the game long enough to see my faith wasn’t misguided.

 I met my very first Spinster Club alumni only last week, at a Women’s Aid event I did at Bristol University. After my talk, a young woman came up to me, squealing, and revealed she’d read my Spinster Club books as a teenager and they’d made her a feminist. She then went on to say she’s now studying law, and has got a barrister traineeship and wants to use law to protect vulnerable women. I’m not going to lie – it was probably one of the happiest moments of my life.

 And the ability to tweak a person’s journey has never been more evident than in my latest book, The Places I’ve Cried In Public. Since it’s been published, it’s had more crossover appeal than I thought, and I now get several messages a week from women in their twenties, thirties, forties, fifties and even sixties, telling me their own harrowing abuse stories. They tell me about their PTSD, the university degrees they never got because their partner never let them go, their fights through family court, their lost years, lost self-worth, their therapies and their ongoing recoveries. Each tale is just as heart-wrenching as the last. And all of them write to me, I wish I’d read your book when I was younger, or I wish I could go back in time and give this to my 14-year-old self. They wish they’d known the red flags to look out for that could’ve prevented them from going down a path they’re still on.

 And when I talk to teenage readers about the same book…

 “Well, those sorts of relationships sound terrible. I’m never going to let myself get into something like that.”

 “I HATE Reese. I want to kick him in the eyeballs.”

 “The book made me cry so much. I never want that to happen to me.”

 I’m not saying preventing awful things is that simple, but, also, maybe it can be? When you combine everything I’ve spoken about, what’s to say we can’t use fiction to nudge teenagers into making healthier decisions that will benefit them? As well as hopefully entertaining them along the way.

 When we start reflecting on the power of teenage fiction, as people who work in the industry, we need to ask ourselves: how do we utilize this? Maximize this? And, to me, the most important thing is to remove as many barriers as possible between teenagers and the stories that can change their lives. I see the need to address this in three ways.

 Firstly, we need to ensure books are available to all teenagers, regardless of their means. Novels, and their life-changing magic, should never be allowed to become an elitist item. So we need to fight to keep libraries and school libraries open, and to keep trained librarians in position. Librarians are experts at matchmaking teenagers with the best books for them.

 Secondly, we need to fight for all teenagers to be able to see themselves in books by making the publishing industry more diverse, and therefore the stories it produces more diverse. The magic of fiction can only work if there’s an authentic connection between writer and reader, and diverse voices are an essential component for this to occur. If we think back to that reminiscence bump, and how memories about identity leave a particularly strong mark, just imagine how it must feel to be a marginalized teenager who finds a book that finally gets them.

 And thirdly, we can’t let our own maturity and “calcification” accidentally erect barriers by letting literary snobbery shame a teenager for what they are reading. There is no such thing as good or bad reading – there is only reading. We need to celebrate and reward the books that teenagers are connecting with. It’s the connection that changes a life, not the beauty of a sentence. Yes, perhaps ideally, we want them to read the classics, but they’re much more likely to get there if the world of reading seems like an open, non-judgemental, non-elitist place. Let’s also recognize how hard it is to write a book that’s “easy to read” – the craftsmanship that goes into creating a story that pulls a teenager away from the huge list of distractions fighting for their attention. Literary snobbery is an unhelpful stance that will only inform a teen’s Superego in a negative way, leading to shame and exclusion. In trying to crowbar a teenager into reading a certain type of book, you’re potentially putting them off all books for ever.

 I started by grounding us in this room. And now, after geeking out on you for half an hour about brain science and psychology, I want to bring it back to this room. I want us to take a moment to reflect on just how much power sits within these four walls. Collectively we have access to thousands upon thousands of young people, and a passion for the stories we want to give them. Just think of the ripples we can create by the simple, wonderful act of activism which is giving a book to a teenager. I honestly believe that giving the right book to the right teenager at the right time can change and possibly even save their lives. And I also believe that all those teenager aeroplanes, taking off from Heathrow airport, feeling empowered and understood, will go on to achieve remarkable things. Teen fiction really can change the world, and make it a better place.

 A long time ago, someone gave you a book that led to you sitting in this room today. Let’s go out and start that journey for others. Who knows who will be sitting listening to the Patrick Hardy lecture in twenty years’ time, and what they will have achieved. But every time I think of this, I feel nothing but hope.

 Thank you so much for listening.

#PatrickHardylecture children'sbooks childrenspublishing activism teenageactivism yabooks yareaders hollybourne

[morethanithoughtofficialblog]

Chapter 4: A slight hint of hope

In which the future looks brighter than you may think

*Your POV*

I found myself writing down a letter to the president, technically begging him to let monsters be truly free. Again. I was starting to ask myself why I even try. Again. This the seventeenth letter I've written to him, and yet, he won't listen.

Then I told myself that I shouldn't be thinking like this. That a lot of monsters had their hope on me, therefore, I should try harder.

I smiled, knowing that this was my inner dialogue every single day. And yet, I still have it, no matter what I'm doing. This is one of the few things that amaze me these days.

It's been a while since I have met them. Maybe a month or two; maybe even more. Ever since then, we've been talking for hours in my office every single day. I kinda like it. It gives me the feeling that I'm not alone in the world.

But then again, they'll probably leave once this is over. Or maybe not. Who knows?

They all have been awfully nice to me. Nicely than a lot of humans have ever been. This is one of the thousand reasons I keep writing to the president.

Maaaaaybe I should return to my cheery self. I'm being quite serious, haven't I?

No one can blame, though. I hate to admit it, but this issue is worrying me more than I expected. At first, the case was interesting, yes, but now it's kinda overwhelming, knowing that I'm dealing with a weak point; discrimination.

I just hope I don't end up like Rosa Parks after this. But that's just me being stubborn. Again.

Before my mind could get more depressive, though, I heard someone knock the door. I mentally groaned, with the feeling that I was gonna get a shitty opinion for the trillionth time.

"Come in"

"Wow, that's for sure the sourest answer you've given me, sweetie. That's quite the record!"

A smile crept onto my face. I recognize that voice anywhere!

She slammed the fricking door open like it was some sort of drama movie (which it's exactly what her life is) and posed dramatically. She was wearing sunglasses (even if it was cloudy outside), a fancy-yet-casual blouse, and some skinny jeans. Not to mention the usual high heels that make her bigger than a fucking tree. Oh, how not to miss her?

"Hello, beautiful!" She exclaimed before kissing my cheek on a french-greeting style "You look EXHAUSTED! But, hey, at least you are wearing makeup. Now THAT'S progress!"

"Mailey, I've been wearing makeup daily ever since I got this job"

"Wait..." she paused slightly, then let out a fake gasp. "YOU HAVEN'T BEEN WEARING IT VOLUNTARILY?!"

I giggled way louder than I wanted to, but I didn't mind. Mailey's has always managed to put me in such a good mood, all thanks to her cocky attitude. I haven't seen her for months, so I just really missed her. But I probably said that already. Oh well.

"Oh, (Y/N) darling!" She clapped her hands together in such a girly and unnatural way I almost lose it "Let's go to a café! I don't want to chat in such a sad and old place!"

"Uh, eh... you know what? A break would be great" I hesitantly answered, thinking that I just could clear my mind for a while. I actually haven't done that since I was a preteen, soooo... yeah...

"Wonderful! Let's get going! Just one thing... we will go to Starbucks!"

"Seriously?"

"You know I don't like Dunkin' Donuts, sweetheart. I don't tolerate that bitter taste you normally choose"

"And you know I don't tolerate that overwhelming sweetness you choose every time"

She took a pause and put down briefly her sunglasses, staring at me in fake shock. Oh, I know how much she hates Dunkin' Donuts, but Starbucks simply sucks!

"Well, I'll be the one paying, so I think it's fair" she teasingly added with a huge, goofy grin on her face.

Shit, she got me.

...

Oh well.

"Hmm. Guess you won this time, huh?" I answered, throwing my arms in defeat. She made a victory pose, and I silently giggled. I shouldn't be feeling this lonely since monsters visited today, right?

Well, guess what.

They didn't.

But I'm not complaining since I'm the one who told them not to come for today, arguing that they should take a break from leaving and coming. Some of them didn't think twice and accepted, which made me feel kinda bad. How stubborn have I been to actually keep them coming so often without a chance to take a breath?

...and that's why I also needed a break. Because I was about to become a fucking mess. Leave the tears for the night, (Y/N).

And so I left. Good thing I was doing extra hours, or else, I would have been crying after some time being all alone.

Sometimes I wonder if I can call myself a proper 20 years old adult. I mean, I'm quite mature at some things, but in others, I almost feel like I'm a 5 years old brat.

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

*Frisk's POV*

It feels kinda weird not meeting (Y/N) today. Sure, I was getting exhausted of the daily routine, but know... I feel like something's missing. And that something is (Y/N).

We actually haven't been doing much in this little house, since we are really crowded in here. Yes, it has two floors, but we are more than 10 people, and it's starting to get on my nerves. Not even the orphanage felt this crowded.

But, hey, at least I'm with my friends and family and not with some random kids pushing each other. I think this is pretty much ok, I guess.

Suddenly, I heard a knock on the door. Excited, I quickly ran to get it, and a smile flashed on my face. Emily, the daughter of the kind owners, has come for her weekly visit. Even Sans seemed eager to receive her, noticing his white pinpricks turn brighter.

She's 10 years old, so her voice is quite soft and pretty. I think she's on her school's choir and musical group, which it's totally cool. She has golden, twirly hair that gets not too long below her shoulders, and tends to wear a lot of dresses.

We were friends in the orphanage, so I know a thing or two more than the monsters do.

"Hi, kind creatures!" she chirped happily, making all of us grin wider. We returned the greeting quickly, which just made her giggle.

"I brought some gifts for you!" she added, clearly excited. I couldn't help myself, so I ended up drawing a small smile upon my lips. I'm always happy with her. She's just too kind and innocent, like the cinnamon roll Papyrus. I really missed her when I went on my trip to the Underground.

We all gathered in a circle, and watch with awe the food she brought us.

"Finally something new!" Undyne exclaimed with joy, hugging the little girl.

She also brought action figures for Papyrus, some clothes for all of us, some beautiful earrings to Toriel, and a book for Sans. Oh, so that's why he was eager, huh? I just remembered that she gives Sans a book every week, which he normally ends in the night after her visit. Then he just keeps rereading it until Emily comes again. It's fun to see him stress over a single book, though. One day he almost broke down when he found out that it was an open ending. Or, how he calls them, a 'fuck-the-reader's-mind-and-soul' ending.

"thanks, kid" he muttered, trying to hide his excitement and failing miserably. I smirked quietly, and he shrugged it off with a shy smile. I don't get this guy; but that's fine, I guess.

She decided to stay with us for the night, clearly feeling bored at her house. I understand, though. When you live in an orphanage you are never lonely, but if they suddenly adopt you with no other kids, it feels weird.

And so, we ended up planning the perfect game for a sleepover: pillow fighting. I was teaming up with Flowey (I forced him to play) and Emily. The other team was formed by Papyrus, Undyne, and Sans... who was just lazily resting on a pillow. And, naturally, Papyrus groaned when he noticed.

"BROTHER! GET UP, YOU LAZYBONES, AND HELP US BUILD A FORT! I DON'T PRETEND TO LOSE ONLY FOR YOUR LAZINESS!"

"sorry, bro. guess my laziness-"

"SANS"

"-rattled your bones"

"SAAAAAAAAAAAANS!!!!!!"

When I was about to protest, Asgore's cellphone started to ring.

And before he took it, I saw the ID caller...

And it was (Y/N)

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

*Your POV*

I was listening to Mailey's plans for the future. Apparently, her boyfriend has an apartment in San Diego, and she wants to go with him. She says that her future is better in there and blah blah blah. I certainly don't think that's the reason she wants to go, but hey, I can't judge.

I slowly took a sip from my coffee, being the bitterest I could find. And, somehow, it was still sweet. Goddamnit.

If Mailey goes away, then... my life will be pretty much the same, actually. Yes, I will miss her, but we are not best friends and we didn't see each other frequently in the past. Still, I will have fewer people to casually tell my secrets and some of my problems. Now I have less than half of the friends I had in high school. Great.

But, well, she has changed. A lot. Yes, she still makes me laugh with her self-security, but it's not the same. She has lost that... simpleness she had. Now she posts on Instagram every day, she wants to be an influencer, and hell, she even put herself some pink strips on her blonde hair. Maybe I miss seeing that dorky part of her. She's just, well... different. I shouldn't be thinking like that, but it's true.

I was about to hide my face so Mailey couldn't take a picture of me when I received a call. Wow, no one can have a break these days, right?

The number wasn't part of my contacts, which was weird, but I decided to answer anyway. Not for being a good person, but as an excuse to calm Mailey the fuck down.

"Hello, this is (Y/N) (L/N). How can I help you?"

"Hello, (Y/N)... may I have a word with you?" a rough and familiar voice answered, which immediately put me nervous. Who is this guy?

"...I'm sorry sir, but could you specify who are you? We may have talked before, but I just can't remem-"

"Of course we have talked, miss (Y/N)" he interrupted, and I silently gulped "Actually, you wanted to discuss something with me, isn't that right?"

No way-

"I'm the president, miss (L/N). You have caught my interest with your detailed arguments, saying that monsters deserve a chance to grow in society. Or did I just called the wrong person?"

I stood there in shock for a few seconds, then made my way out of Starbucks to hear better. Keep your cool, (Y/N), and everything will be alright.

"You are totally right, Mr. President. I'm the one who sent those letters."

"Great. Now, let's discuss a few things, ok?"

"Of course sir".

I listened carefully, searching for any hints of hatred or irony in his voice. Instead, I just heard interest in the way he mentioned my arguments.

Eventually, we gave each other a quick-yet-formal goodbye, and I immediately called Asgore.

This is a serious business.

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

*Asgore's POV*

My mind was thinking the worst when I saw (Y/N)'s ID on my phone. I saw that others were worried, too. Could this be the end? Are we going back to the Underground, after all those years of waiting?

I picked up reluctantly, watching the expectant reaction of my wi- Toriel, the expectant reaction of Toriel.

"Oh, hello (Y/N)!" I exclaimed, trying to keep my hopes high enough for everyone. "How has been your day?"

"It's been fine, thank you. How has been yours?" She bluntly answered, sounding like she was... distant.

Let's just hope it isn't what I'm thinking.

"It's been good, (Y/N). Anyways, how can I help you, young one?"

She didn't answer immediately. Actually, she remained still for a long time. The only thing I could hear was her breathing, and my positive smile was turning into a nervous one.

"Asgore, we have something we need to discuss"

And my smile dropped.

#sans x reader #more than i thought fanfiction #more than i thought #chapter 4 #sans #reader #x reader #undertale

[illegiblewords]

Some thoughts on critique and sharing work online.

Personally taking offense to the practice of critiquing strangers is pretty destructive imo. I’m not talking about useless insults, or about entitled critics who throw fits if an author doesn’t tailor their work to them. I’m not even talking about the process of sifting through a mean comment to find a shred of something useful.

I developed my own work in part through kind and supportive critics who started off as strangers. A bunch of them have become good friends even to this day, over ten years later. One who I lost contact with (but still remember clearly and am eternally grateful toward) was a guy who commented that I was neglecting setting and physical description in my work. He told me he could see I had talent, but missing that element was a big earmark of fanfic writers. Understandable, but pushing myself to address it would be worthwhile.

He’d never had a single conversation with me before. What he said has played a huge part in how my work has developed. He granted me an opportunity to grow as a creator that without him, I might not have noticed to practice.

I also witnessed, at the time, people who got nasty and discouraging as basic course against budding writers. I was aware that pleasing those critics was a kind of accomplishment because if they didn’t like something they wouldn’t hesitate to say so, but I didn’t and still don’t think that behavior is right for new writers. Or in-general, really.

I’ve had people insult my own work in some really ugly ways, mostly to my face. My writing was compared to mud, called gimmicky, described as (paraphrasing to avoid possible ID) something gratuitous and empty and cheap. The most extreme of these cases were done by professors in front of entire classes during college. I’ve had professors threaten to fail me when I asked for clarification on a critique (how do you shorten a piece when you add content to it?) and I’ve had people I thought were friends so discourage me on the potential of my projects that I just dropped them. Sometimes it got bad to the point that I honestly questioned whether I had any talent and felt deeply ashamed of my work. I’ve won awards since (which ngl real validating right there) and am still working to overcome the worst baggage.

I truly understand how discouraging feedback like that can be. It’s hard, and sometimes it sucks a lot, but as storytellers I believe we have some responsibility to our craft, to ourselves, and to our audiences. It requires being able to step back and ask ourselves honestly what feedback has a kernel of something useful and what is just mean and should be discarded. There is a level of self-possession you just need to own for the sake of what you’re attempting, to know your intent in both making and sharing your work. To judge whether or not you’re meeting that. And if being clear and resonating (at least more often than not) with our audiences is a priority, we need to be willing to “cut up our babies” so to speak so that we can share our ideas as well as we possibly can.

It can be scary to share something you’ve made online. This goes for people just starting and veterans. It’s especially true in current year. I’ve personally seen creators get harassed into suicide attempts by cybermobs numbering in the hundreds. In some of the cases I witnessed, cybermob members even got arrested for this. The phenomenon, which is remarkably prone to targeting creators struggling with mental illness or “model minorities”, is absolutely horrifying and unacceptable. Even if the targets had been bigoted assholes (they weren’t), the cybermobs still would have been the bigger evil.

From a disgruntled audience member standpoint, if someone commits a crime online they need to be reported to the authorities. Not subject to the will of a mob. If someone writes, draws, or otherwise presents something insensitive and personally offensive--you can voice your criticism, but that work has the right to exist too. And rather than try to control another person if they aren’t interested in adjusting, you would be better off not engaging them. Make something of your own and celebrate creators who do fit what you’re looking for.

Cybermobs are not normal critique, but they are more prevalent than normal critique these days. We are currently in a time where people don’t know how to have conversations about ways to improve without personally attacking or outright threatening each other. This goes for those giving and receiving critique. It’s caused some massive problems and has led to many creators being afraid to even try, let alone share their work.

Having someone who respects and believes in your writing, who wants to watch you continue growing, and who won’t begrudge you choosing to discard their advice? That only presents an opportunity to creators for honest insight.

People get scared to offer critique too--especially if they sincerely want to help a creator they respect. Writers can be very sensitive and defensive. How could it be otherwise when you put so much heart into your work and someone tells you a way you can do it more effectively? It’s easy to treat that person like they’re trying to hurt or discourage you, when in reality it’s that they see you building something with an inefficient tool and know another tool that would work better for what you’re trying to make.

Critics are just people. They take their own risks when they execute craft.

We desperately do need to practice healthy critique in storytelling today, as creators and audience members. It used to be common for people to simply say “no critique please!” if they weren’t interested, which was generally respected. To instead try to shift things so that any person who dares approach a stranger with constructive criticism is doing something rude or immoral I think is not just counterproductive but potentially toxic harmful toward writing communities.

#storytime with urban lol #started this a while ago decided to post after all

[palestinianliberator]

Do you have any advice/recommendations for a Palestinian visiting Palestine for the first time?

Hey!

So I’m just gonna kinda shotgun everything that comes tom ind, and if you’d like any more specific info or advice, let me know!

So first, the travel and entry -

This is by far the trickiest part. If nobody in your family has a hawiya/Palestinian ID, you could probably get away with traveling in through Tel Aviv, though normally I’d advise going in through Jordan. It also depends on where you’ll be staying. If you’re staying in the West Bank, then entry through Jordan would probably be best, and if you’re staying in 48 Palestine, then entry through Tel Aviv would probably be better, since you’ll have that stamp on your passport instead for checkpoints and whatnot.

While IN Palestine, so many places to recommend. I don’t know where you’ll be staying, but I’m personally most familiar with southern and central West Bank [I’m always turned around trying to get into the Northern part >_

I’m realizing now that food advice probably wasn’t what you were looking for lol, but okay moving on.

Since you don’t have a Hawiya, you should be able to get away with renting a car with a yellow license plate - this would allow you to easily pass through most checkpoints. To make things even easier, a cheap light-green safety vest over the driver’s seat and some plain colored hijabs that you can quickly fashion to look like a settler’s headpiece come in very handy. Yellow license plate cars are subject to less scrutiny since they’re usually driven by Israel settlers, so when approaching checkpoints in such a vehicle, act like they do, like you own the place. If you’re not the driver, just keep yourself distracted but carefree looking inside the car - don’t stare or really make eye contact with the soldiers, but don’t make it OBVIOUS that you’re avoiding them, if you know what I mean? 

When I’d drive with my aunt, she’d switch her hijab into a plain-colored scarf and tie it more loosely around her head, and that coupled with the safety vest [that many settlers keep over their driver’s seat], she’d easily pass for a settler and we were never once stopped at a checkpoint when she was driving. Granted, that’s not always the case, and even if you are stopped just keep your cool, tell them you’re tourists, and as horrible as it is, refer to it as Israel. Again, if you don’t have hawiyas, it’s a lot easier to get away with things if you appease them. 

Not making eye-contact if you want to avoid any scrutiny or questioning is generally good advice, but again, don’t make it OBVIOUS, just kinda make it look like you’re not worried or don’t really care - keep yourself distracted on your phone, or have lighthearted conversation with the people you’re with. 

Being Palestinian, you’re already aware of how friendly we are, and how much people like to just talk. If you’re in a taxi, you can ask the driver whatever you want, and they will tell you all sorts of stories or recommend places and locales you never would’ve thought of.

Another tip would be to take buses to faraway cities, unless you want to stay late. A bus trip from Ramallah to al-Khaleel/Hebron, for example, is only around $2, and you don’t have to worry about checkpoints, getting lost, being stopped, or parking. Otherwise, the hour/hour and a half trip will probably cost you $30~ in gas [probably more tbh, gas is RIDICULOUSLY expensive there], and the roads can get confusing, especially when you’re at crossings that split into settler and Palestinian roads. You’re also very likely to get turned around at checkpoints if you drive alone and get stopped, whereas this will rarely ever happen with buses. The ONLY downside to buses is that they run until a set time, and usually the last bus departs back to Ramallah or whatever its hub is at Salat al-Maghrib. 

Haggle EVERYTHING but food. Even if a price is marked in a shop, you can haggle it down - at least in the bigger cities. I don’t haggle in places like al-Khaleel where tourism has died and they’re struggling to get by, but shops in Ramallah or Jerusalem and such will mark their stuff up hoping to catch tourists off-guard, but you can ALWAYS bring prices down quite significantly. 

When you travel, hide ALL of your social media, deactivate your facebook, change your tumblr URL [if it’s in any way linked to you], etc. They often check these things at the border, and you don’t want to make things more difficult or inconvenient. Delete Facebook from your phone, delete any texts you wouldn’t want them to read, any Emails, pictures, etc. Personally, I just backup my phone and then completely wipe it before I travel. 

OH ALSO, ALWAYS, ALWAYS ask a taxi for the price of the trip you want to make BEFORE you get in and depart. Some, but not all, can be real vultures and charge you ridiculous prices for trips that would otherwise be very cheap. There are also two taxi types, ~private~ taxis that are pretty damned expensive, and regular ones & buses with really, really cheap rates. If you find a taxi driver you like in whatever village you stay in, be sure to get his number so you can call him. Like I said, many of them are super friendly and helpful, and finding a trusted/friendly driver can make life SO much easier. They can inform you of any potential protests or events that will lead to altered/closed roads, how to get around certain checkpoints, the best times to go places, etc. 

I’d recommend visiting Nablus, Ramallah, al-Khaleel, Bethlehem, Jerusalem, Jenin, and Jericho. Personally, my favorite times to travel are during the fall and early spring. It can get REALLY hot in the Summer depending on where you are, and I don’t function well in the heat myself ha. That being said, I do end up traveling there mostly in the Summer, and it won’t really hinder your enjoyment!

It should also go without saying - take lots of pictures! 

There’s a lot I missed, and this is kinda unorganized, but I hope it’s at least somewhat helpful. Feel free to ask if you have any other questions, and you WILL enjoy your time there!!

#Palestine #Israel #usernamealreadytakenagain

[booksbookandmorebooks]

Questions for any and all readers!

Hello my lovelies, i thought id bring you something a little different. while cruising through some book blogs i came across this collection of questions for readers and thought itd be a fun little post! ill credit the original source below, but have fun guys and hope youre all well! 

What was your favourite childhood book? 

The 12 Dancing princesses.

What are you reading now?

Nothing yet, but my next planned read is Harry potter and the prisoner of Azkaban.

What books do you currently have on loan from the library?

To be honest, i haven't been to library since i was about 15. I think its down to wanting to own the books i read and also i love comfort of reading in my own home. Although, saying that ive lately been considering taking a trip.

What are some of you bad bookish habits?

Okay so this will sound a bit over the top, im fully aware of that but...I have this weird obsession with the condition of my books when i buy them. Don’t get me wrong, i know most people wouldn't buy badly damaged/beat up books but im a little more intense about it... if i see a single scratch or scuff on a book i will refuse to buy it, even if its the only one available. Ill go as far as to travel to another book store to buy it...yeah im that kind of reader. Oh! i also have a weird thing about cracked spines, that’s a huge HUGE no no. i would rather bend the cover of my books to within an inch of their life rather than break the spines. 

Do you have any kind of E reader?

No disrespect to E readers, but im very old school. I want the physical thing in my hand. i want the feeling and the sound of turning pages, i want that stuffy beautiful book smell. It just wouldn't be the same experience without it for me. 

Whats your least favourite book of the year?

This is going to be a very very badly received answer and i almost dont want to answer it, but... the Tattooist of Auschwitz. I know i know its awful, its a very unpopular opinion but i much preferred The Choice by Edith Eger. If im honest, i preferred that by a mile! sorry guys.

What is your reading comfort zone?

I love Thrillers, YA and some fantasy books, not a ton though. 

Do you often read outside of your comfort zone?

If im honest, no. My boyfriend is always trying to rectify that, but i am a stubborn old cat and like what i like. Although, credit where credit is due he has turned me on to some pretty amazing fantasy books. 

Favourite book of the year?

Eleanor Oliphant is completely fine. Easiest pick, and a review is on its way soon! so stay tuned!

Where is your favourite place to read?

I love reading at home, on my side of the sofa with the lamp on low a hot drink in hand with my cats and boyfriend at my side. Its my happy place. 

What is your policy on book lending?

Im sorry guys but its a big fat no. Yepp im that guy. 

Do your write in your books? or the margins of your books?

Oh hell no, that’s sacrilege right there!

Do you break/crack the spines of your books?

Another straight up hell no. As i said above and anyone who knows me will tell you, that is my biggest biggest book no no. 

What is it that would make you recommend a book?

Whenever i read a book i always tend to get a feel pretty quickly for its emotions and the bigger picture it tries to paint, and when that comes to mind my thought process kind of flows into who it would suit best out of the people i know. so far, my recommendations have been very well received. 

Favourite reading snack?

I cant eat and read at the same time, not only due to the risk of grease on my books but the way i have to hold my books to avoid the spine cracking makes eating rather impossible. 

How do you feel about giving negative reviews about books?

Realistically i dont think theres anything wrong with bad or negative reviews as long as they are purely critical of the books. I think they're just as important as the positive ones. people are individuals and will have a variety of different thoughts and experiences throughout their life that can really help bond them to a specific book, story or character, while other people will never feel that bond and will view it completely different and thats okay, reading is a very personal experience. you cant please everyone, thats just life. 

Longest you've gone without reading?

I went a number of years without reading when i was growing up but luckily i re discovered my love of books a few years back and its been amazing. 

Have you ever read a self help book?

Yes, i have read a few actually.

Did they work for you ?

If im honest, they did and they didn't. No self help book is a immediate fix. They're a guide on how best to change your life style, your actions and choices to better suit you whatever the type of help book you have chosen. They are a work in progress. sometimes you might forget to practice their teachings but as long as you try thats the best you can do and thats a success in my eyes.

What distracts you when you're reading?

My boyfriend. My boyfriend. My boyfriend and...Yepp, My boyfriend. 

Most money ive spend in a book shop at once?

I had one crazy spending day and it totalled to around about £80. Mainly because i bought some bookish related goodies and didn't realise just how expensive they were until i reviewed the receipt on the trip home. That was a hard lesson. i lived on super noodles for like a month. So worth it though. 

What would cause you to stop reading a book half way through/DNF a book?

Mainly bordem. If i feel bored with a book or feel like im having to force myself to push through it then i will always put the book down. ive come to conclusion there are so many amazing books i want to read i cant waste my time on mediocre reads. 

Are there any books you've been avoiding reading?

Yes, so many. Mainly down to the sheer size of them. its sounds so silly, but i enjoy smaller or average sized books because i can read a lot of them in a month and it gives me this accomplished feeling, while reading one big book is not only intimidating but such a time investment and it just always puts me off. For example, i really want to try reading a Stephen King book and always get them recommended to me but whenever i see the size im always just left a little well, as i said intimidated.

______________________________

This was such a fun little post and i had a great time filling it out, i hope you enjoyed reading it and giving it ago yourself! I hope you all have a fab day and ill write to you all very soon!

[readbookywooks]

3 Buttercup's eyes reflect the faint glow of the safety light over the door as he lies in the crook of Prim's arm, back on the job, protecting her from the night. She's snuggled close to my mother. Asleep, they look just as they did the morning of the reaping that landed me in my first Games. I have a bed to myself because I'm recuperating and because no one can sleep with me anyway, what with the nightmares and the thrashing around. After tossing and turning for hours, I finally accept that it will be a wakeful night. Under Buttercup's watchful eye, I tiptoe across the cold tiled floor to the dresser. The middle drawer contains my government-issued clothes. Everyone wears the same gray pants and shirt, the shirt tucked in at the waist. Underneath the clothes, I keep the few items I had on me when I was lifted from the arena. My mockingjay pin. Peeta's token, the gold locket with photos of my mother and Prim and Gale inside. A silver parachute that holds a spile for tapping trees, and the pearl Peeta gave me a few hours before I blew out the force field. District 13 confiscated my tube of skin ointment for use in the hospital, and my bow and arrows because only guards have clearance to carry weapons. They're in safekeeping in the armory. I feel around for the parachute and slide my fingers inside until they close around the pearl. I sit back on my bed cross-legged and find myself rubbing the smooth iridescent surface of the pearl back and forth against my lips. For some reason, it's soothing. A cool kiss from the giver himself. "Katniss?" Prim whispers. She's awake, peering at me through the darkness. "What's wrong?" "Nothing. Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep." It's automatic. Shutting Prim and my mother out of things to shield them. Careful not to rouse my mother, Prim eases herself from the bed, scoops up Buttercup, and sits beside me. She touches the hand that has curled around the pearl. "You're cold." Taking a spare blanket from the foot of the bed, she wraps it around all three of us, enveloping me in her warmth and Buttercup's furry heat as well. "You could tell me, you know. I'm good at keeping secrets. Even from Mother." She's really gone, then. The little girl with the back of her shirt sticking out like a duck tail, the one who needed help reaching the dishes, and who begged to see the frosted cakes in the bakery window. Time and tragedy have forced her to grow too quickly, at least for my taste, into a young woman who stitches bleeding wounds and knows our mother can hear only so much. "Tomorrow morning, I'm going to agree to be the Mockingjay," I tell her. "Because you want to or because you feel forced into it?" she asks. I laugh a little. "Both, I guess. No, I want to. I have to, if it will help the rebels defeat Snow." I squeeze the pearl more tightly in my fist. "It's just...Peeta. I'm afraid if we do win, the rebels will execute him as a traitor." Prim thinks this over. "Katniss, I don't think you understand how important you are to the cause. Important people usually get what they want. If you want to keep Peeta safe from the rebels, you can." I guess I'm important. They went to a lot of trouble to rescue me. They took me to 12. "You mean...I could demand that they give Peeta immunity? And they'd have to agree to it?" "I think you could demand almost anything and they'd have to agree to it." Prim wrinkles her brow. "Only how do you know they'll keep their word?" I remember all of the lies Haymitch told Peeta and me to get us to do what he wanted. What's to keep the rebels from reneging on the deal? A verbal promise behind closed doors, even a statement written on paper - these could easily evaporate after the war. Their existence or validity denied. Any witnesses in Command will be worthless. In fact, they'd probably be the ones writing out Peeta's death warrant. I'll need a much larger pool of witnesses. I'll need everyone I can get. "It will have to be public," I say. Buttercup gives a flick of his tail that I take as agreement. "I'll make Coin announce it in front of the entire population of Thirteen." Prim smiles. "Oh, that's good. It's not a guarantee, but it will be much harder for them to back out of their promise." I feel the kind of relief that follows an actual solution. "I should wake you up more often, little duck." "I wish you would," says Prim. She gives me a kiss. "Try and sleep now, all right?" And I do. In the morning, I see that 7:00 - Breakfast is directly followed by 7:30 - Command , which is fine since I may as well start the ball rolling. At the dining hall, I flash my schedule, which includes some kind of ID number, in front of a sensor. As I slide my tray along the metal shelf before the vats of food, I see breakfast is its usual dependable self - a bowl of hot grain, a cup of milk, and a small scoop of fruit or vegetables. Today, mashed turnips. All of it comes from 13's underground farms. I sit at the table assigned to the Everdeens and the Hawthornes and some other refugees, and shovel my food down, wishing for seconds, but there are never seconds here. They have nutrition down to a science. You leave with enough calories to take you to the next meal, no more, no less. Serving size is based on your age, height, body type, health, and amount of physical labor required by your schedule. The people from 12 are already getting slightly larger portions than the natives of 13 in an effort to bring us up to weight. I guess bony soldiers tire too quickly. It's working, though. In just a month, we're starting to look healthier, particularly the kids. Gale sets his tray beside me and I try not to stare at his turnips too pathetically, because I really want more, and he's already too quick to slip me his food. Even though I turn my attention to neatly folding my napkin, a spoonful of turnips slops into my bowl. "You've got to stop that," I say. But since I'm already scooping up the stuff, it's not too convincing. "Really. It's probably illegal or something." They have very strict rules about food. For instance, if you don't finish something and want to save it for later, you can't take it from the dining hall. Apparently, in the early days, there was some incident of food hoarding. For a couple of people like Gale and me, who've been in charge of our families' food supply for years, it doesn't sit well. We know how to be hungry, but not how to be told how to handle what provisions we have. In some ways, District 13 is even more controlling than the Capitol. "What can they do? They've already got my communicuff," says Gale. As I scrape my bowl clean, I have an inspiration. "Hey, maybe I should make that a condition of being the Mockingjay." "That I can feed you turnips?" he says. "No, that we can hunt." That gets his attention. "We'd have to give everything to the kitchen. But still, we could..." I don't have to finish because he knows. We could be aboveground. Out in the woods. We could be ourselves again. "Do it," he says. "Now's the time. You could ask for the moon and they'd have to find some way to get it." He doesn't know that I'm already asking for the moon by demanding they spare Peeta's life. Before I can decide whether or not to tell him, a bell signals the end of our eating shift. The thought of facing Coin alone makes me nervous. "What are you scheduled for?" Gale checks his arm. "Nuclear History class. Where, by the way, your absence has been noted." "I have to go to Command. Come with me?" I ask. "All right. But they might throw me out after yesterday." As we go to drop off our trays, he says, "You know, you better put Buttercup on your list of demands, too. I don't think the concept of useless pets is well known here." "Oh, they'll find him a job. Tattoo it on his paw every morning," I say. But I make a mental note to include him for Prim's sake. By the time we get to Command, Coin, Plutarch, and all their people have already assembled. The sight of Gale raises some eyebrows, but no one throws him out. My mental notes have become too jumbled, so I ask for a piece of paper and a pencil right off. My apparent interest in the proceedings - the first I've shown since I've been here - takes them by surprise. Several looks are exchanged. Probably they had some extra-special lecture planned for me. But instead, Coin personally hands me the supplies, and everyone waits in silence while I sit at the table and scrawl out my list.Buttercup. Hunting. Peeta's immunity. Announced in public. This is it. Probably my only chance to bargain.Think. What else do you want? I feel him, standing at my shoulder.Gale , I add to the list. I don't think I can do this without him. The headache's coming on and my thoughts begin to tangle. I shut my eyes and start to recite silently. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. The Capitol hates me. Peeta was taken prisoner. He is alive. He is a traitor but alive. I have to keep him alive.... The list. It still seems too small. I should try to think bigger, beyond our current situation where I am of the utmost importance, to the future where I may be worth nothing. Shouldn't I be asking for more? For my family? For the remainder of my people? My skin itches with the ashes of the dead. I feel the sickening impact of the skull against my shoe. The scent of blood and roses stings my nose. The pencil moves across the page on its own. I open my eyes and see the wobbly letters.I KILL SNOW. If he's captured, I want the privilege. Plutarch gives a discreet cough. "About done there?" I glance up and notice the clock. I've been sitting here for twenty minutes. Finnick isn't the only one with attention problems. "Yeah," I say. My voice sounds hoarse, so I clear my throat. "Yeah, so this is the deal. I'll be your Mockingjay." I wait so they can make their sounds of relief, congratulate, slap one another on the back. Coin stays as impassive as ever, watching me, unimpressed. "But I have some conditions." I smooth out the list and begin. "My family gets to keep our cat." My tiniest request sets off an argument. The Capitol rebels see this as a nonissue - of course, I can keep my pet - while those from 13 spell out what extreme difficulties this presents. Finally it's worked out that we'll be moved to the top level, which has the luxury of an eight-inch window aboveground. Buttercup may come and go to do his business. He will be expected to feed himself. If he misses curfew, he will be locked out. If he causes any security problems, he'll be shot immediately. That sounds okay. Not so different from how he's been living since we left. Except for the shooting part. If he looks too thin, I can slip him a few entrails, provided my next request is allowed. "I want to hunt. With Gale. Out in the woods," I say. This gives everyone pause. "We won't go far. We'll use our own bows. You can have the meat for the kitchen," adds Gale. I hurry on before they can say no. "It's just...I can't breathe shut up here like a...I would get better, faster, if...I could hunt." Plutarch begins to explain the drawbacks here - the dangers, the extra security, the risk of injury - but Coin cuts him off. "No. Let them. Give them two hours a day, deducted from their training time. A quarter-mile radius. With communication units and tracker anklets. What's next?" I skim my list. "Gale. I'll need him with me to do this." "With you how? Off camera? By your side at all times? Do you want him presented as your new lover?" Coin asks. She hasn't said this with any particular malice - quite the contrary, her words are very matter-of-fact. But my mouth still drops open in shock. "What?" "I think we should continue the current romance. A quick defection from Peeta could cause the audience to lose sympathy for her," says Plutarch. "Especially since they think she's pregnant with his child." "Agreed. So, on-screen, Gale can simply be portrayed as a fellow rebel. Is that all right?" says Coin. I just stare at her. She repeats herself impatiently. "For Gale. Will that be sufficient?" "We can always work him in as your cousin," says Fulvia. "We're not cousins," Gale and I say together. "Right, but we should probably keep that up for appearances' sake on camera," says Plutarch. "Off camera, he's all yours. Anything else?" I'm rattled by the turn in the conversation. The implications that I could so readily dispose of Peeta, that I'm in love with Gale, that the whole thing has been an act. My cheeks begin to burn. The very notion that I'm devoting any thought to who I want presented as my lover, given our current circumstances, is demeaning. I let my anger propel me into my greatest demand. "When the war is over, if we've won, Peeta will be pardoned." Dead silence. I feel Gale's body tense. I guess I should have told him before, but I wasn't sure how he'd respond. Not when it involved Peeta. "No form of punishment will be inflicted," I continue. A new thought occurs to me. "The same goes for the other captured tributes, Johanna and Enobaria." Frankly, I don't care about Enobaria, the vicious District 2 tribute. In fact, I dislike her, but it seems wrong to leave her out. "No," says Coin flatly. "Yes," I shoot back. "It's not their fault you abandoned them in the arena. Who knows what the Capitol's doing to them?" "They'll be tried with other war criminals and treated as the tribunal sees fit," she says. "They'll be granted immunity!" I feel myself rising from my chair, my voice full and resonant. "You will personally pledge this in front of the entire population of District Thirteen and the remainder of Twelve. Soon. Today. It will be recorded for future generations. You will hold yourself and your government responsible for their safety, or you'll find yourself another Mockingjay!" My words hang in the air for a long moment. "That's her!" I hear Fulvia hiss to Plutarch. "Right there. With the costume, gunfire in the background, just a hint of smoke." "Yes, that's what we want," says Plutarch under his breath. I want to glare at them, but I feel it would be a mistake to turn my attention from Coin. I can see her tallying the cost of my ultimatum, weighing it against my possible worth. "What do you say, President?" asks Plutarch. "You could issue an official pardon, given the circumstances. The boy...he's not even of age." "All right," Coin says finally. "But you'd better perform." "I'll perform when you've made the announcement," I say. "Call a national security assembly during Reflection today," she orders. "I'll make the announcement then. Is there anything left on your list, Katniss?" My paper's crumpled into a ball in my right fist. I flatten the sheet against the table and read the rickety letters. "Just one more thing. I kill Snow." For the first time ever, I see the hint of a smile on the president's lips. "When the time comes, I'll flip you for it." Maybe she's right. I certainly don't have the sole claim against Snow's life. And I think I can count on her getting the job done. "Fair enough." Coin's eyes have flickered to her arm, the clock. She, too, has a schedule to adhere to. "I'll leave her in your hands, then, Plutarch." She exits the room, followed by her team, leaving only Plutarch, Fulvia, Gale, and myself. "Excellent. Excellent." Plutarch sinks down, elbows on the table, rubbing his eyes. "You know what I miss? More than anything? Coffee. I ask you, would it be so unthinkable to have something to wash down the gruel and turnips?" "We didn't think it would be quite so rigid here," Fulvia explains to us as she massages Plutarch's shoulders. "Not in the higher ranks." "Or at least there'd be the option of a little side action," says Plutarch. "I mean, even Twelve had a black market, right?" "Yeah, the Hob," says Gale. "It's where we traded." "There, you see? And look how moral you two are! Virtually incorruptible." Plutarch sighs. "Oh, well, wars don't last forever. So, glad to have you on the team." He reaches a hand out to the side, where Fulvia is already extending a large sketchbook bound in black leather. "You know in general what we're asking of you, Katniss. I'm aware you have mixed feelings about participating. I hope this will help." Plutarch slides the sketchbook across to me. For a moment, I look at it suspiciously. Then curiosity gets the better of me. I open the cover to find a picture of myself, standing straight and strong, in a black uniform. Only one person could have designed the outfit, at first glance utterly utilitarian, at second a work of art. The swoop of the helmet, the curve to the breastplate, the slight fullness of the sleeves that allows the white folds under the arms to show. In his hands, I am again a mockingjay. "Cinna," I whisper. "Yes. He made me promise not to show you this book until you'd decided to be the Mockingjay on your own. Believe me, I was very tempted," says Plutarch. "Go on. Flip through." I turn the pages slowly, seeing each detail of the uniform. The carefully tailored layers of body armor, the hidden weapons in the boots and belt, the special reinforcements over my heart. On the final page, under a sketch of my mockingjay pin, Cinna's written, I'm still betting on you. "When did he..." My voice fails me. "Let's see. Well, after the Quarter Quell announcement. A few weeks before the Games maybe? There are not only the sketches. We have your uniforms. Oh, and Beetee's got something really special waiting for you down in the armory. I won't spoil it by hinting," says Plutarch. "You're going to be the best-dressed rebel in history," says Gale with a smile. Suddenly, I realize he's been holding out on me. Like Cinna, he's wanted me to make this decision all along. "Our plan is to launch an Airtime Assault," says Plutarch. "To make a series of what we call propos - which is short for 'propaganda spots' - featuring you, and broadcast them to the entire population of Panem." "How? The Capitol has sole control of the broadcasts," says Gale. "But we have Beetee. About ten years ago, he essentially redesigned the underground network that transmits all the programming. He thinks there's a reasonable chance it can be done. Of course, we'll need something to air. So, Katniss, the studio awaits your pleasure." Plutarch turns to his assistant. "Fulvia?" "Plutarch and I have been talking about how on earth we can pull this off. We think that it might be best to build you, our rebel leader, from the outside...in. That is to say, let's find the most stunning Mockingjay look possible, and then work your personality up to deserving it!" she says brightly. "You already have her uniform," says Gale. "Yes, but is she scarred and bloody? Is she glowing with the fire of rebellion? Just how grimy can we make her without disgusting people? At any rate, she has to be something. I mean, obviously this" - Fulvia moves in on me quickly, framing my face with her hands - "won't cut it." I jerk my head back reflexively but she's already busy gathering her things. "So, with that in mind, we have another little surprise for you. Come, come." Fulvia gives us a wave, and Gale and I follow her and Plutarch out into the hall. "So well intended, and yet so insulting," Gale whispers in my ear. "Welcome to the Capitol," I mouth back. But Fulvia's words have no effect on me. I wrap my arms tightly around the sketchbook and allow myself to feel hopeful. This must be the right decision. If Cinna wanted it. We board an elevator, and Plutarch checks his notes. "Let's see. It's Compartment Three-Nine-Oh-Eight." He presses a button marked 39 , but nothing happens. "You must have to key it," says Fulvia. Plutarch pulls a key attached to a thin chain from under his shirt and inserts it into a slot I hadn't noticed before. The doors slide shut. "Ah, there we are." The elevator descends ten, twenty, thirty-plus levels, farther down than I even knew District 13 went. It opens on a wide white corridor lined with red doors, which look almost decorative compared to the gray ones on the upper floors. Each is plainly marked with a number 3901, 3902, 3903 ... As we step out, I glance behind me to watch the elevator close and see a metallic grate slide into place over the regular doors. When I turn, a guard has materialized from one of the rooms at the far end of the corridor. A door swings silently shut behind him as he strides toward us. Plutarch moves to meet him, raising a hand in greeting, and the rest of us follow behind him. Something feels very wrong down here. It's more than the reinforced elevator, or the claustrophobia of being so far underground, or the caustic smell of antiseptic. One look at Gale's face and I can tell he senses it as well. "Good morning, we were just looking for - " Plutarch begins. "You have the wrong floor," says the guard abruptly. "Really?" Plutarch double-checks his notes. "I've got Three-Nine-Oh-Eight written right here. I wonder if you could just give a call up to - " "I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave now. Assignment discrepancies can be addressed at the Head Office," says the guard. It's right ahead of us. Compartment 3908. Just a few steps away. The door - in fact, all the doors - seem incomplete. No knobs. They must swing free on hinges like the one the guard appeared through. "Where is that again?" asks Fulvia. "You'll find the Head Office on Level Seven," says the guard, extending his arms to corral us back to the elevator. From behind door 3908 comes a sound. Just a tiny whimper. Like something a cowed dog might make to avoid being struck, only all too human and familiar. My eyes meet Gale's for just a moment, but it's long enough for two people who operate the way we do. I let Cinna's sketchbook fall at the guard's feet with a loud bang. A second after he leans down to retrieve it, Gale leans down, too, intentionally bumping heads. "Oh, I'm sorry," he says with a light laugh, catching the guard's arms as if to steady himself, turning him slightly away from me. That's my chance. I dart around the distracted guard, push open the door marked 3908 , and find them. Half-naked, bruised, and shackled to the wall. My prep team.

#Mockingjay

[nico-in-space]

Sunny/Bright/Winter/Night

This is an original story of mine that I’m working on. I figured I could post the rough drafts online so I could get probable feedback on them! :) They’ll just escape into the void of Tumblr, so it’s not like it really matters, but I’m putting myself out there anyway, just for the hell of it.

Summary: For each situation, there are at least a hundred different perspectives. Naturally, when the aliens invade Earth, there are a few different perspectives on that event.  One is in favor of the operation. It will, in the end, benefit Earth's prosperity, and add more diversity to the already incredibly advanced ecosystem.  Another couldn't care less if aliens are invading. She's currently in the process of writing her application for MIT. It's not going so great. Also, she just had a MASSIVE fight with her best friend, who's been unusually grouchy lately. What's up with that? Not that it really matters, at this point. Now, what to study next...  One wishes that the aliens would beam her up, as she's feeling lost, alone, and depressed for many, many current reasons. But maybe she's been feeling like that for longer.  Another has been trying, fruitlessly, to defend Earth from the eventual capture of its people, but really wishes she had a helping hand in her project. Her co-workers don't seem to understand that a battle cannot be won with only force. You need knowledge, too, which is something she has quite enough of, thank you. How do their stories intertwine? Find out in Sunny/Bright/Winter/Night.

Also cross-posted on Wattpad here! I update there more regularly. :)

CODENAME: AGENT S1143

I sigh, leaning back in my chair. It protests at the action, squeaking unpleasantly, the sound reverberating in the large domed room that my cubicle, along with many others, is situated. I'm done working for the day, finally. It always feels like my work is never-ending, but my job is important, at least in the eyes of the Overseer. 

I flex my feet, hearing the joints crack. Us menial workers "run the show," according to the many posters hung up around the satellite base. We are the backbone that run the hypothetical "body" of the Earth Mission #024. At least, that's what the Overseer tells us to make us feel better.

 My work consists of an infinite amount of paperwork. Well, fairly recently in terms of history we've gone digital, so it's all computerized work. My older co-workers often complain about the supposed "laziness" of folk my age because we never had to sort physical paperwork like they did. It's really fucking annoying, to be honest. But I digress. My job is basically to scan over the documents which detail, in exactness, the birth of a Human, and all their medical "traits." I run the document through diagnostics to make sure there are no glitches. It's just some debug program, one that I could probably program myself if I had the desire,  but I'd probably get in trouble with my Local Leader. As much as I don't give a literal fuck what my Local Leader thinks, I don't feel like being electrocuted to death anytime soon. After the document goes through diagnostics, I click the confirm button, and the next document pops up. It's all I live for, basically.

It's menial; almost an insult to my intellect. I pride myself on being a fairly smart Ki'golian these days, though I was fairly rebellious in my youth, and didn't spend much time at the Academy. I preferred to spend my time in more...lucrative ways.

I get up, rubbing my shoulders. Terror above, they're sore... What I wouldn't give for a sauna in this damn place. Not like I'd ever be able to use something like that, as a folk of my status.

Feeling rather sour, I leave the Dome to head to my apartment. I swipe my card, entering my apartment Block, then find my room number and swipe to enter that. Alone at last. I recline on my bed, looking out the small window to the view of Earth. The planet is large, and I am currently viewing the Pacific Ocean. It's the largest one, which is the only way I can remember it. It's incredibly blue, even covered with clouds, and I find that I can't look away. The sun's light reflects on it even from my vantage point, though the clouds cover most of it, swirling gently, circularly. Actually seeing it in person is kind of a shock to me still. I've done boring work before, in boring places, so I figured the Earth Mission, when they reached out to me, would be no different. But the scenery, at least, is incredibly extravagant, even if the pay isn't.

 ...it really is a beautiful planet. I suppose there are things that don't have a monetary value. Scenery like this, I suppose, can be counted as one of them.

-----

GAMER-ID: BETATESTER 112

"Dammit!" Tasha exclaimed, slamming her controller on the ground. Next to her, her friend Leila yelled in success, punching the air with fervor. She was at Leila's house, playing video games with her together after school. The room was brightly lit, and Leila's screen was massive. It was a video gamer's heaven.

"Fuck, Leila, you're way too good at games. Seriously," Tasha groaned, rubbing her temples. She continued, "you'd be real good in the robotics club. I could use a friend there."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Leila reiterated, setting down her controller and pulling a hair tie off her wrist, using it to pull up her hair. Tasha couldn't help but watch the motion, watched Leila's tan, toned arms as she fixed her hair. "You hate that the guys there think your sexuality's a challenge." Tasha blinked, focusing back on Leila's face.

"You think the teacher's wishy-washy for letting that shit happen. But you want to go to college for Rocket Science, so you're sticking with it anyway." Leila scoffed. "If I were you, I would'a quit the moment one of 'em started hitting on me."

"Not all of us have a career in lucrative hobbies, Leila. I gotta work for that future degree, y'know?" Tasha grumbled, annoyed. "Which means I have to be in a shit ton of clubs, even ones I'm...less fond of, and I've gotta do well in my classes, so that MIT might even consider me. I just wanted a little more support, that's all I was asking. It's not that hard to join a-"

"Stop." Leila's voice was tight. Her shoulders had tensed up. Tense herself, Tasha leveled her gaze at Leila, not about to back down now.

Outside, a bird trilled. Leila's robotic butler rolled to its charging dock and hooked itself on, shutting down for a quick nap, it seemed.

Leila scoffed.

 Tasha blinked.

 "Video gaming is hard work, okay! It's an actual skill."

Tasha glared at Leila. Leila was changing the topic again, like she always did when Tasha brought up her tendency to slack off. 

"No, it's not," she responded, annoyed with herself for encouraging this particularly irksome behavior of Leila's.

"Fuck you. It is," Leila growled, giving Tasha the respective finger.

Tasha groaned, frustrated, throwing her hands up in the air. This is how their conversations have been going lately, and Tasha can pinpoint it starting during the week that Tasha and their mutual friend Akane began casually dating, three months ago. Ever since then, for whatever reason, Leila has been really tough to be around, especially with applications for college starting up this month.

Tasha knew Leila was sensitive about her grades in school. No matter how much Tasha tried to reassure her it was just a letter, it didn't mean anything towards her intellect, it was still a touchy subject with her, for whatever reason. Leila wasn't planning on going to college, and college was all Tasha could think about. It was, in hindsight, a recipe for disaster. 

"You know what," she began, getting up from her seat. "I'm getting a little tired of your attitude, Leila."

Tasha grimaced, before flicking her off. She hated to do it, but Leila seriously needed a taste of her own medicine."Wait, Tasha," Leila whined, but it was too late.

Tasha had walked out of the door.

 Tasha strode purposefully to her car, parked in front of the Horton's mansion. Leila was just another nobody who spent all their time gaming. A nobody who had once been special to Tasha, but not anymore. Tasha had bigger things on her plate, and that plate didn't have room for Leila's rich girl problems.

Tasha gunned the engine, tasting the delicious feeling of knowing that Leila, right now, had heard that, and was probably upset.

It was almost like freedom.

-----

LEILA

She yearned after those Saturday nights spent drinking strawberry lemonade and watching the clouds, sun bright, in her eyes, in Tasha's eyes, the bright summer sky turning everything a shade of gold. Flittering, fluttering, old dandelion fluff from spring still in the air, making her nose itch.

She loved to watch as the white puffs blew in the slight breeze. She wished, oh God, did she wish, that she could fly like them, free, warmed by the sun, dancing against the wind.

And when she looked into Tasha's warm hazel eyes, she was part of the way there.

.

.

.

But all she felt now was the deepest chill, winter's chill creeping up her bones and settling in her spine. It froze her. She couldn't move, as her dearest friend and one-sided lover walked away, for what looked like the last time.

-----

DIARY LOG 10/10/40

Today's mission went pretty rough. Those damned beasts keep making the chase harder. I keep hacking into their mainframe to try and disable their cloaking device, but they change the security every time. And it's always so God...damned convoluted. Ugh, I have the worst fucking headache right now. Boss keeps telling me I need lasik, or contacts, or even old-fashioned glasses, but there's no time for that. Not when I'm the only hacker on the Resistance team. We really need to get someone else who can program. Jesus. 

End log.

#nicowrites #sbwn #original story #original character

[sacredinkedblood]

MY PERSONAL BLOG ON VARIOUS TOPICS#knowledge #education #politics #writers #authors #howto #butterflies #gardening #controversial #myopinionsMENUSKIP TO CONTENTJESUS CAME TO SAVE THE SINNERS1 thing I can say about myself is that I’m no hypocrite, I can talk about the goodness of God and still know how I am and admit it. And I am not a hypocrite because I can say what’s on my heart even if it sounds un-Christian because God already knows, so why lie? “Christian” is a misunderstood word, and I don’t have much respect for many Christians in that sense of the word. When I say that I’m a christian but don’t label me as one that’s because I follow God and I’m a follower of Christ. I mean I know Him, believe in Him, I love & respect Him and sometimes I doubt or question Him or get angry with Him. At least I’m real and that makes me genuine. The stigma that you’re never suppose to question Him or doubt Him or get angry at Him is absurd. He’s my Heavenly Father and just like an earthly parent or any parent, I can go to Him and tell Him all those things that I just mentioned and as a loving and understanding and All Knowing he will comfort me, reassure me and wrap His arms around me instead of condemning me. Besides why go to another person that only has human reasoning over that when you can go directly to the source? I would rather be a believer than making the claim such as Christian! I don’t fall in line with how I see Christianity (that is in general) demonstrated. I know a few people that make claims to being a Christian that demonstrate christianity beautifully but the majority does not. If that makes any sense? JESUS CAME TO MINISTER TO THE SINNERS! Today too many are focused on their own little Christian communities that they unintentionally ignore the spiritual needs of those outside of their communities and churches. They’re more self focused and concerned with what makes them more comfortable instead of extending it to other’s that don’t fit their schedules. Some actually refuse the undisciplined because they are only concerned with order within their church. Well it’s the undisciplined, it’s the one’s without supervision, it’s the ones that do anything in order to receive attention, that should be the mission of the church to reach as Jesus demonstrated.But am I wrong at all, if I am please tell me, It’s not a set up for an argument but sincere people will point it out in a loving manner!Even some atheist demonstrate love and morals better than some of those that are labeled christians. Maybe 1 day if we become more loving like Jesus was and demonstrate acts of kindness without condemnation then maybe those atheists will see God and want to know Him.But for now I’m calling it like I see it. And because I am politically minded somewhat that makes it okay for me to post anything I want on my page just as it does everyone else! Just because we may not agree doesn’t mean that we both don’t want what’s best because I believe most of us do!But so many churches need to include people who are different than you. Talk about the good news in the bible instead of about politics in church. God is not a Republican, a Democrat, a conservative, a liberal or a socialist. He transcends all our political categories, however important they might be to us.Politics matters, but it will never change the world the way the Gospel can (or has).But the church doesn’t exist to elect or defeat politicians. It exists to glorify Christ and grow his Kingdom (which is an alt Kingdom) in the world. (Here are a few more thoughts on being the church in the present political climate.)Just know this: if God has all the same opinions your political party does, you’re probably not worshipping God.So you want your church to reach people who don’t go to church.That’s wonderful because that’s basically the mission of the church: to share the love of Christ with the world in the hopes everyone will come into a relationship with Jesus.The challenge is that unchurched people aren’t exactly flocking to most churches, and many Christians seem stumped as to why that is.There are many reasons, but a surprising number center around one thing: Christians who treat the church as if it’s their private club. They set it up only to satisfy their personal needs or preferences. JESUS CAME TO SAVE THE SINNERS AND THAT SHOULD BE YOUR CHURCH’S MISSION ALSO! Maybe compromise, set up particular times for the members who demand it but have other scheduled times and or events to reach others. When undisciplined children & teens show up, do you want them gone because they’re disruptive and it’s uncomfortable for you? Well that’s awful and shameful!!! Maybe their not use to attending church, maybe they don’t have a loving environment at home maybe your church is the only bible they’ll read… do you want them to read that they’re unacceptable because they never had a chance to learn so they need to stay home or find another church? Oh I hope not!! Don’t be a stumbling block unto them. Jesus said, do not suffer the children to come to me! Period… he didn’t add conditions such as only if they have a supervised adult with them or only if they are mindful and behaved well!!! The bible talks about order and discipline within the church but it doesn’t take priority over winning a person over to Christ. If you don’t have the patience it takes for however long it may take an individual to adjust then maybe you need to ask God to discipline your own heart!!!Christians should be the most generous and selfless people on the planet.Sadly, we’re often known as the stingiest and most selfish (ask any non-Christian who’s worked at a restaurant).The Gospel calls us to die to ourselves so that others may live and to put something bigger than ourselves above ourselves.If you give your life away, you find it.When you die to yourself, something greater rises.Being the church is about a lot more than showing up for an hour on Sunday or tuning in online.If you’re really going to reach the next generation, it means giving your time too.Authentic Christianity is more about what we give than what we get. Our giving doesn’t earn us our salvation, of course, but it’s a joyful response to a God who gave everything for us.And that’s exactly what far too many churches do: focus exclusively on the needs and wants of their members.Okay, it’s worse than that. Maybe it’s not even about needs and wants. Maybe it’s about preferences.So many church leaders (staff and volunteer) struggle to lead beyond the preferences of the church members. And as soon as they try, they get inundated with complaints and angry emails. Too many Christians feel like it’s their right to have a church that caters exactly to their tastes and whims, and millions are paying the price for that (including unchurched people).#real #harshreality #Christian #churches #Jesus #realtalkhttps://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=2537284809824204&id=2253944324824922DECEMBER 12, 2019 BY MY BLOGCATEGORIES: UNCATEGORIZEDPOST NAVIGATIONPULPIT TO PEN ARTICLEFALSE PROPHETS/CHARLATANSComments aBlog at WordPress.com.

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[republicstandard]

Slipping Up The Slope

Life is hard, and death and taxes are inevitable. Or so I am told. Every day, the working American gets up. Maybe he mobilizes too early for his taste. He gets into his truck and drives to work. On the road, he is greeted by a cacophony of unskilled and inattentive, angry drivers who cut him off, flip him the bird, and generally, act like tantrum ridden children. If the man has his wits about him he shall stay his course and not react in kind. However, after years of insult upon injury, perhaps being the victim of accident or road-rage, he may well join the march of the man-children. Or more likely, years of seeing his lawful behavior met with childish antics will gradually erode his lawfulness.

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They tell me that the road was not always this bad. My wife, who grew up in Nova Scotia, tells me that the roads are not that bad there as of 2012. Maybe Canada’s world really did end then and nothing ever got worse. What I do know is that where I live, drivers become exponentially worse by the year. Statistically, and observable. I can scarcely make a commute these days without pulling over for an Ambulance, Firetruck or Copcar. The principal issue is that people are stressed, and a windshield gives drivers a delusion of anonymity. It might not always be road-rage: stress upholds escapist fantasy; texting while driving is a response to stress, in addition to stupidity. However, it is the road rage, the transgressively antisocial behavior exhibited on the road which concerns this piece. When encased in your shell of sheet metal and glass, it is easy to forget that the driver holding you up is human, too. You don’t see the man, just the bumper stickers, things to annoy you.

This anonymity is human nature in action. Call it beer muscles, if you will, but people show their true colors when they think nobody is looking. Better yet: when they think they won’t be caught. In the years I have been driving, the human condition encased in automobilia has only worsened and depreciated. What are some corollaries? Workingmen are spread thin. Money is short and fast. Time is precious. Workers are underappreciated, underpaid, uncared for by their society. For a society that is disintegrating and refuses to supply citizens with upright emotional education and security, it is no wonder people are hostile. An issue we will discuss soon is that added to this cacophony of error is the unmitigated fact that the police force is ill-equipped to deal with what the American census is morphing, devolving, mutating into.    

Another example of anonymity in action is the internet. You see it all the time, online, people write things they would never dream of saying to a man’s face. Men’s faces have been bruised for far less. This less than wholesome component of the internet has led to a number of social maladies. I have discussed them at length in a book I have written, but seeing as it is unpublished it hurts nothing to discuss them here.

The internet has fostered an age of cowards. The Aryan concepts of honor once sublimated into every stratum of Europid society has been relegated to convenience methods. For instance, it was once held in common that you simply do not say something behind a man’s back you would lack the courage to say to his face. The internet seems to have destroyed this ideal. Although, one may glean from the net that, of course, every keyboard commando would say exactly whatever bloviating nonsense he has typed, out loud to your face – no doubt while polishing his rifle, smoking a cigar and massaging his three Russian brides. On the internet, every man is a myth and a legend.

Here is another point to ponder. Entire generations are being raised without ignorance of the internet. Men of my age remember exactly when SkyNet entered their house. Men younger than me take it for granted. They might not even be able to imagine life without it. Hell, some men in my bracket might be that dull that they cannot conceive of life outside the interwebz. This component of society has changed the social norm. People now intermingle online and IRL conducts. The result has been, at least for me, profoundly ironic. When I was young and so was the internet, I was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome. Today? Every Normie I worked with in school could have passed for dysfunctional childhood me.

Symptoms? Conversations remain unfinished. People have committal problems. Eye contact is becoming a rarity. People struggle with informal and informal speech. Having the supposed freedom to write anything online with hardly any real consequences has given people the illusion that their opinions are wanted, or that they must, in fact, be heard. It has damaged the sense of appropriate place, and the idea of sensitive topics is gradually eroding and topical conversation has become a free for all and stream of consciousness. In large part, that is. There are examples to these notations. However, the decline is real. I am dating myself, sounding like the Coastal Elites’ version of Harold Covington; however, these are issues that warrant exploration.

The desocialization of the younger generation will impact future generations. Boomers complain about lazy youth. And men my age will replace them and be hated by the younger generation, for we will worry about the communication, organization and completion skills and coping mechanisms of the younger. More than that, we will worry because nothing tends to get better with time unassisted. Kind of like that supposed second law of thermodynamics I read about when I was younger.      This brings me to the crux of my article here. The Slippery Slope. As it goes, drivers on the road are becoming more brazen and antagonistic. The rules of the road are a joke. Who hasn’t heard a variation of this story why am I going to follow the road rules when I just watched a cop pass a guy doing an illegal turn? Or why should I be a sucker when the guy in front of me is doing 20 over and he hasn’t been pulled over? Or, I just watched a guy blow through a 4 way stop and I get pulled over for a headlight being out?  Or as time goes on you will hear: I probably won’t get pulled over anyway. I do this all the time.

Pretty soon the rules are a joke, a laughing stock, and everyone knows it. Every day I am cut off at least once per intersection because some entitled dingbat felt he could bumrush the fresh red light. He cuts through, and most often, the rightful green light traffic knows to wait a new two seconds to accommodate the moron who will aggressively run the obvious red. I’ve considered ramming them multiple times, because, if I am not mistaken, my insurance would cover it and my truck is getting long in the tooth. All this happens because the drivers who had accustomed themselves to taking advantage of the legal precedence that allows you to pass a yellow light to avoid being stuck in the intersection have come to justify ignoring when yellow becomes red. It was a slippery slope. Whatever. This message spreads. Every dirtbag that runs a red, passes illegally and gets away with it causes two subdividing problems: A. he is emboldened to continue breaking the law and taking bigger risks and, B. others will see him and in their annoyance, follow suit vis a vis me vs. them mentality. The issue with problem A. is that chickens always come home to roost – unless eaten by fox and hawk. The arrogant driver will increase his market value in stupidity until he gets himself, or more likely, somebody innocent of his idiocy that doesn’t deserve it, killed. Now the issue with Problem B is that it multiplies the instance of Problem A and creates a self-fulfilling prophecy of thoroughly unenjoyable driving.

This slippery slope is worthy of investigation because it is no longer just the road rules. The internet and driving are symptomatic of a larger problem, which we know, and shall discuss. There have always been crimes, there have always been misdemeanors. However, reports of crime dominate the news. One can hardly pass a day without hearing about rape or theft or murder. How long until all laws are treated like road rules? Say what you will of Police, but they are spread thin. The civilian populace smells blood on the water. Police on the road have to select what offenders they will punish selectively. There will come a time, and that time has come, when police begin selectively choosing which domestic crimes and which rampant crimes to deal with. There will come a time when the civilian populace is no longer satisfied with bread and circus and we shall see the true nature of the post-White America’s American.

Now, I write for the Right. This is no secret and it is no lie. To that end, it should come as no surprise that the commute and web diatribe leads us to the daunting future that may well like at stake. When the civilian populace is unhampered when laws are increasingly selectively followed and considered negotiable… and when we know the law is often selectively applied, it creates a potential for a dramatically erratic and unstable future. Why now? I presume we can be agreed that the present is, at present, rather unwell?      Anyone in the Alt-Right proper or Dissident Right abroad will be acquainted with the disaster of Charlottesville. Anyone of a significantly Right of Centre leaning will be familiar with the selective way, say, crimes against sensitivity and political correctness are punished. Anyone who has been called a Fascist or a Nazi will be familiar with the exploits of the degenerate cadre known as Anti-Fa. You will know they are on George Soros’ payroll, and that this merry band of nonconformists who all dress, look and smell the same is on the corporate dole – toeing the line they’ve been fed.

These Anti-Fa have committed assault, which I believe is still according to United States law a felony. The cases are countless. When Charlottesville happened and Anti-Fa attacked at an otherwise peaceful protest, the Police were ordered to stand down. Or so I am told. A very poor legal precedent that emboldened further Leftist violence. But. According to the Portland Phoenix and the Bollard, the Anti-Fa have never killed anyone where Nazis killed all kinds of people. So, naturally, it is okay to punch a Nazi, mace him, throw bottles of your own urine at him. It is okay to insult him, deride him. Anti-Fa have stalked the family members of Right Wing Dissidents. Anti-Fa has threatened the mothers of Fascist Sons. They have ruined lives and gloated of their deeds. They have acted shamelessly and without reproach. Are they condemned? Not very strongly. They are occasionally applauded. As to the Anti-Fa themselves? I suspect they rationalize their poor behavior, if they are intelligent enough, by claiming they are anticipating violence from their enemy. They are preventing the next inevitable Holocaust, I suppose.

So heroic.

Yet it goes that despite their wanton ignorance of the law, the popular mind transfers their guilt to men like myself. Anti-Fa is on the loose and the popular mind wants to kvetch til She’ol about the horrors of something someone said somewhere on something on the internet… somehow… it’s all so… asinine. They selectively cherrypick the real crimes committed by immigrants, coloreds, legitimate terroristic organizations, gangs… the actual government… homosexuals and liberals… and ignore them. Then, whenever a self-aware White goes off the rails, or whether some ill-advised fool or bad-faith criminal uses our politick as a springboard to vent his savagery… it is by default what the news shall discuss. Yet it follows that for every act of White on Protected Minority Class violence, you can find equal or greater systemic acts of violence or oppression committed against Whites because they are White, and, with increasing brazenness those crimes committed simply because it is in the nature of the subgroup named to do so. Spend time researching statistics, which yes can be manipulated (in either direction) and you shall eventually see that the way the question is presented leans heavily to one direction, and that direction is not Right.

I follow the road rules – begrudgingly. I have never seen the inside of a jail, nor done anything to warrant seeing one. I pay my taxes like a good Goy. I’m married. As far as anyone knows, I am a well-balanced member of society who is generous, if brusque. I love my wife and go to great lengths to help those I care for. My biggest sin is I oppose multiculturalism. I point out discrepancies which make polite ladies cringe. Even this would have been forgiven if I made those polite ladies cringe in the service of uplifting Negroes. But I don’t. I am an Identitarian, who happens to be White. You can, therefore, call me a White Nationalist. According to the recent government hearing, this means I am a Domestic Terrorist. A law abiding, generous terrorist. Indeed.

Recently to the writing of this article, there was Government appointed meetings to discuss Right-Wing extremism as the ‘biggest threat’ facing this country. It was intimated that White Supremacists commit the majority of crime in the US. I suppose it was Richard Spencer who did 9/11 then? How many people were reported dead, there at 9/11? What “White Supremacist” attack made such a death toll? Or has Al Qaeda been forgotten, did the Government extract the oil it wanted and conveniently forget the wars that followed and the freely encouraged “Islamophobia” because they readily contravene the Planet Kumbayah narrative of MultiKulti? Was it the oh-so-radical Jared Taylor who shot up that tart Arianna Grande’s concert? How many dull-eyed teenage drug addicts died there? Shall I presume Mike Enoch orchestrated the bombing of the Pentagon that followed 9/11? And it must be none other than David Duke who jumps across the Mexican Border every day, drunk, and runs down random civilians in whatever State he escapes to? White Supremacy indeed. Or did they fail to list the documented cases in which Immigrants, both legal and illegal, who murder, rape, steal, fraud and overall stink up the joint? Yes. Immigrants. I am singling out a category of people I don’t want here with WORDS. Lawfully (as of publishing this piece) written words. This Country, which could have been a Nation, is theoretically a Republic based upon Anglo-Roman Law. Laws are words, you know. These were words written by White men for other Whites. We are told, of course, that Jews played a pivotal role in defining that law but I shall elect to keep my faith in men like Thomas Jefferson, wicked Anglo-supremacists that we are. Then again, you have your Barbara Lerner Spectre’s whose hubris is burned into the minds of Nationalists for all time. If you are a self-aware White you are at risk, period. Cowardice won’t save you now. You might as well cast your die. You can’t fake Clown World, White Man and Woman. The Media, Clown World, will continue to expand the perimeter of how Supremacist is defined until everything that doesn’t fit their broadly degenerate programme is encapsulated there. White Supremacists make a special case because it is an unpopular trope. Nevermind the fact that the White Supremacist as defined by an idiot (((media))) does not exist. So. If you are someone outside the Nationalist sphere reading this, if you have a dram of honesty in you, you will consider my point.

Consider also, the popular media cherry picks and presents the worst elements of Nationalism found online and in history. It ignores the fact that the overwhelming majority of us are struggling individuals. Or, when the Media is bold, they mock and kick us when we are down. Because surely, this will increase our emotional stability. To be fair, many of our younger lads take this cherry-picking as a challenge and troll you online because they think of you collectively as an idiot. If you believe their online rants… then they would be correct. The truth is that the extreme majority of us would have settled for Freedom of Association, an end to forced diversity and not being made to kneel at the altar of MLK and the ever-increasing liberties regarding how our history is defined by those who are not us. I personally do not want an Ethnostate or to go live in a ridiculous compound in the Northwest and milk Aryan super cows until I am dead. I don’t own guns and on the one instance, my very good friend convinced me to go shooting… I hit five targets out of the fifty-five rounds I shot. I am a Mainer who wants Maine to keep on Dirigoing. Revolutionary, I am sure.

You know who else was (not) a Mainer who wanted Maine to keep on Dirigoing? Tom Kaczynski. What did he do? He said STUFF. Had a project, wrote a couple books. Did he deserve to be unanimously vilified by the apparently cowardly town of Jackman? He did if you honk your nose and have rainbow colored hair. The slope is slippery. The definition of White Supremacist is ever expanding. It is amorphous and convenience driven, now. Someday, you will fall under that umbrage. Don’t you think you won’t. You will have to whore yourself increasingly to uncomfortable depths to maintain your illusion of purity in the eyes of MultiKulti. MultiKulti makes demands on your conscience now. Today you have to pretend to support the LTBBQ-XYZ agenda. You have to bow at the knee to MLK. Tomorrow you will have to marry someone you do not love, to prove you are not a bigot. You pay mere lip service to Blacks today, you think they will be satisfied tomorrow? The day after, you will see your children robbed from your home by government agents because you were not open and inclusive enough.

Do you think your complacency will save you? Did it save the Boomers? At home and abroad the Boomers, the Government’s single greatest financial achievement, are now starting to be bled by the Fed to feed diversity. They like to point the finger at their younger generations while the immigrants they hosted run amuck. They haven’t the courage to deal with the problem they created. It is our problem now. There is hope for you. You can always admit that you were wrong. You painted us with a broad brush. Some of our guys will never forgive you. Most of us understand. You can start advocating for yourself, for your people, your race. You don’t even have to listen to Renegade Broadcasting or The Right Stuff to do this. All it takes is a whisper of testicular fortitude. You could point out at your dinner parties and barbecues that there is an unfair double standard. You could refuse to let your friend’s wife off the hook when she says something patently false to upholster her pet narrative. You could turn off the Sportsball. You could refuse to clap enthusiastically the next time your workplace hosts some pompous celebration of diversity. Keep calling Columbus Day what it is – suggest the “indigenous” make their own holiday if it pleases them. You can open your eyes and see the entitled monster that White egalitarianism has created, and you can start asking yourself if your money wouldn’t be better spent elsewhere – for you pay for that monster’s very expensive pet food.      Or silence.

Cowardice has prompted many to sell us under the bus, it is a race to condemn us the hardest. Many have done this Judas deed for their thirty pieces. (Yes, I did just make a Christ reference – it is fitting. We have our people’s interest in mind and are constantly betrayed by short-sighted buffoons.) Many have done this to increase their social capital. They think it will ease their passage through life if they think at all. Others are moved like polarities in a gravitational current – dead objects floating through space. The youngsters call them NPCs. NPCs are programmed to seek gratification by regurgitating society approved virtue signals, they think this will increase their social capital because they know bigots get fired. They do not consider the slippery slope.

However, it changes nothing. Your moment in the sun that you gained from virtue signaling? It will end. You too will become unfashionable. You will be asked to sacrifice a virtue, and you will be asked one day to give up one thing too precious. Then, my friend, you shall be a Nazi too. And it will no longer matter if you believed what I believe (and you do NOT know what I believe unless you have taken the time to ask) or if you simply did not want to make a wedding cake for a lesbian couple that defiled your religious beliefs. To your future enemy, it is the same. You may be content to remain silent when a strange looking, sexually ambiguous human with gauges and tattoos you don’t understand condemns the Christian Religion to Secular Hell… even though you yourself are Christian. Tomorrow, Christian, they will ask you to show your support for homosexuality. If you are a Conservative American who secretly understands it is the White parts of America that he loves, you already know the slippery slope.

So. Shall you sell out? Or shall you eventually say to this strange new god of Political Correctness “non-serviam?”

These are important questions to ask because someday, inevitably, things are going to get worse. The beatings will continue until morale improves. And you, my friends, are on the wrong side of history. And I should wager that you know this, too. You are there because you do not understand us.

Speaking of the slippery slope… you know, many men in my bracket would not be where we are, in the Dissident Right, were the double standard not so glaringly obvious. Ten years ago I was still lying to myself, telling myself how awful I was for having a racist thought and that maybe I didn’t actually love negroes and gays as much as the LGBT committee at my college said I should. And eventually, it hit me: everybody got a pass but me, the straight White male. I was told I had privilege, though.

A bald-faced lie. And you know it is a lie if you pay taxes. But it won’t get better. If you won’t join us and help, you can help by doing something else. Keep your mouth shut. When Nazi and Right Wing things come up in conversation? Ignore them. Don’t condemn. Don’t disavow. Don’t pretend to agree with something unless you actually do. Take away the Left’s monopoly on free speech by starving them with silence.

I know many who claim to hate the Right to not actually oppose us and our ideas so much as they do not understand, or feel we are too extreme. If the situation was not so dire, I would agree. I dislike extremity, but it shall become increasingly warranted as the government strangles the life out of her civilians moving forward. The McCarthy Era never ended. It is now fashionable to support or refuse to condemn anti-White violence, especially when Nationalists are targeted. You know the famous Holocaust maxim. First, they came for my gold teeth, and then they came for my lampshades, then they came for my showers and they stayed for my pedal powered skull bashing brain machines. They come for the Nazis today, but when they run out of ‘us,’ you will fit the bill. I want you to remember this: the word Nazi has no meaning. You can keep using it if you want, but fairly soon, you will be calling yourself a Nazi when you do. Christians are Nazis, you understand – White Supremacists. That argument is already underway. The Christian confectioner that wouldn’t make the sodomy cake? Nazi, now. Christian protests against revolting displays of public sodomy? You guessed it. The group Patriot Prayer who regularly hosts Blacks? Nazi. Proud Boys (a joke and mess)? Nazi. These groups all share this in common: to them White and Black are interchangeable, they may not be color blind but they are not racist. Yet somehow, in the retarded logic of the MultiKulti ambassadorial mind, they are equally “Nazi.”

That’s right. Someday you and I and Tom Kaczynski can all have brunch at a Thai restaurant and be accused of sedition someday because we want our mutual children to have a future that doesn’t look like Kenya. Then the Bollard will write a comically dramatic puff piece about how they infiltrated our lunch by wearing a Groucho Marx costume and spying on us. Admittedly, after that, a bunch of people are going to think we’re idiots, but they’re going to wonder why three people that aren’t all Nazis are all of a sudden being labeled such. And here’s another thing, before I run out of ambition with this piece. You’ll notice I’ve provided approximately zero proposals for some kind of solution outside of social advice. The NSA and other alphabet soup agencies can quote me if they ever read this, but the words put in our mouths by others are invalid. I have no solutions. The problem I was handed is too big for me. I know what I want. I want children. I want those children to grow up in a clean, safe, White America. Even if that means they just live in a small town in Maine and visit diversity when they’re of age and no longer bound by the rules of my house. I want it acknowledged that the standard is double and that the lie we’ve been sold about mass immigration is just that – a lie. We do not need third world immigrants. Why should my future posterity sacrifice wellbeing to suit a narrative that nobody ever asked me if I wanted?

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Something to keep in mind before we part: extremists on both sides already think the Law is a joke. Their behavior is going to increase in volition and hostility as well as scope. Why? Same with road rules. Blood is on the water, government agencies cannot or will not keep up. So when they come for you, how bold will they be by then? This law abiding Nationalist here will not seem so bad then when you have experienced Liberal Tolerance in an enriched and diverse future. All we wanted was a White American niche. But short-sighted fools decided to turn a molehill of opinion into a mountain of opposition. They will control every aspect of your life, and if they cannot shame you into submission, eventually they will resort to trickery and then force. And we? We would have left you well enough alone in your Clown World. They will force you to sit; it will make Clockwork Orange look like a Baptism Party at Catholic Charities.

You can mark my words.

from Republic Standard | Conservative Thought & Culture Magazine http://bit.ly/2IUnx4f via IFTTT

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Ray Dalio is a particular man. He founded Bridgewater, the world's largest hedge fund, which manages over $150 billion.As of right now, Ray is worth more than $15 billion, and also the author of Principles, the NYTimes best seller.But this story isn't about Ray - it's about how Principles became a book in the first place. It's a story about generosity and taking what resources you have to seek a more enriching life.PrinciplesRay gained fame after the 2008 market crash; he had shorted the market and made a killing.Following the market crashing and Ray's windfall, people hounded him to understand how he did it. People wanted to know the fundamentals on how Ray operated.Listening to the people, Ray wrote Principles.When I say write, I mean he wrote out his thoughts in Word and posted it online as a PDF. The information was substantial and novel. Quite a few would go so far as to say it was incredible.But: the production quality did not match.meh looking PDFYou know how an indie film can become a darling with the critics and subsequently a cult classic? That's what Principles became.The original PDF was a file you had to go looking for. The URL was something akin to bwater.com/file_upload/principlesdraft3.pdf and no official site or page existed. It was never marketed or promoted, but the wisdom contained within made it a viral hit. Eventually, over 3 million people would download that PDF on word-of-mouth alone.One of those readers was Phil Caravaggio. A man who would call that PDF extraordinary and life-changing would do something extraordinary himself.Meet Phil CaravaggioIf you open up Principles, you'll see this at the front of the book:acknowledgement"Whatever beauty you see in the book's design was the result of Phil Caravaggio's generosity and talent. After I put the original version of Principles online as a PDF, he came to me as a stranger bearing the gift of a gorgeously designed print edition, created with the help of the artistic book designer Rodrigo Corral."Phil is the co-founder of Precision Nutrition, a well-respected nutrition company that operates in three areas:Nutrition coaching via habit formationNutrition certification for health professionalsSaaS software that helps health professionals manage their clientsPhil's co-founder Dr. John Berardi is a leading figure in the health and fitness space - he advises companies such as Apple, Nike, and Equinox, and has worked with clients such as MMA fighter Georges St-Pierre.Their partnership is a marriage of complementary skills. John is the face and brings the nutrition knowledge, and Phil brings the underlying business and processes savvy.The company exemplifies bootstrapped success - 16 years old, reliable mid-8 figures revenue, and I often cite them as an example of "professionalism" (something severely lacking in the health and fitness space).I consider myself fortunate to count both Phil and John as my friend.Phil is the co-founder of Precision Nutrition, a powerhouse in the nutrition space.Never resist a generous impulseOne of Phil's favorite saying is "never resist a generous impulse."So back in 2014, Phil comes across a video featuring Ray (How the economic machine works). Blown away at the information presented, he goes seeking more information on Ray and comes across his PDF.Three pages in, Phil thinks to himself: "This is one of the best things I've ever read in my life."By the time he finishes reading, Phil has realized he's stumbled upon a goldmine of knowledge. Most people writing about business have never done what they're talking about, and here's this guy who, in the midst of running this business at the highest level, documented how they did it.For most people, this would mean sharing it on social media. For the more enamored, this may mean writing an email or article about it.Phil decided to leverage his assets and go one step further.So Phil goes out and hires a proofreader. He tells him to go through the PDF and to clean it up; the goal here was to clean it up a bit to make it timeless.Phil then turns to Rodrigo Corral, a famous and renowned book designer who has designed award-winning books for peeps like Jay-Z, Chuck Palahniuk (he of “Fight Club”), and more.Together, they produce the original book form of Principles.I'm kind of hand-waving over all of this, but it was hard work. Phil didn't just hand it off to them and let them run with it; he was actively engaged in cleaning it up and putting it all together.Originally thinking it would take a few months, it took Phil nearly a year to get a finished book in his hands.Phil found Principles so life-changing that, as an expression of thanks, he had it cleaned up, designed, and put together as a book.The easy part over, a bigger challenge awaited Phil: how the hell does he get the book in front of Ray Dalio himself?Phils spends months and months trying to find someone that might have a connection to Ray.Finally, after eight months, he finds a connection:Someone (Person A) who had applied for a job at Precision Nutrition heard of Phil's project. Via LinkedIn, Person A found another person (Person B), who had worked with someone (Person C), who had gone to school with someone (Person D), in Ray's office.(I had to letter the people so you'd see how stretched out and tenuous the connection was).To re-state: Phil Caravaggio → Person A → Person B → Person C → Person D (connection) → Ray DalioPerson D gets connected to Phil, and not knowing what to think, asks if they can meet in Connecticut.So Phil flies to Connecticut and meets her in a garden center that has a coffee shop.(I just want to pause and note the absurdity. Here's Phil flying to CT to meet some lady who has no clue who he is so that he can give her a book to give to Ray.)The person informs Phil that she cannot promise anything; she can get Ray to see the book, but what happens after that is entirely out of her control."That's fine; cool" says Phil. He just wants a shot to get the book in front of Ray.She then wanted to why what Phil was trying to do. Was he a publisher? What was his angle?"No, it's just a gift. This is the God's honest truth - it just really meant something to me."Phil wants to build a sizeable company, and how better to do it than receive mentorship from someone who has already done it?But that was a secondary concern. The primary goal was to show appreciation to someone who had fundamentally changed his outlook. It was about not resisting a generous impulse, no matter how crazy it seems.Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and Phil hears nothing. Phil assumes nothing will happen.I have to note again - I know Phil. We hang out regularly, and he'd previously told me that I needed to read Principles. At no point in time does he tell me he's made a physical copy of this. At no point does he tell me what great lengths he's gone to into spreading this book. At no point in time does he ever show even a modicum of bitterness...He keeps hammering away at me: "you need to read this book."One day, Phil is vacationing in Italy. His phone rings; caller id says the call is from Connecticut, and he picks up the phone to hear Ray's executive assistant on the other side. The reception is really weak, and as Phil tries to find a better connection, Ray gets on the phone.Ray was over the top complimentary. About how it's amazing and how beautiful it is. He tells Phil that he wants to do something with it, and Phil offers to help. Ray takes him up on it, and Phil and his wife fly down to Connecticut.And that is how Phil Caravaggio played a part in helping Principles go from a simple PDF to a legitimate NYT Best Seller.Bestseller bookPhil wanted to show his appreciation for something he valued highly; instead of thinking "this is crazy," he made it happen.But what about ME (aka you)?You may be reading this and think "well good for Phil - he has time, money, resources, and connections - and I have none of those."100% true.(Well 99% - as the CEO of Precision Nutrition, he was incredibly busy and short on time.)Phil spent over $50,000 converting that PDF into a book (his logic: if you're going to do it, do it right).That's not something I could afford to do without mulling it over.With that said, I did spend over $7000 making the NYC Chocolate Chip Cookie Off happen.You may see these numbers and think "hey asshole, I don't even have that much in savings, much less throw it into some other side project."It's not about the $50000. Or the $7000. It's not about the time or the people we know.The point is that we both used the skills and assets we had available to ourselves as leverage to make something we cared about happen.I mean, Phil had to go four-levels deep to find a way of just getting something to Ray... not even an actual introduction! And even that took months and months.We worked within the realms of our means.For example, anytime I come across something interesting, I share it. Not only that, I almost always reach out to the author (via email or twitter) to let them know how much I enjoyed it.That's me not resisting a generous impulse.Read a great book that you think someone will enjoy? Send it to them! Ryan Holiday and Shane Parrish have both talked about how often they buy books).It's not about the money; it's about the thought. A $10 cocktail or a five dollar chocolate can be very meaningful.> If it's within you means: never resist a generous impulse.A case study: #cookielifeThe entire #cookielife and subsequent charity food off madness started because I told my friend Kara "this cookie is amazing and you need to try it so I'm going to buy you one."I didn't just say it; I insisted we go and that it would be my treat.We went to Le Gourmand, and I spent a grand total of $6.00 to purchase two cookies.To use Phil's phrase, "I didn't resist the generous impulse" (mine: "this cookie is delicious and others need to experience the deliciousness").Subsequently, that lead to over 200 cookies sent to me via mail, over $50000 raised via charity food offs (in just 2017 - we should double that in 2018), and countless friendships and amazing memories formed...All from spending $6.00 (in Canadian dollars!) over two years ago.People come across my love for cookies and think I've got some ulterior motive; that my affinity for cookies is some exercise in personal branding. But then they meet me and then they understand - I just love sharing stuff I like. Cookies. Chocolates. Food. Dinners. Books. Stories. Connections. Random gifts.Hell, I just spent $300 taking a buddy's book (that had a positive impact on me) and getting a beautiful leatherbound version made of it.All because I ran across a company that does it, and thought to myself "man, [redacted] would look awesome as a leatherbound book."I got leatherbound booksIt's never about a master plan. It's never about "what will I get back?" It's about (and this will sound cliché and very life-coach-ish) giving back and making a positive impact.You don't need to have a grandiose plan to "change the lives of millions of people". You don't need to be some inspirational and aspirational figure that everyone adores and loves. Just a bit of generosity goes a long way.My buddy Nate (who has worked for Precision Nutrition) wrote about Phil and the genesis of the book and he summed it up perfectly:For me, it means trying to live every day with what the hippies and self-help gurus call an "abundance mindset." It means pushing away the feelings of insecurity, competition, fear, and scarcity, and embracing the fact that there's enough for everyone to go around. The pie is big enough for everyone to have a piece. And the only true way to get ahead is to give. Because the more I give, and the more gratitude I show, and the more I try to help, the happier I am.(One day I'll be half as eloquent as Nate.)It's not about karma. It's not about a balance sheet investment - "give, and you'll get 10x back." And it's not about showing off your generosity.It is about sharing whenever you want, and letting anything you get out of it be a byproduct, not the expected result.Never resist a generous impulse.

#/r/entrepreneur #reddit

[sarahdraimanflowerpouch]

Women with Tools: Featuring Emily Anderson

by Rachel Evans Heath

As floral designers we have all sorts of tools, floral or otherwise, in our aprons, workshops, or toolboxes. We know how to handle a sharp knife, wire cutters, or even a staple gun. We use all these tools regularly.

But what about power tools?

With a large majority of designers being women, the pattern, it seems, is that we know how to quickly steam an aisle runner, but are less comfortable with the bigger electric tools: power drills, table saws, and hammer guns, to name a few.

Did you know that most power tools are often made larger, louder, and heavier than necessary? Some dangerous tools need to be loud to warn those around them to be on guard and not get too close. However, a lot of the unnecessary bulk is kept, to better cater to their male customers. Men liking power tools is the cliché we all hear, fed by such characters as Tim “the tool man” Taylor from Home Improvement, or the burly men illustrated into our children’s books or animated shows, holding a crazed and uncontrollable jack hammer.

But with a recent realization of just how far a designer’s work could expand when incorporating power tools, it has become our mission at Flirty Fleurs to help inspire our female readers to expand their designs via the world of power tools. And to help show us the way, we will be featuring one designer a month from whom we might take inspiration: inspiration from their work, their zeal and their incorporation of power tools.

So starting us off is the woman who inspired this series: Introducing Emily Anderson from Lola Creative in Edmonds, WA.

Emily’s business has expanded outside the realm of just floral design, as she and her team specialize in large, custom pieces of unique art, and flowers, often for large events. They’ve been tackling large installations since 2010.

But Emily’s journey has not always been an easy one. Emily was taught to weld and handle particular tools while studying sculpture at the University of Washington. She describes the condescension she endured while trying to learn and grow more familiar with tools:

“For years, on job sites as a project manager, someone would always ask if I was in high school. Every. Single. Time. …among other condescension. It was hard to gain respect as someone who knew what they were doing- and granted, I had (and still do have) TONS to learn. It was hard to be taken seriously and I remember wishing that I looked older and knew more.

My reaction was to try and be tough and I always felt I needed to prove myself. It’s pushed me to want to learn as much as possible, but looking back, I wish I just let it go and asked more questions. I tended to want to look like I had all the answers and then go home and figure it out rather than using those crews and people with lots of experiences for the resources they were.

I guess I overcame by learning to not fear looking like an amateur. Now I know that I mostly don’t know what I’m doing and am okay with that. Maybe 40% know what I’m doing, 60% figuring it out as I go. I know enough to know I can figure it out.”

But she’s come a long way since college. She encouragingly explains:

“Many women are perfectionists and often have a heightened fear of looking like an amateur. If it’s feeling stupid that keeps you from doing something you want to, know that feeling stupid is the precursor to learning and knowledge.

Just because you might feel apprehensive around tools, doesn’t mean it’s not what you should be doing. If you are curious about it, you should probably do it. Power tools are just dumb, loud machines. They’re predictable too.”

We don’t all have to have a college degree in sculpture to learn how better to handle tools. She says anyone can start anywhere.

“You can really learn how to build anything on Youtube”, she stated. “I would suggest looking for a basic project. If you don’t have your own tools, or someone’s garage to rifle through, your city may have a tool library. Tool rental is crazy cheap at a tool library.”

From there, Emily says it’s just a matter of practice.

“Things only get less scary by repeatedly doing it. I remember thinking when I first started driving, ‘how could anyone be okay doing this.’ But through practice you know what noises to expect, how much power each tool has, how much power you need to exert to control each tool, and what the most likely bad thing to happen would be. By practice you learn that the ‘most likely bad thing’ probably isn’t going to happen.”

But let’s be real for a minute here: there’s a reason we sometimes get nervous around a large table saw. I mean, it definitely can cut off an appendage right? Of course the answer there is yes. It can. But Emily has good news for apprehensive women:

“Luckily, I think most women have a heightened sense of self-protection. So we’re more likely to step away from something than just ‘making something work’ with a lack in preparation and safety.

I actually just learned that ladder incidents were the greatest number of on the job deaths in this industry. But in all those deaths, 100% of them were men. So, I think we women are safe. Just kidding.”

Okay, so maybe you’re willing to give something new a try. What tool does Emily recommend starting off with?

“My favorite tool is a little Milwaukee cordless circular saw. I love it because it’s really light and compact. Without the cord, it takes away the worry about where the cord is- and avoiding cutting it. But if you are looking to buy your first tool, I’d recommend a cordless drill. From there, start making holes and attaching things together to start learning how different materials react. I’d also recommend learning how to measure, scale, and draw out ideas before building. It’s the foundation in planning any build.”

(Emily is actually developing an online course right now that will teach this. Watch CuriousLola.com for more information.)

Feeling inspired yet? If not, let us send you off with a few last thoughts from Emily.

I feel like a powerful woman and a large part of that is because I know that anything I dream up, I can build. And I am no master of anything, I can just make stuff go together and have it not fall over.

But it’s important to know I don’t wait for permission anymore. I don’t wait for an opportunity for someone to show me how to do something, I seek it out. I’m not waiting for someone to ask me to participate. My opportunities are self-made.

Tools, construction and even architecture are dominated by men- Having worked in the world of architecture as a woman, I can only imagine what a world of women builders looks like and how that would transform the built environment. I’m curious not only what it would look and feel like, but what those materials and processes would be like. Construction and events can be terribly wasteful if we’re not careful. So many industries can use a shake up- and it’ll come.

I get that we are only doing events, but it starts with girls being told that tools are for them and that changing their environment by construction and building is something they should do.

I love that any kids wandering by our workshop see a roomful of women with tools.

Be sure to check out this video of the Lola Creative team building a 10×26′ foam-free flower wall using moss for infill, metal display grid, and some rigging and truss for its support- it was in a wind tunnel outside… in August.

Follow Emily’s work on Instagram here. Or visit Curiouslola.com or LolaCreative.com.

(All images in today’s post have been provided by Lola Creative.)

YOU COULD BE FEATURED ON THE FLIRTY FLEURS BLOG!

Know someone (you?) who should be featured on our Women With Tools series? Have them email us at [email protected], subject line: Women With Tools Applicant.

Tell us who you are, a little about your design work, and your favorite power tool to use. Include at least 2 pictures of recent projects you’ve done that required power tools and tell us a little about each.

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#IFTTT #RSSMix.com Mix ID 8134970

[lbcybersecurity]

What is your product and what does it do?

Lessons I learned trying to make the most of vendor briefings

I’ve always been a sort of ‘cut-to-the-chase’ kind of guy. I’m self-taught when it comes to security and technology. Over the years, I’ve learned how to skim through a book, article or website to extract the important information. Sometimes I’m just trying to figure out how to do something, or I’m looking for an answer to a specific question.

Just tell me what time it is, I don’t need to know how atomic time clock frequency standards work.

Conversely, I also have an appreciation for context and a good story — as long as you eventually get to the point.

Anatomy of a Vendor Briefing

Here’s how the average vendor briefing usually goes.

The WebEx Tax (5min)

Waiting for everyone to join, restarting WebEx or some other screen-sharing app because it’s misbehaving. Chit-chat about weather and where everyone is physically based, or happens to be at the moment. I quickly communicate that attempts to talk sports are wasted on me — I just don’t follow them anymore.

Introductions (5min)

These are important — I want to understand who I’m talking to. I want to know whether or not I can ask technical questions. I want to understand the backgrounds of who is on the phone.

About the company (5min)

How is the company doing? How did it start? Where is it located? How many employees? Is it growing? What about that lawsuit? Who are its customers? What company size/verticals are being targeted?

The Problem Statement (10min+)

This is where about half of vendors start to lose me. Typically, I’m talking to a vendor in a space that I cover closely and have covered for years. I’ve probably written about this space, given talks about it and discussed it at length… well, you get the idea. This is also where platitudes and hyperbole start to roll out. Silver bullets and ‘one weird trick’ to fix security! Most of these meetings are occurring over the phone without video, so the vendor may not hear the sound of my eyeballs violently rolling back.

On the other hand, I do want to hear the problem statement from the vendor, provided it is concise. The problem statement helps me understand how the vendor sees their market and their place in that market. Sure, I understand it, but I want to see it through the vendor’s eyes. In some cases, the problem statement reveals an outdated or artificial view (in my opinion), but in others, it offers insights or perspectives I hadn’t considered before.

Recommendations:

Ask the analyst a few questions to gauge their familiarity with the state of security in this particular market segment.

Be concise — briefing an analyst isn’t the same as talking to a sales lead.

The Product (10min+)

This is the most important section, especially in security, where the variety of products and technologies combined with the prevalence of buzzwords can result in some very confusing messaging.

WHAT’S IN THE BOX?!

Recommendations:

Please start this with an architecture slide. Too often, I find myself wondering throughout this portion what the product actually is. I’m hearing about features and functionality, but I don’t know if it’s SaaS, a hardware appliance I rack in my datacenter, a VM I download and deploy, a managed service… This is important context to have for the rest of the conversation!

Lay out all your products and services, even if you’re only focusing on one in this call — this also helps to give important context.

Mention partners and integrations — few security products these days can survive long without integrating into the customer’s existing environment. I want to understand where you overlap, where you replace and where you complement.

Roadmap, competition, future of the market (remainder)

Most of security is a missing feature market, so chances are good that your product may not be long for this world. How are you going to handle that? Especially for startups — if you’re counting on an acquisition exit, how do you ensure you’ll have a seat when the music stops?

The next meeting

If this one went well, I might be interested to see a demo or speak with a customer. Sometimes I want to see a demo because I’m excited or skeptical. Demos are typically easier to keep to 30 minutes because the meeting will be focused just on a screenshare and walk-through of the product.

Other Recommendations

Briefing Length

I find I really need an hour for a briefing. 30 minutes usually ends up feeling rushed.

Analysts are not Sales Leads

When talking to an analyst, your goal isn’t to convince them to buy your product. Instead, you want them to understand your company, products and goals. Make the analyst understand why different customers would want to buy the product and the different approaches that get the customer to sign a PO.

Ideally, you want to make a fan out of an analyst. An analyst that casually or actively mentions your company or product is a huge win. Everyone wants word-of-mouth marketing, but analysts tend to have ‘bigger mouths’ and more influence. Help the analyst understand:

What you do

Why you do it

Your target market

Market differentiation

Use cases

Roadmap and long-term goals

Have a purpose

You sell encryption? That’s great, but how’s it different from the other encryption? Why would I go with yours over another? Do you compete entirely on price and features, or do you have a deeper story and purpose that draw customers in and make them want to be loyal to you?

Buzzwords

Don’t use them unless it’s efficient to do so. For example, if your product is EDR, just say you play in the EDR space. If it’s EDR plus some innovation, don’t avoid the EDR term because you don’t want to be ‘pigeonholed’ with your competitors. It just ends up being confusing.

I remember the first time I talked to FireEye. And the second. And the third. Each time, the sales person described the product (the NX appliance was the only product at this time), and it came off sounding like an IDS/IPS. They ensured me that it wasn’t an IDS/IPS and proceeded to use the same words to describe it again. It wasn’t until I got an engineer on the phone for that fourth call that I was finally able to understand what the product did.

Call a spade a spade — not a next-gen superior triangular manual digging tool. You can even call it an awesome spade if you think it’s awesome, just use words a normal person would understand.

Clarify B2B relationships

DON’T use the terms integrate, partner and alliance interchangeably. They have different meanings.

Integration: “We did some work, they didn’t have to do anything. In fact, we didn’t even really talk to them — we’re just ingesting their API/feed.”

Partnership: “We got together, talked about it, and each of us built pieces that work together in some way.”

Alliance: “We got together and built something entirely new”

Additional DOs and DON’Ts

Do

Go over the agenda for the call and set expectations right at the start. If I’m expecting a demo and there’s no one on the call that can give a demo, I’m going to be disappointed.

Use specific examples or anonymous customer examples

Walk through demos

Give me access to the product, if this can be done easily

Give your pitch to an engineer/product manager to ensure you’re explaining it correctly — nothing’s worse than being contradicted by an engineer during a briefing. We’re going to second guess everything else you’ve said.

Suppress toaster popups during a screenshare. Or don’t. Sometimes the content of your IMs and Emails is VERY revealing. More revealing than your General Council would be comfortable with.

Share your presentations beforehand. I can ask better questions if I know what we’re going to cover. Also, because WebEx WILL fail you.

Learn how to use the screenshare app and/or Powerpoint before the call. I’m frequently amazed at how many people don’t know how to get Powerpoint full-screen.

Go over product naming/branding — I’m also amazed at the number of vendors that never even tell you what product they’re talking about and don’t reference it in the slides.

Tell me how it is priced, sold and licensed.

Tell me cool customer stories

Don’t

Rely on an engineer to explain things — if the marketing/sales guy can’t explain it or doesn’t understand it, you’re not ready to brief an analyst.

BAD: “I’ll have to check with one of our engineers on that”

WORSE: The engineer is on the call and confuses the situation more.

Badmouth competitors — there’s just no excuse for that. If you think you do something better or have an advantage, fine — tell me that. But don’t start telling me how much more effective your product is unless you’ve got some data from a study that I can review. And no, a Ponemon PDF is not “data from a study”.

Make fun of other products — I’ve found this usually backfires. In almost every case I’ve seen a vendor do this, the flaw they’re pointing out exists in their own product as well.

Example: a security awareness vendor was campaigning a piece on “AV’s Dirty Little Secret”, which turned out to be that AV wasn’t 100% effective. No shit! What’s the effectiveness of security awareness tools again?

Make me fill out a form on your website to get basic details about your products. Often, to fill gaps in the briefing, I’ll go to the website to fill in the details. Maybe I forgot to ask what platforms the product is compatible with, or when the company was founded. Please don’t make it hard to find this information. If you put me in a position where I have to endure sales calls in exchange for basic information, I will hate you.

Expect me to be impressed about your lightweight agent, CISO dashboard or the founder’s time in Unit 8200.

Suggestions for the Analyst

Explain how your firm works — if briefings rarely result in coverage, let them know ASAP, because that’s typically not the norm (or so I’ve been told). What interactions are paid vs free? How are meetings scheduled?

Manage expectations before the call — what are you looking to get out of it? That will impact who the vendor needs to schedule for the call, what materials need to be prepped or how long the call needs to be.

Stop the presenter if they’re going into stuff that isn’t a good use of your time. Redirect the conversation down a more productive path.

Stop the presenter if you don’t understand something. Don’t just nod and let them continue. Don’t be afraid of feeling dumb. When I started as an analyst, I had never heard “north-south” or “east-west” used to refer to network traffic flow before. Just a few months ago, I found the definition for “east-west” was contentious when I thought it was more straight-forward.

What is your product and what does it do? was originally published in Savage Security Blog on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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