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rosykims · 4 years

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space in a room.

mind blind – ambrose kim x f!button (gracie wiseman). | rated general. 1462 words. pre relationship. denial. fluff.

He can’t recall the last time he’s been so relieved to say the words, “Class dismissed.”

Ambrose watches the group visibly brighten at the announcement of their freedom, and fights a roll of his eyes as a few of them all but spring up from their seats from sheer, unfiltered enthusiasm. It hasn’t been a bad day, nor has it been an exceptionally good day; all he knows is that watching Gracie Wiseman zoning in and out of reality has inspired in him nothing but the greatest mental fatigue in recent memory.

Just as he’s come to expect of her at the end of each day since her first, Wiseman turns to risk a cursory glance in his direction. She stiffens in surprise when she meets his eye, but flickers away a moment later to blink at a classmate who abruptly cut in front of her, making a near comical beeline for the exit.

Despite the rudeness, he’s glad to halt her quick retreat from the room. “Wiseman,” he snaps, and then nods for her to stay behind. “A moment.”

He waits wordlessly for the last few sluggish students to amble from the room, all the while gauging the brunette girl’s response to the resulting silence. Silence, he’s found, is a deceptively good (if not volatile) tool to use in conversation. Most people can’t stand it – which in turn makes them all the more eager to fill it.

Gracie Wiseman does not seem to fall into this majority, and rides out the quiet between them like it were no more unpleasant than an empty elevator.

When the room at last is privy only to them, Ambrose takes a seat at his desk and regards her candidly.

“You knew the answer to every question I raised today, and yet you said nothing. Why?”

Wiseman blinks at him, dark brows pulling together in confusion. “Well, that’s not true.”

“Do explain, then. Were you tapping out your answers in Morse Code, or did you think it best to rely on old fashioned telepathy, instead?”

“No, I meant …” She hesitates, dark eyes darting between him and the empty chair in front of his desk. After a moment – and with only the most well concealed hint of reluctance – she takes a seat. “I didn’t know the answer to every question, sir.”

If this were anybody else, he might have assumed she was fucking with him. And yet this isn’t anybody else. Wiseman remains polite and serious as ever, not one sardonic bone present in her well-shaped face; perhaps it’s that honest, earnest demeanor which causes him to glare even harder.

Neither his silence nor his intimidation seems to have much visible effect on her. After meeting his stare head on for a long, thoughtful moment, she shrugs with the same put together air of someone a little too well versed in conflict resolution. “I don’t like to take up space in a room, if I can help it. That’s all.”

“I see. So you – what? – intended to breeze through the next four years, safe and secure in your comfort zone? Is that it?”

She at least has the decency to purse her lips at that. In the weeks he’s known her, he’s seen little of anything in her expression besides of a sort of passive friendliness; absently approachable like a high-end real estate agent or a helpful-but-otherwise-vacant receptionist. Disapproval looks decidedly more fitting on her features than vacancy, he thinks.

Objectively speaking, of course.

“Not at all.” Wiseman’s words are a little rushed, giving her annoyance away. She bites down a self-deprecating tut as she reigns her emotions back in and continues. “I just … I had an unpleasant experience, a long time ago. In school. I’m a little less quick to give my opinion when it’s not needed, now.”

Ambrose bites his tongue to hold back a sigh. He’s tired. It’s been a long day. The last thing he could possibly want right now is another childhood sob story from another chronically maladjusted student. For reasons he can’t quite name but which make him decidedly uncomfortable nonetheless, he doesn’t cut her off with an eye roll as he would to any other pupil game enough to seek out his sympathy. Instead, he merely tents his fingers and leans back in his chair, preparing himself for the microcosmic melodrama she’s about to inflict upon him.

“Go on.”

She surprises him again by shaking her head. “I’ll spare you the details. It was a long time ago, like I said. My teacher asked a question, I answered, and he and the students got a decent laugh out of it at my expense. It happens. Most likely the response was a bit too … pretentious, probably.” Gracie – Wiseman – throws him a sheepishly self-aware smile. “I do think they were right to laugh, though. Embarrassment aside, it was a good lesson to learn in the long run; do I answer a question for the question’s sake, or do I answer a question to hear myself talk? I think sometimes it’s better to say … less.”

Ambrose dismisses an unexpected rush of true annoyance directed at Wiseman’s faceless former teacher, leaning forwards to frown at her once again. “I disagree completely,” he retorts. “I’m not interested in the philosophy of this, Cadet. Assessing your personal psychology for every question-answer scenario wastes mine and everybody else’s time. If a question is going unanswered, then answer the question.”

“And deny everyone else the choice to think it out for themselves?”

“Optimistic of you to assume your classmates are thinking much of anything during my lessons.”

Gracie – no, Wiseman – had smiled at his weak attempt at humour, once; he feels impressively foolish to have expected her to do so again. “That hardly seems fair,” she presses with a slight frown. “They’re all brilliant, from what I’ve seen.”

“Perhaps,” he concedes. He likes these first-years, for the most part. Some of them more than others. “But brilliant minds make for very lazy students, I’ve found. You aren’t exempt from that observation, either, Wiseman.”

This time, she does smile. Ambrose smiles too – briefly, but not quite brief enough – before adding, “Speak up in class more. A juvenile fear of taking up too much space in a room isn’t a good enough excuse, and it won’t work on me. Any room is better with you in it.”

The brunette’s brow creases, her lips parting for just a moment before she presses them into a tight line and glances away. An uncomfortable bout of silence – the same traitorous silence he’s usually so unaffected by – seeps between them until the echo of his words come back to laugh in his face and call him Idiot.

He can’t clear his throat fast enough. “Meaning,” he amends, “I will never discourage relevant and intelligent dialogue in my classes. Your contribution is as valuable as anybody else’s. So – contribute.”

She sighs – or, it’s almost a sigh; a deep inhale, with a short nod in the place of a weary breath out. “Yes, sir,” she murmurs. “I’ll work on it.”

“Good. That’s all, then.” As Gracie rises to her feet, smoothing out the non-existent creases of her uniform, Ambrose feels suddenly compelled to straighten up in his chair and look away entirely.

“Of course. Have a good afternoon, Instructor Kim.”

“Likewise, Cadet.”

He stares – unseeing, unblinking – into the blue ink mess of his paperwork, listening anxiously for her retreating footsteps. Just before she disappears back into nonthreatening hallway territory, Ambrose stifles a groan.

“Wiseman?”

Her footfalls halt near instantly. “Sir?”

“Just one more thing.”

“Oh – of course. What is it?”

“Your teacher shouldn’t have laughed at you. Not if your answer was correct. You were correct, weren’t you?”

He barely notices that he’s wound up looking at her again until he finds himself uneasy and self-conscious under the weight of her rueful smile. "Yes,” she replies honestly, all white teeth and dimples. “I usually am. More often than not, at least.”

He laughs, genuinely, although it’s lessened by a steadily growing sensation of inexplicable dread in the pit of his stomach. Anyone else might call it butterflies. “I don’t doubt that – but I do expect you to prove it. Take care, Wiseman.”

“Thank you, sir. You, too.”

Gracie offers a small, terribly affectionate smile in parting before closing the door behind her with a click that echoes ominously around the emptied room. Ambrose lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and then begins to think very fondly and in great detail about the cold shower waiting for him at home.

#mind blind #mindblind #rosy kim #button x rosy #oc: gracie #mine: writing

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oftheflamingheart · 3 years

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Not As Planned

This fanfic is a gift for @aromanticandaromatic from the @sanderssidesgiftxchange ! I combined a few of October’s prompts for a Roman x Emile Picani Soulmate AU story. Featuring Sides with Disabilities, and Angst (but Happy Endings)! Hope you enjoy, October, and all my other guys, gals, and non-binary pals that enjoy my Sanders scribblings. Beta Read by @creations-of-ps

Read on AO3 or under the cut below!

In many ways, winding up at some hole-in-the-wall café on the other side of the park was the perfect microcosm of how his day was going. He was in a strange place, in many ways. Literally, he'd never been here before. Roman didn't even like coffee. It had its uses; in a pinch. Especially if he was worried about what the energy drinks he frequently used was doing to him he'd switch to coffee. The cup in front of him was something the barista recommended. One of those seasonal things that's supposed to taste like some holiday treat. Which had it been? Roman couldn't remember.

There was only one real thought in his head. Nobody he knew had ever been rejected by their soulmate. That simply didn't happen. Even thinking about it that way seemed harsh. It had been mutual, at the end. The final rejection had to have the consent of both soulmates, although Roman had suggested any number of alternatives to simply cutting things off. How did the universe mess it up? How could a soulmate be wrong?

Roman turned the cup around in his hands on the table, his fingers itching to pull his phone out and call or text a friend. Virgil would care, he'd been so supportive when Roman found his soulmate. He'd been on the phone with Roman all night after his soulmate left. Virgil offered to cut his trip short and come home, he’d left with his boyfriend on a road trip they'd planned way in advance. Roman threatened to run off to his Aunt Patty’s house if Virgil came home early. Virgil and Aunt Patty didn’t get along, but then again Roman didn’t get along well with her either. After all his reassurances, he'd only make Virgil anxious about him if he complained now. Roman couldn't be that burden.

That's what he'd been to his soulmate. A burden. From the moment he'd seen his soul-stamp in the park, Roman had inconvenienced him. Mr. Soulmate was dating a girl who's soul-mate passed away when they were kids. He'd promised her his heart and he wouldn't give it to anyone else. Not even when Roman offered to be friends. His soulmate wouldn't risk even feeling positive feelings for Roman. Roman had begged, pleaded, bargained, gotten both of their parents involved and even had a heart to heart with the girlfriend. It had all made the soulmate angry. The last rejection stung the most, giving up. His wrist still burned a little.

He raised the cup in his hands to his lips and belatedly realized it was peppermint mocha. Also it was lukewarm at best. He grimaced and looked back down into the cup as he set it back on the table.

"My father used to say the darkest times call for the sunniest smiles!" Roman looked up from his cup of coffee and into a pair of eyes equally as brown, and a smile as sunny as he’d ever seen. He hadn't even heard the other young man approaching. “I bet you have a really sunny smile when you aren’t brooding over cold coffee.”

"You can keep the flattery. I'm not your soulmate," Roman said, dismissively looking back down at his cup.

A whistle from the other side of the table brought his gaze back up. This stranger had an eyebrow raised, his smile no less charming. "Yikes, greet everyone like that?"

Roman looked the stranger over and hesitated. Something in the guileless look he was getting made him want to talk to this stranger. "I'm sorry. I'm not very good company right now.”

"I'm Emile. I've been told I'm good enough company for two people," Emile said, waving a hand in greeting. "How do you know you're not my soulmate?"

Roman bit his lip and tried not to smile at this stranger. At any other time the interest would be welcome. On any other day, Roman would have flirted back. Instead, for some reason he decided to tell a stranger his most painful recent memory.

"My soulmate rejected me." What little conversation going on around them died. Roman sipped his coffee before remembering it wasn't good. He set the cup down again and moved it away from himself. “Yeah wow, can’t believe I just said that in public. Look, I’m sure you’re nice, but my heart’s just done.”

Emile held his hands up, both of which held cups of coffee. "Well, I sure shoved my foot in my mouth. I’m sorry. If you’d like I can go. I did get you a new coffee, but I totally understand if you’d rather not.”

Roman waited a beat but instead of shooing Emile away, he reached for the cup of coffee, leaned onto his elbows and sipped it. “Look, this is excellent coffee but I don’t want to bring you down with my problems.”

Emile waved his free hand. “I’m sure it’s a Wonderland of a mess, but now that I’ve jumped down this rabbit hole, let me try and dig our way out. What do you say, Alice?”

“My name’s Roman.”

Emile’s megawatt smile got even brighter and Roman found the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Roman, before you call it done-zo on your heart, maybe we should make sure it was your actual soulmate?" Emile asked.

Roman rolled his sleeve up. One palm up, he showed Emile his soul-stamp. A Christmas tree, star on top, now sporting a red X through it. His eyes misted over as he remembered the pain of that red X appearing. He felt rather than saw Emile's hand land on his upturned palm. His soul-stamp was a five-pointed yellow star with a red X over it.

Roman's breath hitched. "S-so I'm not alone?"

He hated himself instantly at how raw he sounded. He'd never heard of someone being rejected. A soulmate’s death made the soul-stamp disappear over time.

Emile nodded, turning his hand over to hold onto Roman's wrist. "Let's go for a walk, pardon the phrase."

Roman quirked an eyebrow at that, but stood up and waited for Emile to do the same. Instead, he glided around the table, seated in a wheelchair. Roman was struck for a moment, and Emile giggled. "You really were stuck in your own head, weren't you?"

"I'm sorry," Roman started.

Emile shook his head. "No, I remember how I felt when I first saw someone in a wheelchair. Felt like Aang meeting Teo. Come on, I'll get the door."

“Was that a Last Airbender…” Roman trailed off as he actually had to hurry to keep up. "Um, are you sure..."

Before he could even get the sentence out, Emile had the door open and was gesturing Roman through. "First rule. Don't underestimate what I can and can't do."

Roman nodded as he stepped outside. "Fair enough."

Emile led him to the park. The slight nip in the air felt good. Pulling alongside a bench, Emile reached over and patted on it. Roman obliged, sitting next to Emile with a shy grin. Catching himself, Roman turned away and exhaled.

"Okay. Would you like to share or would you like me to share my story?" Emile asked.

Roman shrugged. "Is it right to lay all this on a stranger? Let alone someone...like you. I'm sure my problems would seem like small potatoes compared..."

"Ah! Rule one," Emile chided.

Roman scrunched his nose. "What? Oh! I'm so sorry, that came out wrong didn't it? I'm just trying to say you've gone through more than I have."

Emile snorted. "I don't agree. I've gone through something different from you, true. But I've also gone through something you have as well." Emile waved his crossed-out stamp at him cheerfully.

"Oh. Right." Looking down, Roman rubbed a thumb over his own stamp.

Emile reached over and covered the stamp with his own hand. "I was in an accident. Car accident. Had to use the jaws of life to get me out of what was left of my car. My...my soulmate, Henry, sat at my bedside until the doctor said that I'd never walk again. That it was likely I'd lose all motor control from the neck down. That's when it became too much for him. He left me. Left me in a hospital bed. My mother was sure I'd die of grief if the operations failed to kill me."

Roman sat back, biting his lower lip. "That's...awful. But you didn't! And you weren’t…well, at least not as bad as they thought!"

Emile sighed. "Yeah, turns out doctors tend to go with the worst case scenario. Plan for the worst, hope for the best. By the time I could move my arms again, the X was already over our mark. I don't know if he even knows what my condition turned out to be. Not that it changes anything for me. I wouldn't take Henry back. I deserve better."

Roman's mouth dropped open. "But...but he’s your soulmate!"

Emile shrugged. "Not anymore. Among the many therapy groups I went through, there was one for people who'd gone through rejection. One of my group members got remarried to their soul mate after their first divorce, but the X stayed. They stayed together another year before they got another divorce. Once rejected, the bond breaks."

"So, I'm just going to be alone forever then." Roman ran his hands through his hair.

Emile wheeled around until he sat across from Roman. "You could be. Or you could be like my group leader. She got married to a man whose soulmate passed away."

The possibility excited Roman. He sat forward, suddenly eager. "Did he become her soulmate? Did her stamp change? Did a new stamp show up on his wrist?"

Emile's smile twisted for a moment and he heaved a sigh. "No and no. But he was her husband and they were, and still are, very much in love."

Roman sat back again. "But..."

Emile interrupted. "One of my friends once told me that having a soulmate is just different than finding your own love. A soulmate is someone made for you, but your own love is one you make for yourself. And who knows your heart better than yourself? The universe?"

"God?" Roman asked.

"Are you religious, Roman?" Emile asked, eyes catching his gaze again, as if they could see into his head.

"I believe in God," he replied. "But, not the same way I was raised."

Emile nodded. "If you can believe in a different God than what you were taught, would it really be so much harder to believe that God could have, let's say, a fallback plan?"

Roman raised an eyebrow. "Like, what?"

Emile held out one hand, his rejected stamp clear to see. "Like Plan A is your soulmate." Raising his other hand, Emile continued, "But Plan 2 is you making your own way."

Roman snorted. "Don't you mean Plan B?"

"Let's not bring family planning into this." Emile said, waving his second hand.

Roman let out a shaky breath. His eyes went out over the park. Could it have been their park? If his soulmate hadn't been so stupidly obsessed with one person's sadness that he would inflict that on someone else.

"I wasn't perfect. When it sounded like Joel…” Roman faltered as he realized it was the first time he’d said the name since he was rejected. Emile waited patiently, his eyes communicated how much he understood what Roman felt just then. “...when it sounded like he would never give me a chance I reached out to his parents. His friends. His girlfriend." Roman let the tears fall. Emile's attempt at placing a handkerchief in his hand failed, so he leaned in to dab at Roman's cheeks himself.

"Nobody's perfect. It sounds like you were afraid, and made some rather unfortunate decisions that only hastened what you wanted to prevent." Emile picked up Roman's hand and pressed the handkerchief into his hand again. Roman took it this time. “But I want you to know that this experience doesn’t disqualify you from being loved.”

When he could manage it, Roman spoke. "So I'm not...bad? Because my soulmate couldn't love me?"

Emile shook his head. "I don't pass value judgments like that. Do you think you were bad? Do you think you didn't deserve that love?" Emile asked.

Blowing his nose noisily, Roman belatedly remembered the handkerchief belonged to Emile. "Uh, sorry."

Emile produced another handkerchief and shrugged. "No worries. It's yours. Well, it's monogrammed, but that was an old wedding gift, so I'm not very attached to it."

Roman patted Emile on the knee. Wincing, Emile produced a small bottle of hand sanitizer. Roman let him squirt some into his hands. "Thanks. You know, I tried to get us into soulmate counseling, tried talking it out with him but nothing could change things once I screwed everything up. I'm...terrible. Yeah, to answer that question, I do think I was bad. I showed him how much I didn't deserve him."

At that pronouncement, Emile's permanent smile faded for the first time. Roman kicked himself again. Of course he screwed up again. A wonderful man with the same problem had offered his help and Roman sucked the happy out of him.

After an awkward silence, Emile lifted his head again. “Have you seen Beauty and the Beast?”

Roman blinked at the sudden topic change. “Uh, yeah,” he said, awkwardly reminded of the pair of beast pajamas he owned.

"Would you say that the Beast didn’t deserve love? ‘After all, who could ever learn to love a beast?’” Emile quoted.

Roman's eyes narrowed. "No, I guess not. But he changes. He realizes his mistakes and learns from them.”

Emile nodded emphatically. "Well, the way I see it, you made a mistake, and you can learn from it. Call it your emotional car wreck. And you could stay in the wreckage, or take the help offered you and find a way to live past it."

"But it's my fault! I drove him away. How do I live with that?" Roman shouted.

Every time he was sure that he wouldn't put up with him, Roman was surprised by Emile's grace. Emile held a hand out. He gave him the wrong one, but Emile shook his head. Sighing, Roman gave him the one with a stamp.

Emile poked his stamp and explained. "The only person responsible for your ex-soulmate's decisions is your ex. You were in an extremely emotional situation and reacted badly, but so did he."

Letting go of his hand, Emile smiled. "And maybe he’ll change his mind. Maybe you'll be able to forgive him completely. Maybe that will restore your stamps." His words would've been comforting, maybe, except Roman was sure he didn't think any of those maybes were likely.

"That's a lot of 'maybes,'" Roman said, narrowing his eyes. "And what about you? Are you just helping a stranger? Are you my jaws of life?"

Emile laughed, and Roman felt something, a little twinge in his stomach. "I'd rather be your friend. I’ve found it helps to have someone who understands when things have gone so wrong. But you get to decide, I’ve imposed myself on you enough. This is your recovery and you get to decide when you’re ready. I sure didn't hop into a wheelchair the day after my accident."

Roman laughed. And, for the first time in months he realized how fake his laughs around his soulmate were. Hearing the real sound for himself again reminded him of something he'd forgotten. "I think I need a friend." He pulled out his phone, wincing a touch at Sheriff Woody stars and boots on his case.

Emile’s face lit up and he pulled his phone out as well. Roman smiled at the Buzz Lightyear logo on the case.

Taking Roman's number, Emile looked up and smiled as he sent a message. They sat knee to knee as Roman read the text. "Well, you've got a friend in me!"

#sanders sides #soulmate au #roman sanders #emile picani #roman x emile #disability #wheelchair #angst #happy ending

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kissykiwi · 6 years

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the day before you came (1)

im still writing this, but i couldn’t resist posting the very first chapter. im excited about this piece, and i hope y’all will be too !!! welcome to my official return to writin things.

wherein harry is a travel writer who has officially reached his breaking point, y/n is a hotelier’s daughter who has never left kalokairi, and their paths are destined to meet. (mamma mia au, 2200 words)

There were days when Y/N really hated summer. The effusion of flowers, running under bowers heavy with lemons, lying out in the sway of the tides under a full moon -- none of it felt worth it as she, her mother, and Georgie ran about The Muse. It was the last day before the summer travel season truly began, and their little hotel was battening down the hatches for their first batch of tourists.

“Y/N, have you put the linens out on the line? And Georgie, has Nikolas called about bringing in the week’s groceries yet? I told you both that our first guest comes in at midnight tonight, and I’d like to have a cheese plate out to greet him!”

Because she was a good daughter, Y/N steadfastly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. This was the third time Dee had reminded of her of the sheets that were quite visibly fluttering in the wind -- Y/N had even remembered the duvet and pillow covers that her mother always forgot. Whoever this mystery guest was (listed only in the guestbook as “Rick Steves”), he had her mother in quite the tizzy.

“Yes mom. And Georgie’s already told you that Nik was on the way, given that they never seem to manage two minutes without texting each other.”

To her right, two wide, brown doe eyes glared her down underneath a mop of riotous dark curls.

“He is my friend,” Georgie sniffed, flopping her mane of hair over her shoulder as she went to grab the stock book out of the front office. Even Dee snorted at that one.

“Good friend, dear. You oughta make a move.”

Beneath her sun burnished olive skin, Georgie turned bright red. Y/N marveled at how perfectly in sync it was to the buzz of her phone.

“The food has come in from the mainland. And just for that, Y/N, you can get it.”

“I’ll make sure to bring Nik with me,” Y/N called as she skipped towards the stairway down to the docks.

The stairway was tied without about 10 other places on the island for Y/N’s favorite view. It had a sweeping panorama of the Aegean Sea as you clattered down the worn stone that made the staircase, and was lined on one side by a solemn row of cypress trees that she always rubbed for good luck (and for perfume). As you got further down the winding cliffside, The Muse disappeared from view, and Y/N personally thought the surprise of coming up to B&B really added to value. It was seldom enjoyed, as most guests either preferred or required the car ride up to their little villa, but that just meant it was Y/N’s secret in plain sight. Sometimes she could sit halfway down, out of sight of both the hotel and the docks, and imagine what life was like beyond the Aegean, leagues past the limits of the towns in Greece she had seen. Others she would follow her little northward path down the other side of the hill to Calliope’s Beach and float in the shallows until her fingers pruned and her hair was fairly coated with salt.

The stairs themselves continued on down to a path that lead to the docks, where she had to go now. The hotel’s ‘88 Range Rover, which was 60% blue paint and another 40% rust, was waiting at the top of the docks to carry the groceries back up the winding hill. Y/N jogged down the steps, resisting the call of the beach as she went to run her errands.

Nik was tied off to the northmost piling in the docks like always, already busy stacking the hotel’s orders onto the dock beside him. Crates of fresh veggies, pungent cheeses, and the first few days of seafood had made their way onto the wooden boards, and no doubt the specifically requested order of teas was the last to come. Y/N’s eyebrows had about hit her hairline when she’d seen the list of some regional, some clearly British brews that had been added in almost hilarious quantity to their usual roster.

“Got a bit of an herbalist coming, hm?” Nik asked as he hefted the last chest out onto the docks. Y/N nodded slowly.

“Apparently. D’you know Georgie told me that whoever requested these also called ahead to see if we’d allow his candles?”

Nik laughed, though Y/N knew for a fact that it was information Georgie had given him the week before when the call came in. Ever the good sport.

“Well, at least you know he’ll be careful enough not to burn the Muse down. Probably, anyway. Do you know anything else about whoever requested all of this?” Y/N couldn’t help but sigh, because she didn’t, and it was bugging her. Usually her mother was something of an open book regarding who would be coming in to see them, but she was abnormally tight lipped regarding this specific guest. Wouldn’t even give vague details, like age or nationality, or if Mr. Steves was even a Mr. at all.

“Not a thing Nik,” she responded over the clunk of their crates being loaded into the trunk. “I can hardly wait for tonight.”

---

Kalokairi, Harry thought, had better be bloody beautiful for all the hassle it was to get out to it. He had only just finished the rounds for his latest book (Couch Surfing In Copenhagen: Scandinavia for Twenty Somethings), finalizing the last leg of his work in the bustle that was New York, and he was already well drained by the time he’d hit JFK. He was just beginning hour three of his car ride from Athens to Lirios, one that had begun immediately after a ten hour nonstop flight, and he was well and truly out of energy. He still had a half hour ferry to go to get to the island itself after they’d made it to the docks. There was a headache growing behind his eyes, though whether it was from the extended travel, the amount of time he’d been awake, or the itch he had for one of the cigarettes his driver had been periodically smoking, he wasn’t sure.

Safe to say his relaxing, restorative three month break was starting as anything but. As he watched the Greek highway roll by, he couldn’t help but feel a bit melancholy.

There was a time in his life when no matter how jetlagged he was, no matter how many hours he spent in transit, the thrill of travel kept him feeling fresh. There was an image he had in his mind then, of a seed on the wind, ready to plant himself wherever the breeze helped him land. That was how his writing career had started. He had been eighteen, going on small trips from England to the continent and writing little blogs about it to get some practice in for his dream magnum opus. It had felt like a dream when one of the UK’s biggest publishers had approached him about a travel novel. One novel had turned into two had turned into five, and now at the ripe old age of twenty four, Harry had officially had his midlife crisis.

Where had his plans gone for a more serious novel? Alright-- well. He would defend his travel work to the grave, so he didn’t want the impression going about that he was ashamed of it, because he never would be. He knew he’d helped people, whether it was to find where to go or to enjoy a long plane ride of their own. But since fourteen he’d envisioned a proper zeitgeist novel; funny but honest, reflective but not obvious, the kind of thing that could represent a generation. Crashing in Cairo: An Englishman’s Journey Through North Africa certainly wasn’t his most contemplative work. And besides that, he wondered what travel meant to him anymore besides a few months work and a paycheck. There was a love he’d had once, and he felt an ache in his chest knowing that that was gone.

All of this he had explained through heaving, shuddery breaths on a long distance connection to Gem, who had responded with a deep sigh.

“Frankly, H, I think you need a sabbatical,” she’d said knowingly. “Just get away from it all, take a break. Stay somewhere for longer than a month.” Harry had laughed somewhat hysterically.

“Getting away from it all’s my job, Gem. The usual solutions are a bit out of my grasp.”

“I mean it Harry. Find a tiny island somewhere and just take time for yourself. No travel writing, no deadlines, no talking to your agent about where in the world they’re dropping you off next.”

“I can’t even look at a map of the world without getting nauseous,” he moaned and hey, that may have been an exaggeration, but Harry was feeling awfully grim.

“Then you’ll take my recommendation with no questions. There’s this little place called Kalokairi. It’s a Greek island in the Aegean, that’s practically made of sun, blue water, and good food. I stayed there with my friends a year or two ago, and they have the most wonderful little hotel there that I know you’ll love. How does three months this summer sound?”

A rock in the middle of the ocean had sounded pretty damn good, and so here he was hurtling down the road to what was likely little more than a dinghy out to an island he hadn’t even googled.

Truly, what had his life become? Curling his shaking fingers into his palm, he leaned forward to his driver.

“Say, could I bother you for a cigarette?”

---

Y/N was fairly wrecked by the time she made it to her bed in the room above the registration desk. As her mother aged she did more heavy lifting, and she felt as though she had run a marathon or two. At the very least Dee had taken pity and sent her up for bed instead of asking her to wait for the mysterious Mr. Steves.

She’d heard nothing of him before his check in, and the radio silence had her absolutely itching to see what all the fuss was about. Though she never told her mother it, the guests were her way of living vicariously outside of their microcosm of the world. Being denied any information about their international man (or woman) of mystery had her head spinning with scenarios. Maybe it was some high up government boss bitch here on a rest and recovery, someone who’d have stories of Moscow and Sao Paulo and Jakarta. Could be that it was some creaky old man who’d lived in Berlin during the Cold War and had stories about sneaking across the wall and the underground scene. Maybe (and this was quite the hopeful maybe) it was someone her age who’d gotten to see just a bit of the world, someone who would want to talk to her and be a new friend (the first in twenty years). Or even more.

That was why, though it was just about midnight and creeping ever closer to her nineteenth hour of being awake this day, she was huddled close to her window and sipping from one of the teas she was allowed to have. She’d heard the ferry come in (the ancient catamaran was something of a screamer after a long day of travel), and had forced herself upright to wait for her mother to return with their first of the season.

Across the dimly lit courtyard, she saw the gate into the villa’s main environs swing open. There was her mother, the unmistakable silhouette of her hair and sprinkle of her laugh indicative even from a ways away. Next to her, was what looked like a man, and probably a young one. He dwarfed her mother, all willowy limbs and long frame, and she could make out some duck fluff soft curls. He was carrying quite a few bags and her mother had a few more. This was no doubt the three month stay. Though she couldn’t make out much of him, there was something about the line of his shoulders and his skinny little ankles that made her hope he might be rather cute.

“Jus’ a bit tired is all. Last year or two have been rather long, I s’pose.” His voice was rich and low, and his accent was easily pegged as British, though she hardly knew which region. It made something curl in her stomach. Her curiosity was well and truly piqued.

“Well, we hope you’ll be able to relax here. I’m excited for you to see the island in the morning. I remember the first time I saw it-- it was dawn then, and it just about took my breath away. And my daughter will be around with your breakfast for whenever you list it. You have us at your disposal, given you’re our first arrival.”

Her mom had taken the route that kept his face in shadow, and Y/N tried not to flush guiltily as Dee looked knowingly up at the window and wiggled her fingers. Y/N sighed and rolled over to turn out the light. It looked like finding out whoever this man was would have to wait until the morning.

#harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #himagine #heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere she is!#she back she back!!!!!!!!

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fourteen--steps · 6 years

Text

On big goldfish, and listening to each other

I apologize if the tone of this post is maybe a little more snippy than my usual ones. I’m usually very thoughtful with my words but I’ve had an incredibly rough physical and emotional week and I’m running low on spoons to devote to thinking things through properly. My frustration’s gonna bleed through here but I don’t want anyone to take it personal cause it’s really more me than you.

That said.

Remember that whole trend a while ago of “don’t give advice on animals you haven’t kept or deeply researched?” What ever happened to that? What ever happened to respecting the expertise and hearing out the opinions of people who actually have it in that field vs demanding you’re right because you’ve read some care sheets and seen some photos of worst case scenarios?

My whole life and world has been immersed in goldfish for the last several years. Keeping multiple breeds of both single tail and fancy, reading, researching, joining everything from casual hobbyist groups to those of serious breeders and highly respected names. I’ve moderated, built, and eventually owned my own care forum. I’ve spent hours reading vet manuals and scientific articles, as well as conducting necropsies on every animal I lose to better understand their inner workings and what’s gone wrong. I had the wonderful experience last summer of raising a small batch of someone else’s fry. I’ve experimented with all different kinds of food and filtration and maintenance and decor and enrichment.

I don’t know everything, nobody can. I’m not perfect, nobody is. But I can say with confidence I know a lot about the care and keeping of goldfish overall, and that my information is overall very solid and thought out.

So when someone comes in my inbox and asks my opinion on something goldfish related, my answer comes with all that experience and thought behind it. I often include caveats in my answers when I’m not 100% sure, or if I believe there’s no one-size-fits-all solution. I’m not so bigheaded as to believe that my way is absolutely always right and will work for every situation and every fish. But I answer in earnest and with confidence and reasoning.

But then my posts get immediately doused with comments from people who to the best of my knowledge have little to no experience with the species. The ones who do have experience tend to be polite in their responses, if not a bit misguided, although even then their knowledge tends to bottom out at keeping some orandas in a 40B or having tended a garden pond. Often the other comments are far more cursory and involve varying amounts of dismissal of my opinion entirely, insults, condescension, and most frustratingly, wild misinformation (much of which I’ve only heard echoed back and forth within the microcosm of tumblr, and never from a reputable outside source)

Like I’ve read a fair amount about bettas now both on here and elsewhere just cause they’re such popular fish and I’m a nerd and I’m curious. But I’ve never kept one, and I’m not an expert, and I’d never go be snappy on the advice post of someone who I know has a lot more practical and academic knowledge with them than I do? At the very least I could politely ask a question or voice a dissenting opinion with some of my reasoning, possibly acknowledging the deficits in my experience, but diving straight in with the vitriol just baffles me.

It’s come to my attention people are vagueing about me now and that’s just? So fucking childish and unnecessary. I’m also being accused of having stunted fish based on, among other things, the old eye proportion criteria, but btw that image of the ranchu that circulates as an example? Is heavily photoshopped and not a reliable catchall method to determine stunting.

For those who didn’t believe Zoom is as big as I said, I took this picture today. He’s not the most personable of my fish so he wouldn’t let me get him against a measuring tape but I measured my hand like that at about 4 inches, then pasted those identical bars on him (swear the blue bar is the same I just recolored so it’d stand out, not sure why it looks a little longer than the red). He’s just under 8 inches, nose to peduncle. Maybe even a tad longer cause he always curls a little when I flip him on his side (also why his side looks a little sunken here, he was getting ready to snap back and splash me in the face :P). When measuring goldfish you don’t include fins, by standard. If you wanna tack on the extra inch or so of tail go ahead and call him 9″

I also weighed him, he’s 109 grams which is a tad less than I’d like but I’ve been having issues with one fish in the tank needing a specialized diet so they’ve all been getting a little less protein than usual lately. The fish with the diet issue is probably going to be going back to @finefeatheredfish soon and I can pick up with weekly Worm Nights as usual again. His body condition is still good though rounded from above without being bloated, muscular rather than fatty, with a nice smooth taper head to tail and a bit of a belly. He’s not a very tall fish, but that’s more cause he’s a badly bred feeder fish who doesn’t fit the perfect common genetic standard than anything. Height isn’t about health, that’s a genetic characteristic that some fish just won’t achieve. In fact many tall “humpy” commons are not actually properly tall, but have large fat deposits along the tops of their bodies particularly built up behind the head which are an indicator of poor diet and overfeeding.

In fact if you want, here’s the US hibuna show standard! Take a look!

What about the eye thing? It’s huge compared to his head right? Well here’s a shubunkin posted by Gary Hater, currently one of the most well respected breeders in the US hobby, both for his fish quality and welfare standards. Who incidentally keeps most of his in aquariums and states that they normally reach 6-8″ indoors. This fish was from his “giants” tank, one of which he said was roughly 10 inches. This one in the video looked a little smaller than aforementioned Big Boy so I figure it’s around 8″ or so, like Zoom. and hey, look at that big googly eye! Almost like eye size can vary naturally in healthy goldfish and isn’t necessarily a sign of stunting without other important factors that are often much more subtle and far less textbook!

The last think I want to bring up, is that this whole “goldfish are ALL large” and by extension “NEED to be large” to be “right” worries me for another reason. I’m concerned there’s a mounting pressure that goldfish should be reaching these enormous sizes that they aren’t meant to, in far too short of a time. Many of the fish that do reach these sizes in captivity, yes even the ones in ponds, reach them due to powerfeeding. Intentional or not, these fish are put on high protein, high filler, sometimes high fat diets, and often fed a lot of it. Outdoor fish also gorge themselves on algae, insects, worms, snails, aquatic plants, sometimes other small fish, anything they can get their greedy little mitts on. Then their owner will dump in a large cup of cheap high protein pond conditioning food and they scarf that down too.

For aquarium fish, a nervous newbie keeper may see their young fish isn’t growing to the size they believe it’s supposed to and get a bigger tank, start feeding extra bloodworms, more meaty pellets, maybe turn the heater up a degree or two to boost their metabolism. They balance it out with lots of veggies so they think it’s okay, they just want their fish to be healthy and catch up to where it’s “supposed” to be! This leads to rapid and impressive growth, yes, but it comes with dangerous and potentially deadly consequences.

Some of you may remember Queenie. She was the largest goldfish I’ve ever personally encountered, 10-11 inches and fat fat with it. Her original owner surrendered her to our LFS and @finefeatheredfish immediately bought her with the plan that she’d move into my 150 when it was set up. She was healthy at the time, some kind of long bodied fancy mix and drop dead gorgeous, though she needed to drop some weight for sure. Too young to be that massive and visibly overweight. She was unquestionably a powerfed pond fish.

Cw for euthanasia mention, pet death, graphic descriptions, next 3 paragraphs

But about a month into her QT she began getting sick, infection-like symptoms but antibiotics didn’t do anything. We worked on her another month, did our best to save her. We probably should have euthanized her earlier in hindsight but we wanted so bad to get her through and give her a happy home. She was just so amazing you know? I took her for the last week of her life to try some last ditch treatment, she died about 3 days after this photo was taken.

I did a necropsy on her afterwards. Her vital organs were layered in fat. There was so much of it around her swim bladder that I thought it was another organ at first and got confused. I’m shocked it was still functional. Her liver was unidentifiable mush, suggesting chronic disease, and her gallbladder had simply exploded and spilled bile all over the surrounding tissue. Her body cavity was full of blood and fluid. The cause of death appeared to be the rupture of her gallbladder or liver and the tearing of some important vessel in that area, she bled out internally.

The chronic liver and gallbladder disease were entirely untreatable for home aquarists. What we thought was infectious dropsy was full on liver failure, she couldn’t balance the fluid and electrolytes in her body anymore which caused the swelling. Likely even if we had taken her to the vet there would have been little they could do. You can’t really remove a fish’s inflamed gallbladder, or transplant in a new liver to replace a failing one. Those conditions are linked to obesity in many species, and I have no doubt that Queen’s diet and obesity were the cause of the chronic conditions that lead to her slow death.

She was powerfed because someone wanted a large, impressive fish, and it killed her. She deserved so much better than that.

CW over

Powerfeeding and its results are not always that extreme, and I can go into more on the other risks and issues if anyone is interested, but this is long enough already. I wanted to include Queenie as a cautionary tale, and because I’m still so sad she never got to meet the rest of my little school. She was such a sweetheart.

I have a genuine concern with this normalization of 12-14″+ fish as average, that people are going to start pushing their pets to meet that. Most goldfish are not genetically capable of that growth. I’d go so far as to say most goldfish should not reach that size, at least not in any appreciably quick period of time.

Feed your fish well. Keep their water clean. Give them room to swim. They will grow on their own time, to their own size.

And lastly. I’m open to talking about this stuff, really. I love to learn new things and hear new sides. Just please, be friendly and mature and let’s have a real conversation? We can disagree politely. It doesn’t have to be black and white, mortal enemies, I know fishblr’s environment these days isn’t very conducive to that, and that’s part of why I’d left a few weeks ago. But I’m trying to give it another chance cause this community used to be really welcoming and wonderful. I’d really love for us to be able to step away from all this polarizing distrust and be open and considerate again.

My responses may be spotty because of the terrible week I mentioned at the beginning of this post but I’ll try and check back.

#I think I kept this mostly together and said most of what I want to say #goldfish #fishblr #long post #fishies #zoom #queenie #pet death mention

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spaceorphan18 · 6 years

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I don't follow anyone that believes in this "theory" that Darren and Chris are secretly together, so I find the whole thing confusing (and deeply bizarre) Do you know if any of them have articulated why they think these two people would go through this much trouble and involve so many other people for so many years to hide their relationship?

I’ll preface this with - I’m not a psychologist, so all of this is armchair psychology, and I understand the twisted curiosity of – how can these people believe in such nonsense? It reminds me a lot of – people who believe the Earth is flat, people feel the moon landing was faked, people who believe the orange cheeto-in-chief can do a good job. It’s a microcosmic look at how people essentially get so brainwashed into believing a thing so strongly that for them it becomes a reality. I hope you don’t mind me indulging a little - and kind of exploring the psychology behind this stuff.

First, I wanna say there are three-ish groups - there are the people who know RPF is not real, and specifically just write fiction because they find it fun. Most of the tinhatters are not these people. Unfortunately, most (not all) of the people who still dabble in Glee RPF are enablers, in a way, and don’t seem to care that these other people are overly invested in their subjects. The second group are the True Believers. They 100% believe Chris and Darren are in a relationship. (More on them later). And there’s a third group – and I only have a theory that they exist, not proof, is that there’s a subsection of the second group that know that Chris and Darren aren’t in a relationship but a) enjoy the power of leading the rest of the followers and/or b) want to hold on to this fantasy because it’s more appealing to them.

Anyway - what the tinhatters are, actually, are a bonafide cult.

Cult definition according to Google Dictionary:

a system of religious veneration and devotion directed toward a particular figure or object.“the cult of St. Olaf”

a relatively small group of people having religious beliefs or practices regarded by others as strange or sinister.“a network of Satan-worshiping cults"synonyms:sect, denomination, group, movement, church, persuasion, body, faction"a religious cult”

a misplaced or excessive admiration for a particular person or thing.“a cult of personality surrounding the leaders"synonyms:obsession with, fixation on, mania for, passion for, idolization of, devotion to, worship of, veneration of"the cult of eternal youth in Hollywood”

So. I don’t know the exact science behind this but (I promise I’m not making this up) – the human brain sees patterns. For most of human history - it’s been helpful. However, it has kind of a strange side effect of – we start to see patterns when they aren’t really there. Such as – hey, the burn mark on this grilled cheese sandwich looks like Jesus! Well, no, that burn mark is just a burn mark - but it’s shape is familiar to something you already know, hence your brain makes the connection.

I don’t know where the origin of this story is, I wasn’t around when it became a thing, but from what I can tell - the story is that when Darren started on Glee, he had to hide his sexuality because there was a contract between – Fox? Ryan Murphy? His manager Ricky? I don’t fully understand who the evil PR people are in this scenario. I don’t, also now that I think of it, really understand when Darren was supposed to have started dating Chris, ether. I think it was Never Been Kissed week - but I don’t go far into their mythos. And Mia was brought on as Darren’s beard to keep the secret alive.

Is any of this probable? No. Is any of this real? No. A logical (and sane) person would look at the facts presented and see what reality is. Darren says he’s straight and in a long term relationship with a woman named Mia. That’s the simple truth. But they’ve built such a deep narrative, and confined themselves in their own circle – to the point where they feel they are in an us against them scenario – that they’re almost unable, at this point, to be told anything but what they feel is true to be true. One thing about cults – is that the only person who can get someone out is that person, unfortunately.

In addition – there’s something about being a part of this that makes them feel special. On their own, the conspiracy might just be another crazy conspiracy. But if other people feel that way, well then it’s okay to indulge, it’s okay to really believe.

The crux of this whole thing is that they these people want (or need - now that they’ve reached cult-like brainwashing status) Darren to be gay…or not straight. That seems to be the biggest fixation. And kind of like the crazies who thought the world was gonna end ind 2012 because of an ancient Mayan calendar - they feel that there will be a point where Darren ‘comes out’. (It’s always soon, btw.) But the okay now moment always gets pushed back. It’s something that’s never gonna come, though, which makes these people’s lives sad, really.

But I digress. They’ve receded so far into this fantasy at this point that I don’t think Chris even matters to them much anymore. I don’t think the story of Klaine matters much more than this is Darren and Chris making out. I don’t think they even like Darren all that much, because he keeps disappointing them by not coming out. They’re so fixated on Darren being gay that they’ve lost sight of everything except that one particular point.

And they’ve wrapped themselves up in this pattern-seeking mentality. Everything they twist to fix their own narrative. As I joked about the Oscars - Chris wore blue and Darren wore red. And we often saw, in Glee, Chris in blue and Darren in red. The reality of it is - with their skin tones, the costume designers and the personal stylists know that blue looks good on Chris and Darren looks good in red. But to a tinhatter - you have to make that fit your narrative. Chris and Darren wore blue and red respectively on Glee, and now they wore it at the Oscars, it’s another sign of their secret love. And, etc, etc with all the nonsense they’ve said over the years.

So now, finally, to your question:

Do you know if any of them have articulated why they think these two people would go through this much trouble and involve so many other people for so many years to hide their relationship?

Essentially, what they’ll tell you if you asked, is because it needs to fit the narrative – Darren is gay, so all those people being involved has to be true. They want (need) Darren to be gay, so they literally have to twist reality to make it work. And the twisting is that all of these people, as highly improbable as it is, would be in on the conspiracy.

The question I’ve always pondered is… why do they need Darren to be gay? And I’m sure each have their own reason - from just not liking Mia, to some thinking Glee should be a documentary, to them liking the idea of Darren making out with men instead of women, etc, etc. (Or more so - why do they need to have Chris and Darren be in love? Why is fictional Klaine not enough?) But I guess that’s the biggest part that trips me up. Why is reality worse for them than this made up fantasy land?

The unfortunate thing is that most of them don’t realize or understand the real world consequences they’ve had. Chris withdrew inward to get away from them. Mia has endured a lot of shit because of them. And there seem to be these extremists in every fandom - so it’s not a Glee specific thing, even if we’re directly effected by these particular ones.

I think, as an aside, I also find it sad, and further frustrating, that there’ve been signs that some people begin to understand reality, questioning whether they’re right or not, and there are a few ring-leaders who – (whether they’re part of group two or group three I’m unsure) who pull them back in. And thus makes it a cult. Hey - Chris sounds sincere about just being friends! Nope - you’re just seeing things, Chris is lying because he’s an actor and he secretly loves Darren. Or… Darren looks so depressed with Mia (on a picture where he’s clearly in love with her). And those ringleaders are really the ones that keep the followers in line. It’s a cult. And I hate that.

What also makes it sad is that these people are so deeply invested that for some of these hard core believers - questioning the foundation of this reality almost breaks their brain – like they can’t comprehend the truth - because if they did, they’d have to reexamine the amount of time and energy spent on this false thing, and they’d rather have the security blanket of someone telling them they’re right instead facing that they’ve essentially been brainwashed - or have to face a reality they don’t really want.

I mean think about the fact that Darren could have a kid with Mia, or personally tell them that he is not in love/in a relationship with Chris, and they still would not believe him. Nothing, at this point, except themselves, can pull them out of it.

It’s also so weird, and frustrating for us, and I wish they’d give it up, but unfortunately, I think a lot of them will be still stuck in their cult long after the rest of us have moved on. But hopefully helps you understand how they got this way. And how answering the question of ‘why’ is so complex.

#that's how s.o. sees it #more than you probably ever wanted to know about the psychology of tinhats #julnyes #probably reblog this in the morning #it got wordy

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fictrashheap · 7 years

Text

Dancing With the Devil (unedited version)

This is the original version I had laying around on my backup drive. Purple verse ahoy!

Sometimes good by itself cannot defeat darkness. And sometimes it is necessary to fight evil with evil in order to save the world. Jack discovers this and more in his tenuous alliance with Aku.

Chapter 20

Jack released a great sigh, unaware he had been holding his breath.

The world gradually returned to him in a series of mild revelations and discomforts. The annoyance of the sun glaring off of snow hurt his eyes, the nip of cold on his face, and the silver birdsong that rang out from the woods around them. He blinked rapidly to dispel the groggy haze settled over his mind in a thin layer; he felt as if he had been disturbed from a nap. The same cantankerous impatience assailed him accompanied by the sensation of being bleary and disoriented until he had to fumble with his own thoughts in order to remember when and where he was and who had been talking to.

The samurai realized he still clasped Aku's hand.

"I told you not to lose yourself, samurai," the demon murmured, voice threadbare. He looked completely exhausted and Jack was astonished he had neither collapsed nor lost the precarious hold upon his human illusion. "You will need to reassert yourself since you allowed the memories such vividness."

"I wanted them to be vivid."

"Yes…" Aku actually faltered and for one fleeting moment actually looked embarrassed, "I had not intended for you to wander so far." To Jack's pleasure his nemesis actually coloured before he composed himself and managed to retain some semblance of dignity as he hastily glanced away. "You were a fool to prod so deeply!" He snarled, resentful. "Even my hold that far back is…questionable."

Jack snatched a glance around, certain no unwelcome eyes or ears were trained on them. He fixed his eyes upon Aku's face and found himself even more wary of his nemesis than ever.

Human! He had been a mortal man of flesh and blood once!! It was a truly terrible revelation and Jack felt uncertainty rob him of any concrete plan of action. He hadn't been expecting something like this, he had never expected anything like this! Despite what lay between himself and his foe he had always considered Aku corrupt and decadent, yet the memory belonged to a simple-minded man. A man who thought in the humble terms of life and had possessed too much naiveté for his own safety.

Jack suddenly grew solemn.

A man much as he had been when first flung into this treacherous future, too trusting in the goodness of other people. He too had been transformed by this disenchantment.

Oh, souls of his ancestors, his ancient foe had been born from the mind and soul of a man! A man who had been the Forest King! Jack wasn't certain he wanted to consider what this would mean in his own personal struggle for honour and clarity. He wasn't even certain he wanted to consider what this would mean in terms of their pursuit of Gaia! Aku had been the Forest King…well what did that mean? What did any of it mean? The memory had been so badly damaged from time that it was difficult to decipher what had been truth, what had been altered from experiences later on, and what had simply been lost altogether and replaced with an entirely different scenario. Memory was unreliable in that respect; easily distorted by what one thought had happened.

"I cannot believe it," the samurai murmured and gazed blindly at the narrow path over his foe's shoulder. "I simply cannot believe it."

The wizard frowned in bewilderment and several seconds passed before his features cleared with understanding. "It is true, samurai. I know you have many questions about what you saw, but I have no answers. That memory was the oldest one I could recall and all that you experienced is all I know."

Jack frowned in thought and once more Aku was startled by how profoundly this affected his appearance. The samurai's previous bewilderment had allowed all the subtle wrinkles of age to disappear and for a moment, Jack had been young again. The steely set of his mouth, however, made him old and grim, his face so bereft of kindness as to be cruel. Had Aku still been mortal, still human, he would have found this composure tragically ironic in comparison to what Samurai Jack had first been when they had crossed paths.

But he was not human and so he felt nothing.

"So…it is true then? You are…a man?" Jack suddenly shed his hardened expression to gaze at his foe with the first true sense of dismay the wizard had witnessed since their journey had begun. "Truly?"

"I was, samurai," the demon corrected, "I am beyond that now."

There was an awkward silence after Aku's blunt reproach and Jack had to stifle the impulse to snap back at his foe, it was good to feel this way: scorned and ridiculed. He was never one to put up with such abuse and if nothing else, would safely erect a wall to cut off this strange symbiosis growing between them. He glared at his nemesis, merely to satisfy the sense of wounded pride if nothing else, and then glanced surreptitiously towards the ancient Roman gates with the sudden realization Dagaz and Deirdre waited inside. Jack felt both relieved and wary, it would allow him some space to think away from Aku's incessant scheming but on the other hand, neither of the Celts were forthcoming with their own agendas. Especially Dagaz.

The samurai barely deigned to favour his nemesis' insult with a grunt of acknowledgement before he turned to make his way through the snow laden archway. It was so eerie here, but in a different way than the other Roman fortress. It was a natural eeriness, the inevitable deadness that gradually settles in as dust settles upon the lonely angles of an unused room so that the overwhelming presence of emptiness permeates every stone, brick, and nail. The silence was nearly deafening in this place so profoundly empty of anything alive, of anything human.

The speed which Jack tore his hand away surprised Aku and the demon found himself without any support before he had gathered the strength to continue their trek upwards towards the mountain's craggy summit. His knees buckled but unlike the night before he fell soundlessly to the ground and it was only the crisp rustle of snow beneath him that betrayed his weakness. He released a strained sigh and turned away from Jack's back to gaze up at the mist shrouded peak of the mountains, still part of the Gale range. It had stopped snowing some time before they had decided to link their thoughts and as the sun burned away the last of the fog clarity lent the mountainous landscape an unexpected beauty. Strange how such negligible things gained significance once he knew he would never witness them again.

A slanted ebony eye peered over hunched shoulders to regard Aku with an unreadable expression. The demon chose not to reciprocate the glance and instead kept his gaze fixed upon the vast openness that lay before them. The air was so dry and clear he could see for miles all around and just for a moment, it felt as there was no one else in the world besides the four of them within this wild microcosm.

"I wonder what it would have been like to have lived in this fortress with such a view every morning?"

To his credit, Aku didn't startle when Jack's voice suddenly intruded upon his reverie. The wizard turned to regard his foe with suspicion and confusion, his jade eyes less bleached against the stark backdrop of snow, but ultimately said nothing in response to such a cryptic question, which wasn't truly directed towards him. He released a small noncommittal grunt and returned to staring at the mountain range surrounding the peak they traversed and ignored the samurai when he stood beside him, the folds of his clothing teased by the biting wind.

Finally Jack's face focused upon his demon foe. "Can things like this move demons as it does humans?" It was said with such unadulterated curiosity Aku had to suppress the impulse to roar at the samurai. How could a mortal man who had battled evil in whatever form it presented itself ask something so utterly naïve and foolish? It was the mystique of Jack, he supposed, the unexplainable contradiction of a warrior who battles demons and spirits on one hand and shares philosophical debates on the other. It irritated Aku he continued to fail in deciphering the samurai's personality. He was a short-lived mortal, how could his mind possess so many intricate knots?

It took a moment for Aku to realize he was staring.

"What sort of foolish question is that, samurai?" The wizard demanded with increasing aggravation as Jack merely returned his scrutiny, unmoved by question or insult. "Besides," he growled sulkily, "it does not matter to one such as I the colour of the sky or the shape of mountains. I fail to see why you romanticise them. They are harsh and formidable barriers, that is all. No more."

"You like it here," Jack murmured and smiled when he received a venomous glare at his presumption.

"You are such a fool!"

"And you are a liar." The samurai parried neatly and without another word grasped Aku's hand and hauled him to his feet with one undignified jerk. His foe sputtered with ire and disconcertion, green eyes given the illusion of returned vitality in his temper and for one moment, the samurai stared down at him with sorrow.

A fool and a liar, how utterly fitting it was!

#samurai jack #aku #jaku #dwtdnoedits

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uniteordie-usa · 7 years

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Battlefield America Is the New Normal: We’re Not in Mayberry Anymore

http://uniteordiemedia.com/battlefield-america-is-the-new-normal-were-not-in-mayberry-anymore/ Battlefield America Is the New Normal: We’re Not in Mayberry Anymore “Police” in Ferguson Missouri By John W. Whitehead August 29, 2017 “If we’re training cops as soldiers, giving them equipment like soldiers, dressing them up as soldiers, when are they going to pick up the mentality of soldiers? If you look at the police department, their creed is to...

“Police” in Ferguson Missouri

By John W. Whitehead August 29, 2017

“If we’re training cops as soldiers, giving them equipment like soldiers, dressing them up as soldiers, when are they going to pick up the mentality of soldiers? If you look at the police department, their creed is to protect and to serve. A soldier’s mission is to engage his enemy in close combat and kill him. Do we want police officers to have that mentality? Of course not.”— Arthur Rizer, former police officer and member of the military

America, you’ve been fooled again.

While the nation has been distracted by a media maelstrom dominated by news of white supremacists, Powerball jackpots, Hurricane Harvey, and a Mayweather v. McGregor fight, the American Police State has been carving its own path of devastation and destruction through what’s left of the Constitution.

We got sucker punched.

First, Congress overwhelmingly passed—and President Trump approved—a law allowing warrantless searches of private property for the purpose of “making inspections, investigations, examinations, and testing.”

For now, the scope of the law is geographically limited to property near the Washington DC Metro system, but mark my words, this is just a way of testing the waters. Under the pretext of ensuring public safety by “inspecting” property in the vicinity of anything that could be remotely classified as impacting public safety, the government could gain access to almost any private property in the country.

Then President Trump, aided and abetted by his trusty Department of Justice henchman Jeff Sessions and to the delight of the nation’s powerful police unions, rolled back restrictions on the government’s military recycling program.

What this means is that police agencies, only minimally deterred by the Obama administration’s cosmetic ban on certain types of military gear, can now go hog-wild.

We’re talking Blackhawk helicopters, machine guns, grenade launchers, battering rams, explosives, chemical sprays, body armor, night vision, rappelling gear, armored vehicles, and tanks.

Clearly, we’re not in Mayberry anymore.

Or if this is Mayberry, it’s Mayberry in The Twilight Zone.

As journalist Benjamin Carlson stresses, “In today’s Mayberry, Andy Griffith and Barney Fife could be using grenade launchers and a tank to keep the peace.”

You remember The Andy Griffith Show, don’t you?

Set in the fictional town of Mayberry, N.C., The Andy Griffith Show portrays the two stars of the show—Sheriff Andy Taylor and his bumbling deputy Barney Fife—as peace officers in the truest sense of the word as opposed to law enforcers.

Both Sheriff Taylor and Deputy Fife dress in khaki uniforms, a far cry from the black, militarized Stormtrooper getups worn by police today. Andy refuses to wear a gun and only allows Barney to wear his gun on the proviso that he keep his single bullet out of the chamber and in his shirt pocket. Most of all, the two lawmen relate to those under their protection as equals, rather than as enemy combatants or inferiors.

Contrast the idyllic Mayberry with the American police state of today, where local police—clad in jackboots, helmets and shields and wielding batons, pepper-spray, stun guns, and assault rifles—have increasingly come to resemble occupying forces in communities across the country.

As Alyssa Rosenberg writes for The Washington Post, “[The Andy Griffith Show] expressed an ideal that has leached out of American pop culture and public policy, to dangerous effect: that the police were part of the communities that they served and shared their fellow citizens’ interests. They were of their towns and cities, not at war with them.”

That’s really what this is about: a war on the American citizenry waged by local law enforcement armed to the teeth with weapons previously only seen on the battlefield

If you thought the militarized police response to Ferguson and Baltimore was bad, brace yourselves.

As investigative journalists Andrew Becker and G.W. Schulz reveal, “Many police, including beat cops, now routinely carry assault rifles. Combined with body armor and other apparel, many officers look more and more like combat troops serving in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

Thanks to Trump, this transformation of America into a battlefield is only going to get worse.

To be fair, Trump did not create this totalitarian nightmare. However, he has legitimized it and, in so doing, has also accelerated the pace at which we fall deeper into the clutches of outright tyranny.

Everything America’s founders warned against—a standing army that would view and treat American citizens as combatants—is fast becoming the norm. Certainly, this lopsided, top-heavy, authoritarian state of affairs is not the balance of power the founders intended for “we the people.”

Yet in the hands of government agents, whether they are members of the military, law enforcement or some other government agency, these weapons of war have become accepted instruments of tyranny, routine parts of America’s day-to-day life, a byproduct of the rapid militarization of law enforcement over the past several decades.

As Becker and Schulz document in their insightful piece, “Local Cops Ready for War With Homeland Security-Funded Military Weapons”:

In Montgomery County, Texas, the sheriff’s department owns a $300,000 pilotless surveillance drone, like those used to hunt down al Qaeda terrorists in the remote tribal regions of Pakistan and Afghanistan. In Augusta, Maine, with fewer than 20,000 people and where an officer hasn’t died from gunfire in the line of duty in more than 125 years, police bought eight $1,500 tactical vests. Police in Des Moines, Iowa, bought two $180,000 bomb-disarming robots, while an Arizona sheriff is now the proud owner of a surplus Army tank.

Under this recycling program, small counties and cities throughout the country have been “gifted” with 20-ton Mine Resistant Ambush Protected (MRAP) vehicles.

MRAPs are built to withstand roadside bombs, a function which seems unnecessary for any form of domestic policing, yet police in Jefferson County, New York, Boise and Nampa, Idaho, as well as High Springs, Florida, have all acquired MRAPs. Police in West Lafayette, Indiana also have an MRAP, valued at half a million dollars.

Universities are getting in on the program as well.

The Ohio State University Department of Public Safety acquired an MRAP, which a university spokesperson said will be used for “officer rescue, hostage scenarios, bomb evaluation,” situations which are not common on OSU’s campus. In fact, it will be used for crowd control at football games.

Almost 13,000 agencies in all 50 states and four U.S. territories participate in the military “recycling” program, and the share of equipment and weaponry gifted each year continues to expand.

In 2011, $500 million worth of military equipment was distributed to law enforcement agencies throughout the country. That number jumped to $546 million in 2012.

Since 1990, $4.2 billion worth of equipment has been transferred from the Defense Department to domestic police agencies through the 1033 program, in addition to various other programs supposedly aimed at fighting the so-called War on Drugs and War on Terror. For example, the Department of Homeland Security has delivered roughly $34 billion to police departments throughout the country since 9/11, ostensibly to purchase more gear for their steady growing arsenals of military weapons and equipment.

Police departments are also receiving grants to create microcosms of the extensive surveillance systems put in place by the federal government in the years since 9/11.

For example, using a $2.6 million grant from the DHS, police in Seattle purchased and setup a “mesh network”throughout the city capable of tracking every Wi-Fi enabled device within range. Police claim it won’t be used for surveillance, but the devices are capable of determining “the IP address, device type, downloaded applications, current location, and historical location of any device that searches for a Wi-Fi signal.”

Now ask yourself: why does a police department which hasn’t had an officer killed in the line of duty in over 125 years in a town of less than 20,000 people need tactical military vests like those used by soldiers in Afghanistan?

Why does a police department in a city of 35,000 people need a military-grade helicopter?

For that matter, what possible use could police at Ohio State University have for acquiring a heavily-armored vehicle intended to withstand IED blasts?

It’s a modern-day Trojan Horse.

Although these federal programs that allow the military to “gift” battlefield-appropriate weapons, vehicles and equipment to domestic police departments at taxpayer expense are being sold to communities as a benefit, the real purpose is to keep the defense industry churning out profits, bring police departments in line with the military, and establish a standing army.

It’s a militarized approach to make-work programs, except in this case, instead of unnecessary busy work to keep people employed, communities across America are finding themselves “gifted” with unnecessary drones, tanks, grenade launchers and other military equipment better suited to the battlefield in order to fatten the bank accounts of the military industrial complex.

Not surprisingly, this trend towards the militarization of domestic police forces has also opened up a new market for military contractors.

You know who gets stuck with the bill for all of this unnecessary military gear, don’t you?

“We the taxpayers,” of course.

First, taxpayers are forced to pay millions of dollars for equipment which the Defense Department purchases from megacorporations only to abandon after a few years. Then taxpayers get saddled with the bill to maintain the costly equipment once it has been acquired by the local police.

It’s like the old adage: “never look a gift horse in the mouth.” The catch is that this gift horse is an expensive and deadly boondoggle.

For instance, although the Tupelo, Miss., police department was “gifted” with a free military helicopter, residents quickly learned that it required “$100,000 worth of upgrades and $20,000 each year in maintenance.”

In addition to being an astounding waste of taxpayer money, this equipping of police with military-grade equipment and weapons also gives rise to a dangerous mindset in which police adopt a warrior-like, more aggressive approach to policing.

The results are deadly.

As a study by researchers at Stanford University makes clear, “When law enforcement receives more military materials — weapons, vehicles and tools — it becomes … more likely to jump into high-risk situations. Militarization makes every problem — even a car of teenagers driving away from a party — look like a nail that should be hit with an AR-15 hammer.”

The danger of giving police high-power toys and weapons is that they will feel compelled to use it in all kinds of situations that would never normally warrant battlefield gear, weapons or tactics.

This “if we have it, we might as well use it” mindset, by the way, is also used to justify assigning SWAT teams to carry out routine law enforcement work such as delivering a warrant. That’s how you end up with SWAT tactics being employed when police are tasked with searching for a stolen koi fish and enforcing barber licensing laws.

Suffice it to say, we’re long past the days of Mayberry when cops were peace officers and recognized their role as public servants, a marked contrast to the climate of entitlement that has cops today acting like overlords and authoritarians.

Change will not come easily.

As I make clear in my book Battlefield America: The War on the American People, the police unions are a powerful force and they will not relinquish their power easily. Connect the dots and you’ll find that most, if not all, attempts to cover up police misconduct or sidestep accountability can be traced back to police unions and the police lobby.

Just look at Trump: he’s been on the police unions’ payroll from the moment they endorsed him for president, and he’s paid them back generously by ensuring that police can kill, shoot, taser, abuse and steal from American citizens with impunity.

Still, the responsibility rests with “we the people.”

As author Ta-Nehisi Coates reminds us:

The truth is that the police reflect America in all of its will and fear, and whatever we might make of this country’s criminal justice policy, it cannot be said that it was imposed by a repressive minority. The abuses that have followed from these policies—the sprawling carceral state, the random detention of black people, the torture of suspects—are the product of democratic will. And so to challenge the police is to challenge the American people who send them into the ghettos armed with the same self-generated fears that compelled the people who think they are white to flee the cities and into the Dream. The problem with the police is not that they are fascist pigs but that our country is ruled by majoritarian pigs.

Read More: https://www.rutherford.org/publications_resources/john_whiteheads_commentary/battlefield_america_is_the_new_normal_were_not_in_mayberry_anymore

#(MRAP) vehicles #Department of Homeland Security #militarized police #War on Drugs #War on Terror

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