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ephemerlskies · 4 years

Text

constant craving 03 | jjk

⇢ pairing: jungkook x reader

[other members - seokjin]

⇢ genre: drabble series, ANGST, bestfriend!au, unrequited love, the same idiocy just in a different font

⇢ word count: 4k

⇢ warnings: explicit language, alcohol consumption (drunk jungkook makes his first and final appearance enjoy it while you can), vehicular misdemeanor (drive the speed limit kids), an all out emotional and verbal brawling, a lack of communication on one end and a communicational vomit on the other, seokjin appearance for about .02 seconds, the entirety of this is just.... angst

⇢ summary: your dates with Seokjin had become a somewhat consistent fixture in your schedule, however, jungkook's itinerary seemed to clash with yours when he called you after a night of drinking for reasons you assumed to be him helplessly pleading for a safe return home.

♪ playlist: constant craving - k.d. lang, bad religion - frank ocean, misunderstood - lucky daye, neu roses - daniel caesar ♪

╰ series index: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 (final)

a/n: whew, okay.... this was probably the most argumentative fic i have ever written so prepare yourself. i hope you all enjoy this god awfully angsty installment of the series! also, yes, jungkook is a sentimental drunk and you all know it

part three: i love you

It's true. It's always the biggest pills that are the most difficult to swallow. And if you could compare someone as elusive as Jungkook to anything, it would be the largest pill imaginable. The kind that hurts the first try, then when you drink half your body weight in water, the Jungkook-emblazoned pill forces down your esophagus no easier than the first gulp. You were still holding it in your mouth, pretending that pill wasn't about to dissolve and stain your mouth forever.

And that was the whole process, just to get over Jungkook. Because getting over him wasn't a one-step program. It was waking up everyday, training and retraining your mind not to think of him first thing in the morning. It was resisting the urge to press the send button on multiple texts and funny videos you knew would make him laugh. It was refusing his calls and every memory that would saunter in your mind and compel you to ask him to watch a movie or order takeout.

It was saying yes to Seokjin when he asked you on a date. And, it was doing your best to sever that instinct of yours to ask Jungkook for advice.

But old habits die hard, and this one still clung onto the bit of breath it wielded. That explained why your idiot of a best friend was sitting on your couch, offering half-hearted nods whenever you would walk out draped in a new outfit.

"Okay, this one?" You twirled around, as if doing so would make you any less skeptical of how you looked. And you were never one to scrutinize your appearance so closely, but this was the date. The one that might light the torch to a brighter romantic future and lead you to someone other than the man who could never be yours to begin with.

"Yeah. Cool." At this point, five outfits in, he wasn't paying any attention at all. He couldn't even bring himself to pretend, his eyes lazily fixed onto your dvd player.

"Jungkook, you didn't even look! Let me guess. You wanna play video games. Is that why you're giving fuck-me-eyes to my T.V. set?" You knew a laugh was far along, but you hoped that would get some sort of reaction out of him. Unfortunately, your words were barely registered for a good ten seconds, though, it felt much longer.

"Hm? Oh, sorry. Just tired, I guess." Jungkook said through barely parted lips. You knew when he couldn't even pronounce his words properly, something he took more seriously than others due to the hauntings of a certain speech impediment, there was definitely something wrong.

Things felt off from the moment he walked into your house. Judging from the way he avoided your hug, that alone suggested a sort of imbalance. It was a casual greeting exchanged between the two of you so often that when you lifted your arms to embrace him, it was born of reflexive association. Like Pavlov's dog, trained to hug him the moment you saw him. But the oddity of him almost discretely walking past you before any contact could be made wasn't where the tension bordered.

Following his arrival, he would have littered a few snarky remarks about how messy your kitchen was, while already scavenging through your fridge, just to get a rouse out of you. And Jungkook wouldn't call himself a connoisseur of all things fabric and fashion, but he surely would have a few thoughts consisting more than two-worded responses. But he just sat on your couch, armed with a face any poker player would commend, and gave you insincere cool's or nice's when need be.

"Okay, what's up? Is it Irene?" You sat down since taking a break to figure out what Jungkook was thinking felt better than continuing your self-absorbed fashion show.

"Kinda... We broke up. Well, she broke up with me or... I don't know. It was weird." It bothered you a bit too much that he didn't even look at you. But if he had, then you would have seen a film of red dousing his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Kook. Is there anything I can do? Anything at all? Want me to egg her house?" This time, he did laugh. You felt relieved he could at least ease slightly back into his expressive self, even if it was just a fraction of what he usually was. A fraction of Jungkook was more than enough for you.

"Nah, no need to go to jail for me. It's not like I didn't see it coming, and apparently she felt the same. Whatever." He let out a sigh that sounded trapped in for a while, then sat up. "We have more important things to worry about."

"I'm sorry, but I don't believe that. Jungkook, literally a week ago you told me she was the love of your life! And now you're just like 'yeah, whatever, I saw it coming.'" You used your notorious 'man voice', which was just yours lowered a few octaves, knowing it would crack another smile along Jungkook's lips. "Come on, I know you love her. This must hurt a lot. I wish... I wish there was something I could do."

You knew exactly what you were doing. Self-sabotage under the guise of consoling your friend. Clearly, it was selfish and regressive to use Jungkook's heartbreak as a means to avoid doing what you could never do before, what you knew deep down you probably would never be able to do: swallow that pill. And what felt even more pathetic than that was the stale, yet persisting hope that he would ask you to stay.

And that's when reality gave you the most gutting and obvious sign. Jungkook was your best friend, the man you had to lug home when he was too drunk to drive, let alone speak coherently or stand. He was the person that buys you ice cream when you're sad, but just as quick to cancel plans with you when Irene needed him. He was just a friend. You'd never be the person he chose, and it nearly made you angry at him for not seeing it all this time.

So, what he said next made everything he was most likely unaware of all too clear to you.

"No, you go have fun. I'll just... chill here?" It was his avoidant way of asking to stay the night, because you knew him to never sleep alone when he had an ache in his heart. "Maybe raid your pantry and use your Netflix account to binge some shows?"

"Fine. Only 'cause I can't say no to you when you're like this." His smile was reimbursement enough for all the food you'd have to restock and the electricity bill that would be higher than usual.

But what he did next, you could almost never forgive him for. It was so subtle, as though it could have passed as an accident or an act he was trying to perform secretly, without any intention of you even noticing. And how could you not notice? The far too temporary and entirely disarming linger of his hand on yours.

Now, you were always one to decipher his most subtle mannerisms, but this one felt beyond the reins of your perceptiveness. It could have been a small gesture of a thank you, but the gentle, and what one could even describe as sentimental, way his skin pressed against yours bore no semblance of a mere expression of gratitude. And it wasn't possible this was a caress of love, because he was already low on currency in that field, spending it completely on Irene.

So, what was it?

How would you describe the way he rested his hand on yours, as if asking you to stay without words, yet punctuating it quick enough to justify it a coincidental form of contact, that your hand just happened to be where his hand was?

"Well, I'm gonna go eat through my problems." Jungkook stood up before you could bat away the wetness in your eyes from your momentary refusal to blink, as if that would somehow help you visualize the meaning of what just happened.

"Oh- Okay. I, um... I should get going." So you did. You walked out your door, and made a decision beyond the demands of your devotion to Jungkook.

Because it probably meant nothing, and he was your best friend, after all.

---

It was easy with Seokjin. And surprisingly enough, that wasn't a bad thing.

You had come to realize everyone craves that passionate kind of love because, in the movies, that's the blueprint for what love should feel like. But that's all it is, something pretty and shiny enough to work into a film. Make believe. And it could never extend beyond the realm of silver screens, where best friends don't magically fall in love and passion awarded more broken hearts than you could count.

Besides, your heart was worn.

See, your heart is a muscle. It works itself to the bone keeping you alive, willing your lungs to breathe, administering blood to each vein and so on. To strain it for someone who was already in love was functionally inefficient. The heart, like any other muscle, grows tired. It can exhaust itself the same way your hand aches after writing for too long.

You needed a break from the gripping emotional aerobics that is and was loving Jeon Jungkook. So, it sufficed that Seokjin was easy. No more overexertion, no more aches and pains and residual soreness occupying your chest, no more of any of that. Because you knew Seokjin liked you, which was safe and easy knowing there was no point mapping out the possible meanings of every inflected word or shrug or smile. They were simply words and shrugs and smiles with him.

And yet, the thing about giving your heart a 'break' is the period succeeding it. When you were finished resting, you knew who would be waiting for you. Who you would always wait for.

"___! Hello?! I can't hear you! It's too loud!" It wasn't really that loud, your idiot of a best friend was just that drunk. You couldn't tell what concerned you more, the fact that his hearing degenerated when he was, from the sound of it, seven shots deep or that this was the third of alcohol-induced call for this week.

"Where are you?" You asked through a sigh, eyes trained on your Twitter feed and ears occupied with the urgent voice blaring through the speaker phone.

And since it was the third time this week, you were not even half-amused by the repetitive stunt he was pulling.

"I don't know... I walked out and now I'm out and I don't know." The hiccup following his messy sentence was comically textbook 'too drunk'. “Hey, we should take a trip! We should, like, go somewhere!”

“The only place you should be going is home.”

“See, I would totally do that, but I have no idea where I am. Why are these street signs so hard to read?” The end and beginning of each word blended together, rendering that sentence one long, slurred word.

By now, the step by step plan synthesized by you had been memorized. And even though you labored your brain to rewire any feelings leaving you at his beck and call, it clearly hadn't been proficient since your keys had already been gathered and his whereabouts programmed in your GPS via his location services.

"You're so annoying." It might have been rude of you to want him to feel guilty, but it was just as rude of him to interrupt your one night off, which was supposed to be spent with Seokjin, with his intoxicated antics. "I'm coming to pick you up."

"Yo- u are? I love you sooo much. You're the best friend ever, ya know that?" Overly emotional professions was your que to drive fifteen miles over the speed limit so he didn't do something stupid enough to land himself in an ICU.

"Okay, I'm almost there. I think I see you. Wave for me?"

The slumped silhouette you were squinting at began to frantically throw its arms side to side, making you both laugh and pull over so he could drag himself into your passenger seat. And, if you were being honest, he looked better as the blackened shadow of himself.

Jungkook, in all his glory, had his shirt almost fully turned backwards, hair ruffled into a mess, and face as red as the time you and him laid on the beach until your skin punished you with a second degree burn. And all those factors didn't amount to how he smelled like he bathed for hours inside a hand sanitizer bottle.

"God, you're a mess, Jungkook." You said that as jokingly as possible, but meant the sternness embedded in each word. Jungkook was a mess, physically and mentally.

"Hey! You're judging me! Stop being th-o mean, ___." Whenever he was this drunk, his lisp made more appearances in his speech than when he wasn't.

You hated how easily it reminded you of when you were in middle school and he was still navigating and rehearsing through his speech patterns. In middle school, when he was the sweet boy with his only fault being his lisp, who gave you his hoodie and a compassionate smile upon meeting you because your current bully plotted the embarrassment of a lifetime with that piece of chocolate on your seat. In middle school, when Jungkook was the only person in your grade who was kind enough to be kind and true to his word when he pledged his loyalty as your best friend. Forever.

With just one word, you were that timid little middle schooler again, helplessly and unconditionally in love with Jungkook.

Hauling Jungkook, who was more muscle than bone and flesh, over to his door was an art form you had trained, practiced, and mastered about thirty or so times before this one. He weighed about twice as much as you could normally carry, and nonetheless, he was out of your car and in his house in no time.

After you locked the door, you turned around to meet Jungkook, rendering the door frame into a crutch and effectively detaining you between his body and the solid wood behind you.

If you weren't so reminiscent in the car seconds before this, then the vodka-scented souvenir on his breath would have gagged you. However, being this close to him, feeling the warmth of his body consuming and overpowering yours, just made you want to sink into him even more and give him everything you had to offer.

His head was hung so when you looked up, you were greeted with Jungkook's lazy smile that gave his lips a boyish asymmetry and draped his eyelids halfway down his irises. And he had you spooled around him so tightly, this look just made him all the more appetizing.

"Kook, we gotta get you to bed, buddy." You tried to ward him off by weaponizing the most strictly platonic nickname you could think of, partnered with a neighborly pat on the back.

It was mostly to remind yourself that this man, who was an inch too close to your face, was your friend, and that in less than ten minutes you were expected to see Seokjin, but from the way he was looking at you, as if he reached into the depths of your heart to devour all your feelings for him and make them his own, you had to remind him of the universally accepted best friend boundaries.

No deep, romantic gazing into each other's eyes. No intimate activity that could be a precursor to anything more affectionate than a hug. No doing exactly what you two were doing as of now.

"Don't call me that." You hoped his aggression against what you said was merely his inebriated irrationally talking, and as always, his emotions were far beyond his control.

And, shamefully, you also hoped it was because he actually did feel the way you felt. What if he wanted the date that Seokjin was going to get tonight and he wanted all the hand holding and none of the back patting, a 'baby' instead of a 'buddy'?

"What? You're drunk-"

"Don't." Before you could drag him by the arm to his bed, a firm palm settled on your torso and closed the gap between you and the door while widening the gap an inch further between Jungkook and his bed, where he would fall asleep without the warmth of the only person he wanted. "___, please."

His voice was strangled with desperation and Jungkook was depleted of all resistance. He just needed to drink you up. To fill himself with the nourishments of your lips, your body, you.

"What-" He could have silenced you easily with a 'shh' or a finger to your lips. Or anything to your lips except his lips.

His lips. They were greedy and giving all at once. Making soft and intimate ministrations against yours as he kissed you before you had the chance to register what was going on. And even when you did, you let his tongue slide into your mouth. This moment was brimming with all the spontaneity you could ever be prepared for, and though it was new, there was no denying that kissing him felt like finally coming home just from the amount of times you had played this moment out in your daydreams. Plus, Jungkook seemed to ease his tongue along yours a bit too confidently for this to be the first time the idea of kissing you has ran through his mind.

You're being stupid, you told yourself and Jungkook, but that didn't matter when you were finally allowed a taste of what it felt like to be kissed and touched and possibly even loved by Jungkook.

Your shirt was bunched halfway up your torso, his body pressed to your front a reprisal for the chill of the door against your back. Jungkook was, admittedly, a phenomenal kisser even when the lens of sobriety wasn't available to him. The way he ran his hands along the bare of your back like some desperate pilgrimage to discover the undiscovered parts of your body and took your bottom lip between his teeth like it was his to begin with was nearly enough to undress you from all your defenses, from all your clothing, from every single barrier that kept you from Jungkook for the past twelve years and let him have you. And finally have him. It was nearly enough.

Your hands divorced his body from yours before your lips and heart were ready to let go. It was painful, but the heartbroken look wringing his face into a tearful frown was even more so.

"No." You pushed him away further only to walk past him and seek refuge in the open space of his living room. "You don't get to do this."

"What? What does-"

"You don't get to drunkenly kiss me, Jungkook. You don't get to hold me and kiss me like you love me. It's not fair."

"Hey-"

"Because you don't. You don't love me..." If you weren't too busy finally permissing the hot words to boil over from pure anger, then you would have felt the even hotter tears wetting the expanse of your cheek.

"Well, how the hell would you know that?" His voice drowned out the loud pumps of blood beating in your ears like a drum.

"Because it would have happened ten years ago, Jungkook! Jesus, it would have been obvious from the beginning. So if you love me, if you really love me, then it wouldn't be happening now, like this. When you were drunk out of your mind and still vulnerable from Irene."

"You don't know anything." If that were the case, then Jungkook somehow knew even less than you.

"Yeah, clearly. I didn't know you'd stoop this low. I thought I was a lot of things to you. But I never thought I'd be some rebound."

"A rebound? You think that's what this is?" Jungkook seemed upset, but to your knowledge he had absolutely no reason to be angry with you.

He was, as always, displacing the burdens he didn't feel like dealing with on you, moderating you into an emotional punching bag. But what hurt more than those scrapes and bruises, was the aftermath of letting him fuck his worries away which would have consisted of him telling you the next morning that it meant nothing, expecting you to nod demurely, maybe even console him, and act like your chest hadn't been emptied and filled with his baggage in the most murderous way.

"Fuck you."

"Wow. You're really being like this? You really wanna talk about this now?

"You know what? Yeah I wanna talk about it. I wanna talk about the years. The years, Jungkook, that I've spent loving you! I- I wanna talk about the amount of times I've spent thinking about you when you were with her, and I probably didn't even cross your mind. Or how about the fucking thousands of times I've spent crying over you because I knew I was never going to be the one you'd want to wake up next to! And I had to watch! I had to fucking watch you fall in love over and over and probably wonder why I didn't fall in love either. It was you. It was always you, Jungkook."

"___, I-"

"No." His attempt to intervene was quickly denied. You were too angry to let him speak, too tired to carry these grievances any longer. "You don't get to talk. It's all out there. I loved you. I still love you! Fuck, I'm trying to get over you. And it's like you know. It's like you can read my mind or something and strike right when I'm about to recover from the last wound."

Your breathing was as heavy as Jungkook's was shallow. He could only stand, breathlessly, only curse himself for ever being so blind and regret taking advantage of your love even if it were entirely unknowingly, just to let his heart sink deeper until it fell completely out of his chest while his tears fell just as heavily.

"I'm done, Jungkook. I'm tired of trying to outrun you in this race that you're not even competing in. I'm tired of loving you. So, I'm done."

All the words Jungkook wanted to say, the words pleading for sound, carving deep gashes in his throat and leaving him vocally impaired, could never amount to the apology you deserved. Maybe this once, he wouldn't leave you wounded. He would gather the nobility to shut up and let you move on from him. Because you wouldn't know from his lapse of silence that he was empathizing with every bit of pain he caused you, and he hated himself more than you did right now for allowing such a pain to ever fall in your hands. But, where you knew you could someday forgive him for it, he knew he would never forgive himself.

He could scrounge for a few things to respond with, pour the weight of his emotions into the scarcity of his words, but he needed to let you leave and be selfless for once in his life.

"I should go. Drink some water before bed, okay?" You mumbled to choke back your tears, though it wouldn't matter letting a few more tears escape since you were previously sob-ranting and he'd seen you cry like this a hundred times before. He was the shoulder you never thought you'd have to miss leaning on, but walking out of his door punctured a hole in you. An empty space in your heart designed for the one person who had crushed the rest of it.

If this were a movie, with star-crossed lovers and a fiery infatuation blooming into what everyone secretly wants: true love, then Jungkook would have ran out of his door and held you close, professing his undying love for you. He would have won you back, reassembled your broken heart into fullness, kissed you beneath the brilliance of the moon, and lived happily ever after.

But this wasn't a movie, and he did none of those things.

Instead, he stumbled his way into his kitchen. He poured himself that cup of water you advised. He thought about how even when you swore to him you were done, you spared a bit of compassion to remind him to take care of himself. He wondered how deserving he was of everything you are. He touched his lips, searching for the echo of yours. He fell into his queen-sized bed meant for two, alone, and whispered the words that were ever eclipsing to the space beside him where he longed for you to lay so you could hear them for yourself.

"I love you."

a/n: sorry to put you through that, but the idea was born and i am but a humble vessel to bring it to life <3 hehe thank you all so much for reading and like i said, don't worry there will be a happy ending!!! (and possibly a longer-than-drabble final chapter to this series)

#bangtanarmynet #btsgoldnet #ficswithluv #bts fanfic #bts x reader #bts angst #bts writing #jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook angst #jungkook bestfriend!au #bts drabble #jungkook drabble #constant craving #rubycoast

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velerodra-valesinger · 5 years

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In Search of a Lost Spark

Mentions: ( @longveil, @revthepunchbear, @eilitheduskbringer, @kurel-andiel, @theshalthera )

Vel glanced over her shoulder as she walked hastily away from the building where Seraanna dwelt. Sera was a curious entity and Vel had already divulged enough to her for one night.

She’d seen what others had on occasion glimpsed. Pain. In her temples, in her fingers, and along her spine. Usually when these bouts of pain began, it began with her fingers. A twitch at the tips. Eventually her entire hands would ache from the odd contortions of her fingers. Sometimes it never went beyond a few pangs. Yet there were times where it spread. When it was crippling.

The monkette was not a stranger to pain but this pain was abnormal. It was - physical, yet, somehow - impossible for it to be physical. It was a pain that shouldn’t have been able to exist. And when it escalated there was no hiding it. No concealing it. Normally she just removed herself from others in order to wait it out. However, on this night, Sera was able to see it. Vel had allowed her to see it.

She’d told Sera, ‘not to make a thing of it’.

Vel also made sure Sera was aware that this condition, these chronic bouts of intense pain were a liability. And she made sure to point out that when they occurred there was nothing that could be done other than to wait. There was no relief.

Vel rarely offered such information without cause to do so.

And in this case, it was a way of evaluating Sera.

Would she listen, and not make a thing of it?

Would she acknowledge that this condition was indeed a liability that made Vel less useful? Would she still see Vel the same way?

Or would she see her as Vel saw herself?

Objectively - less useful than she used to be.

Vel’s feet carried her to the cemetery, where she sat with her back pressed against a tombstone. The dead made good company. They were quiet and kept their concerns to themselves. And they kept things to themselves. At some point Vel lost consciousness.

When she awoke, it was still dark, and her body felt itself once more. Her muscles were stiff, and some sore. Not much time had passed. Not this time.

She pushed herself up, and began to walk, eventually she’d wind up at the Chariot. Then in Dead Sun. Behind a locked office door. There was but one item that sat on her desk. A letter. A letter from Eilithe.

A letter she’d read many times over, and yet still, her weary eyes scanned words she’d memorized by now:

Velerodra,

I think I would have done much better if I were more like mist.

The thoughts began to swirl through her head, as if she were speaking with Eilithe, as if she were sitting right in front of her. She wasn’t, but in Vel’s mind, she might as well have been.

If better means - less hurt, less sadness, less joy, less love - you’d have done better. But I am not sure that is better at all. Rev, she feels things, so instantly… and strongly… and mist is slow to feel. And rarely does it understand what it feels… too nebulous. That is what mother used to tell me, that I was too nebulous. I do not know if I am any more or less nebulous now than back then… mists are difficult to track like that. As they shift and swirl. And bits are lost and left adrift. You are better as you are, with your anger, and your hurt. With spite. And hatred. And love. I may not understand it all, but I think I may envy it. I would not have you become a mist, I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. I did not wish it upon myself. But it made me - more useful.

Please don’t worry yourself– I’m going to handle things that can no longer be put off. When I return, I think I will feel much better.

Yes. I know. You always come back. I do wish you’d have told me - what it is that need to be dealt with. If not for this letter, I would be burying my head beneath sea level, trying to make connections with the denizens open to such things. After that night with the portal, I felt useless. Some forces are beyond me. I am part of some collection. But I have no idea what that means. I had no idea. No plan. No advice. No moves. No tricks. Your right hand - was paralyzed. I intend to refocus my energy somewhere I might be useful.

While I’m gone, find Quel’Vuran. I want to believe that people can be saved– the way you do, Vel. It’s probably too late for the warlock– but not for Svetloba.

More thoughts spiraled, less coherently than before. More - desperate.

This. I will do. This is something I must do. More than find her. This is something I can do. Something perhaps an older version of me may have been able to do. I once convinced Illidari and Blood Knights to aid me in rescuing a demon…. Without ever lying to them. I used to be - sharper. I will retrieve the souls of Svetloba’s family.

I will convince her to give them to me - willingly. I do not know how.

But I must.

Because if I don’t, I fear, I am becoming a shadow of the creature I once was. I know you wish for this woman to die, but she cannot die -yet-. I do not wish to save anyone. For I do not believe anyone requires saving. Creatures are what they are, and what they will become. They can be counted upon to be what they are. The warlock will die, but not before - she serves a purpose. I will - figure something out. I need to know, I am still capable of being what I once was. For I fear, in some ways, I am weaker.

I love you dearly,

Eilithe

I love you too. And I will not doubt your return. For you have always returned.

PS Help Reveria to be patient– be the steady had that quells her emotions. You’re both capable of leading– but together you’re all the more a force to reckon with.

I have done my best. I have tried to keep everyone calm. Reveria has done well. Her emotions get the best of her, and I envy that. But it is at times counterproductive. I have attempted to try and keep her steadied. It was a fortunate boon, that An’set proposed to her. As I believe he has kept her calm too. However, tonight, An’set - seemed less clam than he usually seems. I should not be shocked to learn An’set hates Kurel. An’set is normally rather collected. Last night he - seemed - riled up. I do not know where Kurel is currently. I have not seen him since I last checked in with you and the others that night at the Keg. The night you wrote this letter… the night you must have left. I hope things - do not get out of hand... As it could delay me from pursuing my objective.

PPS Tell Seraanna that my grandmother will be by to speak with her

PPPS Rhemi has my vote, tell Reveria too.

Check. This matter has been attended to.

Context would have been helpful here Eilithe. I told Reveria. But I am not sure what we are voting on. I trust your judgment on it - so Rhemi will have my vote as well. Unless it is for - something weird. Actually I abstain. Just in case… we can discuss this when you are back. Which should be — soon. Any longer and people may begin to start telling me that something is wrong. And I will not accept that. I will not hear it. I know you will return Eilithe. I do not lie, and I will not let you make a liar out of me. So you will return…. And I must ... return as well.

For this night has highlighted to me - it has been a long while since I was the creature I used to be. I used to be sharper. I wasn’t plagued by these fits of pain that can cripple me. My body didn’t betray me. I was not so indecisive. I was bolder. Willing to take risks. I have twice given my soul to demons and gotten it returned to me. I was not afraid of being called a fool. I embraced it… I must - reshape myself…. for this current iteration - is objectively less useful. And inefficient. And were I you, I’d advise against keeping me around. You must return. And I must - depart… for Quel’Vuran. To prove to myself, that I am still, capable of - being …. half as clever as I once was… I may never be free of these fits of pain that have haunted me since Argus. But I will adapt. As I always have.

Vel focused. Her thoughts had wandered for too long. Words she might never speak out loud. Problems she might never share. Ideas of what she was and what she is now. A mixed muddle of ideas. Tangled and unclear. Yet there was a clarity as she put ink to page.

Eilithe,

In the event you return first. Welcome back. I love you. I will return once I’ve dealt with the issue you requested I locate. I confess, I have no idea what I intend to do. Hopefully I’ve not forgotten how to improvise.

—Vel

She put this small note on Eilithe’s door. There were of course some doubts in the depths of Vel’s mind. Some worries. But - Vel never really let such things creep into the forefront of her mind.

Vel wasn’t an honest creature - she was misleading, selective about what she said, she left blanks, gaps for people to make assumptions. She was subtle in her dishonestly and as a rule she never lied directly.

With the singular exception being the occasions on which she lied to herself.

But when she did lie to herself, she was exceptional at it.

So when she told herself Eilithe was going to be fine, there was nothing to worry about and that she would return - she always believed herself.

She intended to seek out Lady Quel’Vular. She’d let Rev know first. Just in case. But other than that, Vel planned on winging this. Granted, many things could get cause her a delay or two. She had to make sure things were still running smoothly, and that Rev was - calm.

She wouldn’t have been able to get away with this sort of thing if Eilithe were around. But Vel, in a way, needed to try. She needed to see if she - still had the spark she once did.

#a post!#Vel-thoughts #(Extra scattered)#(with a bubble of denial)#(and self-deception)#(things may go real bad)

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tk-heroics · 5 years

Text

Awaken, Nephilim

“Judgement. You’ve been tired lately.” The comment was made by the powerful man who sat before her- his long, powdery white hair tied back into a neat ponytail as he sipped his tea. World had called her to his office, voicing that he had concerns he wished to address. Now, as she took a sip of the bitter black tea he’d offered her, did she realize his concerns were towards her.

She stared down into her cup for a long moment, swirling the liquid around as she considered the proper way to address, or at least explain this thing that he’d noticed. That is, how utterly exhausted she was. It was true, she looked ragged. For a synthetic being, she certainly did replicate human exhaustion to an annoyingly accurate degree. Dark bags hung under her eyes- she felt light-headed, dizzy, and often found herself nearly falling asleep at the most inappropriate times. Even during her recent missions, she had been disappointingly underwhelming. In her current state, it was safe to say she was utterly inefficient.

‘You’ve become a failure. Look at you, how disappointed Reyes must be..’

Slender, pale hands wrapped around her from behind as she sipped her tea, and she couldn’t help but glance behind her, only to find nothing there.

The voice of Michi had begun to haunt her this past week especially, perhaps due to the many nights she lay awake. In fact, it felt as though her presence in the back of Judgement’s mind was growing even stronger. She swore that sometimes.. In dark corners.. Or when nobody was around- she could see the deceased Strength standing there. Even though it was all in her mind, it was difficult to ignore.

She wasn’t sure why she had been placed in this situation- the nightmares occurred every time she tried to rest- no matter how lightly she slept she always found herself dragged into what seemed to be her own personal hell.

Her hand tightened it’s grip on the teacup to the point that the delicate porcelain cracked, and World let out a gentle cough, “Judgement? Please, young hero, I can tell you’re not okay.” He spoke, his honeyed voice dripping with concern. It made Judgement’s heart wrench- she didn’t want him to get involved! It was only her dreams, only her sleep- she could get over it without help! After all, they’d been abandoned- betrayed by four of her fellow heroes- now of all times they were too short staffed to bother with a problem that she’d deemed so small! She grimaced, looking anywhere but at him.

“I’m fine.” “Don’t you dare lie to me, Judgement.” His voice grew strict, and she bristled. “We don’t have time for my problems!” “Of course we do, you’re a precious asset to us, Judgement! Please, let me help you!” “Do what?” She sank into her chair, her eyes observing the crack in her teacup if only to avoid matching his gaze- if they locked eyes, she knew she’d lose. God.. she was so tired. “Empress, maybe? Or perhaps a therapist. At the very least, Judgement, some sleep medicine could do you well-”

No- no! She didn’t WANT to sleep! If she slept, that meant she had to subject herself to that very hell which now kept her awake- which drained her as her energy even as she tried to rest! Judgement stood abruptly, her hands slammed against the table as she did. Her mouth opened, and for a moment she seemed ready to speak defiantly against him- but she wavered, finding herself using that same angry posture to now weakly attempt to hold herself up. The world spun around her and she could feel the claws of sleep trying to drag her down. Tears welled up in her eyes, and as her mouth opened to scream out her frustrations... she fell. Her delicate frame hit World’s body as he stood to meet her fall, gently wrapping his arms around her before lifting her up. The tea she'd been so thoughtfully sipping on had been laced- oh, but certainly it was all for her own good. She slept now, and he could only wonder if in her drug-induced coma would she now be subject to the hell which plagued her natural sleep. World did know, however, that when she woke up, she would awaken as someone else entirely.

The door creaked open and a goggled women entered, her face flushed red with seeming excitement as she quickly bowed her head, "Ah, W-world, sir! Justice says that ah.. The machine is ready downstairs!" Her voice quivered as though she was barely able to hold back the emotions which grew inside of her. She twiddled her thumbs afterwards, the blush which grew across her cheeks only serving to make her face even redder, "p… perhaps after this ah.. Dramatic procedure, w-we could go have lunch togeth-"

"My apologies, Hijack but I'm very busy today. You're free to go."

He stepped past her, Judgement cradled delicately in his arms and Hijack stared longingly at the sight. Oh, if only she could get him to carry her like that..

She was left behind, a sigh escaping her as she watched the door close behind her puppet and the toy polyphemus wanted so badly.

An hour passed by.

Then two... then three.

TAROT operations proceeded as normal even as Polyphemus worked their own operations within the shadows of the ship.

Before anyone knew, the day had passed into night, and a new morning began.

As the sun rose, a pair of emerald eyes fluttered open, the crystalline color nearly glowing under the light of the operation table.

This figure slowly, deliberately slid from the operation chair she'd awakened upon, plucking a wired device from her head and gently placing it upon the table. Within the room, many figures both familiar and greatly unknown to her watched as she took quiet steps towards the window, peering out at the golden-red sunrise of morning.

A woman's voice spoke up- a rich, cold alto that she knew. The scientist took a step forwards, tablet in hand as she addressed her carefully, "Tell me.. Who are you?"

She peered back at Doctor Adrian, a warm look in her eyes as she responded.

"Good morning, Doctor. After twenty years of fitful dreaming, I have awoken from my slumber."

"My name is Nephilim."

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realmzenith · 6 years

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elaina ! :)

lays down, mai ily. anyways?? someone pls save elaina she Needs help

What’s the maximum amount of time your character can sit still with nothing to do?fairly long?? but not super long it’d make her anxious. maybe twenty minutes. it’d be a different story if it was a life or death thing tho obv

How easy is it for your character to laugh?difficult. from one to ten w one being v easily she’s like a 7. but for full uninhibited laughter it’s a solid 9. she mostly smiles and when she does laugh it’s at the dumbest things

How do they put themselves to bed at night (reading, singing, thinking?)she’ll lurk on instagram or think which are honestly both bad ideas for her bc instagram makes her depressed bc her social life sux and thinking makes her depressed bc she’s pessimistic and tends to overthink EVERYTHINg. however sometimes she’ll be smart abt it and read a book or look at plant pics or space which will more often than not successfully allow her to relax and get some shut eye

How easy is it to earn their trust?HM not too difficult prbly a 3 if ur nice to her and ur not a complete idiot- ok well. just if ur nice to her bc she literally falls in love w josie an idiot in her storyline

How easy is it to earn their mistrust?moderately difficult she has a hard time accepting that the ppl she trusts are capable of wronging her and usually assumes it was smth she did. she’s kind of an idiot like that so yk :) she’s prbly a 6 on that one? if we’re also accounting for the ppl she moderately trusts. however if we’re only talking abt the ppl she genuinely completely trusts it’s like an 8. she’s not COMPLETELy stupid but still p stupid abt relationships

Do they consider laws flexible, or immovable?rules should be followed. she accepts them as a given and that they will be followed as a given. it’ll srsly throw off her game if someone starts blatantly disobeying the law in front of her even if it is just a nominal thing

What triggers nostalgia for them, most often? Do they enjoy that feeling?she’s not a v emotional person? she does feel deeply but hmm i suppose she is fairly nostalgic. certain melodies played on the guitar would prbly be one of the bigger triggers. her mom used to play and she and her dad would sing like dorks but they?? kind of dont do it anymore and she misses it but she isn’t sure how to ask to do it again. it’s the same w disney movies. they don’t watch them as a fam as much as they used to anymore but they still do on occasion! as for enjoying it she doesn’t rlly like nostalgia?? but she lets herself fall into it frequently

What were they told to stop/start doing most often as a child?she was constantly told to talk to the other kids. she’s never been v social or good w ppl as she prefers her small group of ppl she knows and is comfortable w plus she’s an only child so she’s always been forced to socialize esp in casual settings

Do they swear? Do they remember their first swear word?not super frequently. she does say damn bc that’s just the classic xstj swear word, her first she remembers v distinctly. it was “bitch” and completely her older cousin’s fault

What lie do they most frequently remember telling? Does it haunt them?she lowkey feels like her entire life is a lie? she’s a smart gal and gets good grades easily. she’s close to the top of her class and is considered one of the smart kids. but she herself is convinced she’s painfully mediocre and despite her other talents and unique personality traits she’s like :) im sorry for lying to u all i actually have zero interesting qualities and am a drag but ofc she never voices that bc lbr insecurity? ugly and she doesn’t want to lose the few friends she does have bc she dumped her fears on everyone else. she is, as i said, a Mess

How do they cope with confusion (seek clarification, pretend they understand, etc)?she almost always pretends she understands but if she doesn’t feel like there’ll be negative consequences to asking for clarification and she’s feeling confident she’ll bluntly ask the other person to clear things up for her esp in a business type setting such as school projects, etc. it’s situational but socially speaking? she’ll pretend until she Dies

How do they deal with an itch found in a place they can’t quite reach?ask nico to get it or just struggle for ages to try to get it herself

What color do they think they look best in? Do they actually look best in that color?she likes green and black but thinks she looks p drab in most things. in all actuality she prbly does look sharpest in black but yellow makes her look super cute, brings out a softer side of her. dark green is also flattering on her

What animal do they fear most?hm prbly eels esp electric eels. they freak her out for no particular reason. otherwise, she likes most animals and doesn’t mind most bugs

How do they speak? Is what they say usually thought of on the spot, or do they rehearse it in their mind first?she does usually think before she speaks. on the extreme she’ll turn over a phrase abt ten times in her mind before even considering speaking it aloud but that’s rare and only in high stress situations. despite the fact that she does think before she speaks she’s very blunt abt most things. lay it out like it is and all. embellishing sentences or softening her statements is smth she rarely does as she finds it inefficient

What makes their stomach turn?reckless behavior she HATES when ppl do stupid risky crap in front of her she finds it very unnecessary and anxiety inducing

Are they easily embarrassed?oh yes absolutely

What embarrasses them?everything. anything. her existence. ppl flirting w her. her parents. being teased. being incompetent. being singled out for anything. lots of things :)

What is their favorite number?she likes the number 60. no reason in particular it’s just a nice number. cue her friend, nico in the back yelling SIXTY???? MORE LIKE SEXY

If they were asked to explain the difference between romantic and platonic or familial love, how would they do so?oh oof dont talk to her about love it throws her for an existential crisis. hm but if srsly asked this she’d prbly say smth like “familial love is smth we’re rarely allowed to choose. platonic is more logical and circumstantial, and romantic is a combination of the two in the sense that it’s ur heart’s choice to begin and ur mind’s to continue.”

Why do they get up in the morning? society dictates that in order for an individual to contribute meaningfully to the world, you must get up by 7 am and do whatever lot’s been handed to you. thus she, as a good functioning member of society, gets up in the mornings and drives to school day in and day out as fate has dictated her duty to be

How does jealousy manifest itself in them (they become possessive, they become aloof, etc)? erratic. she’ll act strangely and become more distant. if it continues for long enough she’ll eventually snap at whoever’s nearest and asking what’s up w her

How does envy manifest itself in them (they take what they want, they become resentful, etc)? it makes her sad tbh sldkfjlkj she’s like welp.. this is the lot i’ve been given if i don’t accept it that’s my problem. then she keeps her head up and carries on

Is sex something that they’re comfortable speaking about? To whom? she prefers not to talk abt sex. she’d be v confused if someone brought up the topic of sex casually tho she isn’t SUPER squeamish abt discussing it it’s just?? unprofessional so why would u? ofc w her s/o she would be more than willing to discuss it in order to smooth out questions or misunderstandings before yk. actually. doing the sex

What are their thoughts on marriage? marriage to her is one of the pillars of society, and while she respects people who don’t want to get married, for herself she views it a checkbox on her list of things she needs to do before she dies. it’s?? like she sort of has a timeline and marriage is on the list of things that need to happen sometime in her twenties. she believes marriage should be a mutually beneficial union based on love and respect and believes that along w family units it’s a wonderful invention. however, despite all of this she kind of doubts she’ll ever get married bc she’s like who would date me lbr here :) and while simultaneously seeking after marriage she’s resigned herself to becoming an eventual crazy old cat lady

What is their preferred mode of transportation? she prefers bullet trains. efficient, usually comfortable, she doesn’t have to drive- what more could you want? she’s also fond of walking if a place is close by. helps her chill

What causes them to feel dread? the feeling that a relationship is falling apart and the divide between herself and the other person is growing. the little things like not waiting for the other person after class or “forgetting” to mention another thing about their day- the small things that point to a relationship breaking down. if there’s one thing she hates more than unnecessary conflict and having to just end things then and there it’s watching things slowly fall apart. that is extremely dread inducing in her opinion

Would they prefer a lie over an unpleasant truth? if u asked her? she’d say she prefers the truth. in reality? she prefers the lie. she internalizes things and oftentimes “unpleasant truths” can weigh her down for ages. frequently enough to note, she’ll allow herself to continue in ignorance rather than accept the reality of the truth which she’ll sort of know she’s doing but just push to the back of her mind in order to avoid the panic that comes with actually confronting the problem. ignorance is bliss and all. nevertheless, in the long run and in hindsight, she prefers the truth as ripping off the bandaid proves easier than pulling out misplaced stitches one by one

Do they usually live up to their own ideals? she doesn’t come close. she has very lofty ideals to which she holds both herself and others around her. she wants to be someone who’s looked up to as strong. she values efficiency, honesty, reliability and genuinely good motives as well as charisma, passion and confidence. she’s doing alright with the first few but the last three are debatable. she’s passionate about v select things and her confidence levels looks like a heartrate monitor

Who do they most regret meeting? herself. she regrets gaining sentience

Who are they the most glad to have met? josie ;) but nico and ale are close seconds

Do they have a go-to story in conversation? Or a joke? nope what’s a Conversation? what’s a Joke? she doesnt know them :)

Could they be considered lazy? that’s a no. she works extremely hard and nearly always carries through. it’s partially her nature and partially a way for her to “make up” for her perceived lack of talents

How hard is it for them to shake a sense of guilt? extremely difficult but w time she eventually can esp when given the right type of support

How do they treat the things their friends come to them excited about? Are they supportive? that’s. a hard one. she IS technically supportive but that’s only when she recognizes how much the thing means to the other person and she’s honestly rlly bad at reading these kinds of situations, so it’s rare that she actually does. she’ll kinda be like wtf but if she doesn’t recognize the other person is genuinely excited and invested in the thing she’ll do her best to give her own brand of awkward support

Do they actively seek romance, or do they wait for it to fall into their lap?she’ll pursue a romantic interest if enough proof that it’s plausible is given but it’s rare that she gets enough “proof” for this to happen. generally speaking, she kind of pushes her desire for romance down. she’ll worry abt it later or at least until josie shows up eyes emoji

Do they have a system for remembering names, long lists of numbers, things that need to go in a certain order (like anagrams, putting things to melodies, etc)? not rlly? she’ll just go thru things multiple times she’s not the most innovative person when it comes to things like this. route memorization is her go to

What memory do they revisit the most often?;) depends on where in the storyline we’re talking but post story defo the time when she and josie went hiking w some of their other friends and when they reached the summit of the mountain the clouds were beneath the peak n completely coating the sky. it looked like a carpet of clouds, like another world and they shared a bit of a Moment. the little things are what elaina rlly cherishes

How easy is it for them to ignore flaws in other people?difficult she’s a bit of a critical person. she’s also not the most tactful when it comes to emotional intelligence related situations so ppl will likely find out she does see those flaws in them if they stick around long enough

How sensitive are they to their own flaws?not SO much but she does take things to heart. she’s sort of?? accepted her perceived mediocrity and general dullness but she’s in no way ceasing to attempt to change other things abt herself. so she’ll seemingly take criticisms in stride but they’ll stick w her when she’s Overthinking

How do they feel about children? kids are? good? she likes kids. as for having them, she’s considered it some and she thinks she might like to. at the same time, she also thinks she’d make a terrible parent- too harsh, bad w comfort, easily stressed. in all reality, she’d be better than most ppl as one esp after gaining a bit of confidence

How badly do they want to reach their end goal? rn the goal is graduating and she wants that fairly badly but she doesn’t particularly doubt her ability to achieve it. after that, it’s getting a good job which she also doesn’t overtly doubt as a certainty so yes she does want it but it’s not?? SUPEr concerning except when she begins to doubt her abilities and if she’ll ever feel like her life is fulfilling

If someone asked them to explain their sexuality, how would they do so? she’s lesbian. she’d say it means she’s attracted to women

QUESTIONS FOR CREATORS

A) Why are you excited about this character?baby. she’s gonna find loveB) What inspired you to create them?love, simon! i wanted to write a cute lesbian high school romance so thus josie and elaina were bornC) Did you have trouble figuring out where they fit in their own story?nope!D) Have they always had the same physical appearance, or have you had to edit how they look?nope again! she used to be full korean but now she’s half korean and half scandinavian! i think she used to be taller too she’s 5′5″ nowE) Are they someone you would get along with? Would they get along with you?there are some aspects of each other that would get on the other’s nerves. like i dont think she’d appreciate the wonky outbursts i sometimes have and i’d get annoyed by her lack of social tact/annoyance at the world even tho i lowkey share those traits but otherwise i think we’d get along p well! i think i’d find her cute and i think she’d like my perceived confidence. we share a similar rationality as wellF) What do you feel when you think of your OC (pride, excitement, frustration, etc)?empathy she’s a big mood tbh and also i want her to be happy G) What trait of theirs bothers you the most?her lack of emotional intelligence. while i like blunt and logic oriented ppl it’d get slightly frustrating after a while to be around someone who’s a lil oblivious to social/emotional cues even if that’s a moodH) What trait do you admire most?her humble diligence. i have to complain twice as much as her to get half the things she gets done doneI) Do you prefer to keep them in their canon universe?i think she’d ALSO do great in a sci fi universe. ha maybe i need to give these kids a sci fi au verseJ) Did you have to manipulate or exclude canon factors to allow them to create their character?not rlly no!

#defenestrata #SFsldkjflskfj GOSH she sounds so depressing in this #i swear she's actually not this depressing #usually #i mean she's just got low self esteem ??#anyways i lov mai thanks for comign to my ted talk #elaina #triad #my ocs

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glittership · 5 years

Text

Episode #72 — "Raders" by Nelson Stanley

Direct download

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Episode 72 is part of the Autumn 2018 issue!

Support GlitterShip by picking up your copy here: http://www.glittership.com/buy/

Raders

by Nelson Stanley

They called themselves the Raders, and if you didn’t know, you’d swear that they were waiting for something: a bunch of boyed-up cookers, second-string hot hatches and shopping trollies adorned with bazzing body-kits parked down at the overcliff again, throttles blipping in time to the breakbeats. Throaty roar from aftermarket back-boxes you could shove your fist up, throb of the bass counter-pointed by an occasional crack as a cheap six-by-nine gave up the ghost. Occasionally a sub overheated, leaving nothing but ear-splitting midrange and treble howling into the gale blowing rain off the sea.

Mya had pushed half a pill into Maggie’s hand when the red XR2 picked her up outside the all-night Turkish takeaway, and Maggie regretted dropping it already, though at first she’d thought the high percentage of whizz in it might lend her enough chemical bravery to finally say what she wanted. Now her eyes rolled in her head and the rush made it difficult to speak. Sparks came off the edges of the headlights splitting the mizzle outside. Her nervous system uncoiled and re-knitted itself, reducing her to a warm soup through which the uppers fizzed and popped.

[Full story after the cut.]

Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 72 for June 10, 2019. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you. Today we have a GlitterShip original, which starts off a new issue that you can pick up at GlitterShip.com/buy, on Gumroad at gum.co/gship08, or on Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and other ebook retailers.

If you’ve been waiting to pick up your copy of the Tiptree Award Honor Listed book, GlitterShip Year Two, there’s a great deal going on for Pride over at StoryBundle. GlitterShip Year Two is part of a Pride month LGBTQ fantasy fiction bundle. StoryBundle is a pay-what-you-want bundle site. For $5 or more, you can get four great books, and for $15 or more, you’ll get an additional five books, including GlitterShip Year Two, and a story game. That comes to as little as $1.50 per book or game. The StoryBundle also offers an option to give 10% of your purchase amount to charity. The charity for this bundle is Rainbow Railroad, a charity that helps queer folks get to a safe place if their country is no longer safe for them.

http://www.storybundle.com/pride

Our story today is “Raders” by Nelson Stanley. Before we get to that, though, here is our poem, “Vampiric Tendencies in the Year 4500” by Renee Christopher.

Renee Christopher is an SFF writer and poet currently making it through her last Iowa winter. Noble / Gas has nominated her poetry for a Pushcart, and her first short story can be found in Fireside Fiction. Follow her on Twitter @reneesunok or on Mastodon @[email protected]

Vampiric Tendencies in the Year 4500

By Renee Christopher

Moon-sewn mothgirls clot near light,

their search for glow similar

to mine. The door left ajar allowed us both

alternate methods for creation

creatures merged with cosmic teeth.

Stars managed to adapt find those who,

thick as molasses, gleamed

upon the trellis of a new future.

But what I look for flutters past

a stand of deer —bright and wingless,

with champagne fingers

and summer tongues.

At least, the searing reminds me

of a time when the sun burned hot

and fast. Now the blood

I need drips neon from above,

filters through decadent soil

in a system unknown. In this quest

for light source, I am not alone.

Nelson Stanley works in an academic library in the UK. His stories have been published recently in places like The Dark Magazine, the Lethe Press anthology THCock, Black Dandy, The Gallery of Curiosities, The Sockdolager, and Tough Crime. One of his stories was included in the British Fantasy Award-winning anthology Extended Play.

Raders

by Nelson Stanley

Waves thrashed at the rocks below the edge of the cliff. An occasional dark shape—a seagull, perhaps, blown off-course and away from the bins—fluttered into the edges of the headlights’ glare and then reeled away into the greater darkness. Hydro and tobacco exhaust vented through half-opened drivers’ windows and flavored the edges of the sooty exhaust smoke from a dozen engines running too rich. One or other spun dustbin-lid size alloys on the wet, loose tarmac with an angry howl, holding it on the handbrake, then—just when you might think that a clutch was about to melt—drop it hard so that fat low-profiles tramped up into the suspension turrets as the tires found purchase, slewing away to nail it down the narrow cliff road, returning from its circuit a few minutes later to rejoin the loose congregation in the car park.

“See. What I mean is, we could be like… See? We don’t have to like… What I mean…” Maggie trailed off, frustrated not so much, perhaps, by her inability to articulate her emotions than by the inefficiency of talking as a medium for expression itself. Why couldn’t she just touch Mya, and have her know exactly what she meant? How she felt? She chewed savagely upon the inside of her bottom lip and fervently wished she’d brought some chewing gum, breath fast through her nose. She started to roll a ciggie, but her hands were shaking and tobacco and papers seemed alive in her hands.

In the driver’s seat, Mya was doing her lippy in the rear-view, an action made more difficult by the way she was surfing the breakbeats pulsing from the stereo, pausing occasionally to puff on the spliff hanging out of the other side of her mouth. With a sigh that seemed practiced she twisted her lippy shut and dropped it amongst the scree of empty Embassy No.1 packets, roached Rizla cartons, baggies and half-crushed tins of cheap cider littering the dashboard.

“Look,” she said, placing both hands on the steering wheel, as if what she had to say required anchoring herself more firmly to the car, “With you now it’s all ‘What I want’ and ‘What I think is’ and it just… I knew it’d get like this. Knew it. What you don’ get is, I don’t care. It’s over, girl. Let go.”

Chemicals rushed into Maggie’s head like someone filling up a bath. She was frantically rubbing a rolling paper flat between her thumbs, gaze pinned to the wrinkled rectangle as if somewhere upon it was written a way out of this, a way to get Mya back.

“I suppose I do need you,” Mya went on, leaning back in the Recaro and idly picking at a blim-hole in the upholstery while puffing luxuriantly on her smoke. “But not the way you need me. I can’t be the thing you want, y’know? It was fun, while it lasted, but is what it is, girl.” She glanced over at Maggie. “But you can still help, if you like.”

Maggie—lorn and reeling from the chemicals thudding through her central cortex—tried to answer, but all that came out was a small hiccuping yelp. She nodded frantically.

“Jesus fuck,” Mya said, and shoved the j toward her passenger. “D’you wan’ some of that?” she said, and it seemed to Maggie that there was love in the gesture, in Mya’s voice, real love, an outpouring of care and concern, and even if it wasn’t what Maggie wanted—that surging roil in her groin, the brimming of her heart that accompanied her memories of the two of them twined together in Mya’s bed, under the Congo Natty poster, the way Mya held her hand in public once or twice, walking back through the rain and the ghost-haunted dawn, hoodies pulled up against the wind—then, still, it unlocked such a river of sweet-flowing sadness inside Maggie that she thought she might melt, right there in the XR2, melt outward in a great silent wave of warmth that blossomed from some secret core inside her body and pulsed through her, turning her flesh to something at once liquid and as evanescent as smoke.

“Jesus fuck,” Mya said again, peering into Maggie’s face. “If you vom all on my Recaros I swear down I will kick you out right here, get me?”, but Maggie knew she wouldn’t, knew she wouldn’t do that, and she was right.

Outside, other cars were gathering, as if drawn by the bass or the lights, as if boyed-up hatches were sad deep-sea creatures, huddling together for mutual warmth around some abyssal vent.

Inside, in the thick dusty warmth blowing out of the demister, Maggie shucked off her hoodie and T-shirt, down to her bra, worming her shoulder blades into the fabric of the passenger seat. Though she rolled her eyes at this, Mya was at least calmer now that Maggie had smoked herself into a place of happy burbling. She cranked down the window as a battered G1 CRX pulled up, fishtank lights glowing underneath the sills and an acre of filler across its back three-quarter panel as if it suffered the ravages of some terrible disease. The relentless, tinny grinding of mid-period Sick of it All pounding from the CRX met the XR2’s sweetly dubbing Jungle, twisted in the rain into a horrifying new hybrid.

The boy in the CRX, baseball cap pulled down low, leaned out the window and put his hand out for a fistbump, got left hanging, pulled it in reluctantly and settled further down into his Parka.

“It’s nearly time,” Mya said to him.

He sniffed. “Aye.”

“You gonna lead?”

He shrugged, somewhat restrained by his seatbelt. “Thought you were gonna. As it’s, like, your party n’that.”

All around the car-park hatches were circling now, splashing through the puddles: a well-loved 205 GTI with engine mounts so shot that it kangaroo-ed on the clutch, pitching the front-end like an obsequious underling kowtowing to its superior so that the add-on plastic chin spoiler spat a spray of gravel in front of it. A cooking Sierra twin-cam done out to look like a Cossie decided to show the front-drive pretenders what they were missing out on, and started power-oversteering around the edge of the circling hatches, back end slewing dangerously close before a hefty stomp on the throttle and an armful opposite-lock sent it whirling away. Maggie, eyes rolling saucer in her head, could only see trails of light, fireworks steaming in the dark, light spidering out of itself to scrawl the night, after-images licking at the edges of the rain.

“Where we going?” she said, struggling upright in the seat, pulse thrumming up through her, a solid lump in her throat.

“We’re gonna take a trip to Faerieland,” Mya said as she took the XR2 out of the carpark, the Raders peeling off after her, each trailing a respectable distance behind the other, jostling for position down the narrow slip road. “The land of the dead, the shining place on the hill where the Good Stuff comes from, where they take you when it’s all over.”

Maggie watched the empty wet streets go past, everything wet and filthy, the streetlamps chrysanthemum bursts of light. The Raders peeled off and followed one-by-one in a continuous rising and falling of fat aftermarket tailpipes and tinny drum’n’bass, punctuated occasionally by the telltale clunk-woosh of a dump valve some joker had bolted on to a naturally-aspirated Golf. They snaked down the road leading from the overcliff, overly-fat radials whispering across the wet tarmac then ka-thumping awkwardly as they bottomed out on the potholes because they’d lowered their suspension by cutting their coil springs with an angle grinder.

“Think on,” said Mya, checking her reflection in the rear-view, “Think, Maggie. A place—well, not quite a place—somewhere they talk in the high-pitched whistle of bats, words you hear not with your ears but something lodged in the back of your brain. They got stuff there, one tiny hit’ll burn through your soul, let you touch the face of God and strip away your skin, make you forget all the shit life drops in your lap.”

Beyond the glass, the neon frontage on dingy shops and cheap bars spread and blurred in firework streaks. Maggie convulsed in her seatbelt, clawing at the tensioner as it ratcheted too-tightly around her stomach. The XR2 lurched over a speed-bump outside Syndicate—the townie girls lined up on the wet pavement clutching their purses, tugging ineffectually at two inches’ of skirt as the rain blew in sideways from the seafront, the young boys with too much hair product reeking of cheap body-spray and grabbing their crotches as they shotgunned cans of lager—and for a second Maggie thought she might actually be sick, but luckily it passed.

“A place where you never have to think,” said Mya, idly flicking ash off the end of her j as she took to the wrong side of the road to pass a dawdling hatchback—big swoosh of locked brakes against wet tarmac, cacophony of horns blaring into the night—“Where you never get hungry, or sad, or old.”

Maggie opened her mouth to speak, but Mya chose that moment to take the inside, getting both nearside wheels up on the curb as she passed a recovery lorry turning on to the main road, orange spinning light sending weird tiger stripes strobing across the interior of the XR2.

As Mya straightened up, fighting the bit of aquaplane as she brought it level, she continued: “There was this girl, see. She was just like any other. Stupid but not free. She met another girl, and fell in love. The sex was fucking epic—” and at this Maggie gave a low moan—“for starters, but wasn’t just meat-meet, wasn’t just something in the cunt or the brain or the blood. This other girl showed the first one things she’d never seen. A new way of looking at the world—” Traffic lights bloomed like fireworks through the rain-swept windscreen as Mya, faced with the inconvenience of a stop signal, took a shortcut through the carpark of a pub, narrowly missing someone’s Transit pulling out of a space then nipping back into the snarl of traffic, agonised howls of horns behind them like the baying of something monstrous. “A new pair of eyes.”

Maggie nodded, chewing on her bottom lip.

“The world seemed changed,” Mya went on. “Everything was magic.” The speed of their passage smeared the neon of a kebab shop across the night, and Maggie, her hand up to wave away a stray strand of hair that she swore was scuttling across her face like a spider, was left staring, open-mouthed, soul tightening in her throat as it sought to escape the skin, astonished at the colored lights crawling and twisting across her skin.

“She showed her things she never dreamed existed, never dreamed could exist. Then, her lover told this girl that she couldn’t have her, that it wasn’t to be. Where her lover came from, she said, that place was different to ours, and she had to go back there. She came from far away, from a place out beyond the days of working shit jobs for the man and burning up your nights in Rizlas and watching them drift,” Mya said, exhaling a long cloud of dope smoke. As it hit the windscreen and flattened out Maggie watched the coils interpolate and shiver in a slow-motion swirl, and the spirals twisted and convulsed and in the whirl there were bodies churning, moving against each other in a liquid tumble, figures clotted together and sliding through each other and as she watched featureless heads opened empty mouths in silent screams of ecstasy and lust—

Taking another big roundabout, Mya let the XR2 go sideways for shits and giggles, whoosh of tires on wet asphalt, and the stately procession of the Raders followed, each making the same playful half-wobble in the Ford’s wake, then out on the ring-road past industrial estates lit up garishly by high-powered halogens.

Maggie dry-swallowed the lump in her throat, convulsed slightly, gasped out:

“I think I’m gonna need another pill, if we’re going to a rave.”

Mya ignored her. “This other lover, she told the girl she was in deep, that where she came from they never died, but every so often one of them had to pay a price, tithe to the Man Who Waits, the Man Who Must Be Paid, and that it was her turn to pay.”

On the edge of a judder of chemicals as they sped down the pulsing freeways of her blood, Maggie found her voice:

“I’d’ve loved to have gone to a rave with you. We never did, did we? There was that big one, down by the river, in the old tire factory? We never made it,” and she trailed off, the memory of that night coming back to hit her: going round someone’s house to score, the crunch of the purple-y crystals in the baggie with the smiley on it. Too greedy to wait, they’d each cut a line that glistened like finely-ground glass on the back of a CD case, huffed it back, shrieking and clapping and giggling at the burn as it dissolved their mucus membranes. They’d staggered out of the dealer’s house arm-in-arm, already giggling, bathed in the streetlamp’s orange glow, hands slipping between hoodies and jeans against the cold. Before they knew it they were fucking each other raw in an alley behind the closed-down Tesco Express, panting against the bins, colors streaming from the edges of their vision as fingers worked in the cold.

Mya’s hand dropped swiftly off the gearstick, squeezed Maggie’s knee.

“Nearly there,” she whispered.

Maggie was halfway to replying “No, no you fucking weren’t, with the Mollie you took ages to come, I had to go down on you, knees in a puddle, my Diesels got fucking wet through,” when she looked up, and saw.

The lights of a deserted superstore glowing through the murk like the warning lights of a ship out at sea. To either side light industrial units glowered through the rain. Something that might’ve been a dog scurried through the puddles collecting on the uneven tarmac, shook itself, then squeezed through the gap in a fence and was gone. The road descended as it cut across a valley. At the top of the valley sides, brooding behind razor wire, huge dark shapes reared against the night sky. The XR2 turned up a driveway you could get an articulated lorry through, between steep banks choked with wet gorse. She pulled up in a huge open space across which the low-profiles bucked and jinked, big wheels nervous over the ruts. Ahead of them, a locked gate, skin of plate iron welded onto a framework of quarter-inch box-section, topped with barbed wire like icing on a birthday cake, stained with something that shone dark in the backwash off the streetlights, something that might’ve been oil.

“Mya, babe,” said Maggie, “where the fuck are we?”

The rest of the Raders, fallen behind in traffic or cut off from the XR2 by stop lights, began to wheel out of the night on to the forecourt, pulling up in a rough circle. One by one, the engines died, leaving just the reflections of their under-sill lights on the wet tarmac and their headlights cutting through the rain, deepening the shadows on the huge organic-seeming shapes sprawled up the side of the valley. From behind the ringing in her ears, Maggie thought she heard a sound far-off like bells, irregular, plangent, as if they’d taken a wrong turn and were down by the sea and could hear the ships still rolling at anchor in the wind, or when you’d gone to a free party and got mashed and passed out next to a sixteen foot high speaker and woke up with your head ringing and chiming, every sound distant and jangling for the next few days.

Mya smiled, leaned back in the driver’s seat, pulled another joint from a crevice on the dash, held it by the twist-shut and shook it to level it out.

“This is Faerieland, babe.”

Mya, an easy smile playing about her lips, sparked up the j. Maggie, spiking on another wave off her pill, nodded, started frantically chewing out her lip.

“Is this like when we—”

Mya pressed a finger to her lips and the dry knuckle against Maggie’s mouth smelled of hash and tobacco and the pleasantly artificial tang of raspberry lipstick.

“This is like nothing you’ve ever seen,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Now. Why don’t you unclasp your seatbelt?”

Maggie fancied she could hear a sort of whistling twitter, a high-pitched oscillation at the edge of hearing, like weaponized tinnitus. The noise got under her skin, wormed its way inside her nerves, crawled along her limbs and set itself just behind her eyes, where it fluttered and beat against the inside of her head like a moth caught in a lampshade.

The noise—and whatever she’d taken—made it difficult for her to think straight. She rubbed frantically at her eyes, which seemed to have dried out, and a starshell burst across her vision.

“It’s nearly time,” Mya said, taking a deep hit off her j. “They’re here.”

When Maggie looked again, things were moving in the darkness at the edge of the headlights, detaching themselves with a slinking motion from the huge shapes up on top of the hill, flowing through the night, drawing near to the edge of the pale circles cast by the Raders. Then—just when she thought she might be able to see what they were—edging back, staying tantalizingly out of reach. They moved on all fours. There was the suggestion of an angular, branched shape, like a four-branch exhaust manifold. A headlight found the edge of one of them for a second, but they were gone so quickly it was impossible to make anything else out other than the suggestion of wet fur, oil-slick pelt, stealthy stalking in the ebon night.

“What the fuck we doing, Mya?”

Mya shook her off. She held her right hand out of the car, in the rain, as if leaning to get the ticket from a tollbooth, then let it drop. The headlights of the Raders went off in a volley, and the night bloomed with afterimages that writhed violet and ultramarine and a pure, actinic cobalt that burned into Maggie’s retinas as if she’d been staring intently at the base of a MIG welder. Through or under these distortions moved other, darker shapes, suggested by the gaps between the swirling colors on the edges of the twisting light. The chittering increased, like the noise a tweeter made if you wired it in when spliffed up so that it was grounding to earth via the RCA connector.

“The only way this girl’s lover could be free, was if someone could take her place.” Mya smiled at Maggie, and there was sadness in it, a sadness that wrenched Maggie so that she jerked and flopped, a spasming convulsion that took all of her strength from her and left her hanging from the seatbelt, spent and useless as a discarded condom hanging from a fence. She tried to raise her head and it sagged useless and boneless on her neck.

The darkness rippled and shifted. Something was pulling itself in to existence, shapes coalescing from darkness, shapes Maggie half-recognized, tantalized as they formed then—just on the cusp of understanding—flowed into something else. Waves of prickling heat chased themselves across her, as if she was coming up again, but she was cold, bone cold, breath shallow like one nearing death, alone and lost in some icy hell.

Mya slipped her own seatbelt off and stepped outside, into the hush. She opened Maggie’s door and unclipped the belt, and Maggie fell forward, body gone liquid and useless, all her bones melted into a delicious slow ooze. The kiddie from the CRX with the baseball cap appeared at her side, and together he and Mya hauled Maggie out of the seat, trainers skidding on uneven greasy concrete, half-carried and half-dragged her limp scarecrow body between them, laid her gently on the wet rough cement.

A shipwreck puddled on the ground, Maggie’s eyes rolled up to the looming outlines against the clouds, and suddenly—with a burst of icy clarity like a siren cutting through your high, telling you it was time to fuck off out of the rave and head for home—she knew where she was. This, this was the place where the dead go. She could smell it, corruption, the sickly smell of ancient automotive glass gone sugary and fragile, of prehistoric hydraulic grease thickening like wax as it seeped back to the tar whence it came, fishy castor-oil tang of gone-off brake fluid and the tired dead-dinosaur ghost-smell of very old petrol, an undercurrent of spoiling, long-banned industrial pollutants, the waxy whiff of chrome-effect plastic as it expired in the wind.

Immense effort, all she had, everything given to a squirm of her neck, cheek scraped by wet concrete, and she could see—how could she see? Vision finally adjusted to darkness or some passing benediction of whatever it was Mya had given her?—a makeshift board up on the slope, where someone had painted the word “FAERIELAND” in thick daubs of blue paint.

Behind and above it, the huge misshapen outlines against the sky resolved themselves, trompe l’oeil turning the vast near-organic mass to cars piled atop each other in collapsing columns, sprawling aggregation of vehicular death, charnel-house of discarded bangers, piles of engines rearing against the sky like hearts piled up after some battlefield atrocity, ragged rusting wings hanging off like torn pinions of dying angels, Mcpherson strut-assemblies unbolted but left attached so that they dangled from brake lines like new appendages extruded by some automotive nightmare creature testing which shape would be best to crawl out of its pit and stalk across the land, delivering vengeance to those who’d left it here after years of faithful service, those who deserted it to rot in the polluted air and sink slowly into the mire of mud and the butchered remnants of its comrades.

The place where the dead go. Faerieland. The land of the dead.

And, out from that huge pile of automotive corpses, out from under the shattered sills and pent-in roofs, flowing out like poison from trailing umbilical fuel lines and ventricles of disassembled engines, from the aortas of shattered fuel injection systems, from underneath chassis twisted like paper and from cracked-open gearboxes, out from the jeweled synchromesh and delicately-splined shafts of sundered transaxles and torn-open wiring harnesses spewing copper filaments like multicolored nerves, they came.

The real Raders, the OG crew. They poured into the space before the cars like oil hitting water, as their forms adjusted to the limits of their new environment. They made the stuff of the night sing across human neurons and their wake through what we call the real produced a noise like far-off carillons of many bells and a chittering like angry bats. As they came down the hill the air hummed with their presence, spat and crackled and buzzed like high-voltage lines in wet weather, like a pylon singing to itself in the rain. The scrapyard smell receded and the night filled with the evanescent, sickly-sweet smell of violets—flickering across the nose then gone!—then an overpowering burst of eglantine and woodbine, stopping up the throat like death. The steeds they rose had lashed themselves together out of the rotting pile of scrap: corrugated flanks flaking away in oxide scabs, stamping hooves fashioned from brake discs, hydraulic piping and flex from cable looms bulging like sinews at their shoulders, mismatched headlamps for the eyes, exhaust-smoke breath billowing out in clouds from fanged maws made from the teeth of gearwheels and the lobes of camshafts. Their hounds were vast and black and bayed silently at their sides, the thick ruff of their pelt giving way at the shoulder to gleaming metal that heaved and rippled like flesh along the necks that held their great steel-antlered heads aloft. Impossible, implacable, reveling in their alien exhilaration, driven by compulsions innominate and terrible, they poured out into the night, churning up the bank as they came for Maggie. She sat blinking—unbelieving—as her doom streamed down the hill toward her, heart thudding slow in her chest.

The Raders watched, for a time. Then, one by one, they fired up their engines and followed Mya’s XR2, as it swept back out onto the rainy streets.

END

“Raders” is copyright Nelson Stanley 2019.

“Vampiric Tendencies in the Year 4500” is copyright Renee Christopher, 2019.

This recording is a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license which means you can share it with anyone you’d like, but please don’t change or sell it. Our theme is “Aurora Borealis” by Bird Creek, available through the Google Audio Library.

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Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with a reprint of “Désiré” by Megan Arkenberg.

Episode #72 — “Raders” by Nelson Stanley was originally published on GlitterShip

#fae #fantasy #urban fantasy #vampire #GlitterShip #lgbtq fiction #queer fiction #short stories #science fiction and fantasy #podcast

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theconservativebrief · 6 years

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The best sitcom about moral philosophy is returning to television. On Thursday, September 27, the third season of The Good Place premieres on NBC.

Much has been written about how the show breaks new ground in getting its audience to think about the Big Issues of life and death. The show tells the story of selfish ne’er-do-well Eleanor (Kristen Bell) who finds herself accidentally placed in what she thinks is heaven after her untimely death and is forced to masquerade as a good person with the help of neurotic moral philosophy professor Chidi (William Jackson Harper).

Eventually Eleanor, Chidi, and their new friends — Tahani (Jameela Jamil), a self-obsessed philanthropist, and Jason (Manny Jacinto), a sweet but dumb bro from Florida who, similar to Eleanor, is masquerading as a monk — figure out that they’re actually in the Bad Place. At the end of the second season, the crew gets a second chance at gaining entry to the real Good Place when they’re literally sent back to earth to live again. That’s when affable demon Michael (Ted Danson) asks Eleanor the show’s central question: “What do we owe each other?” (It’s also where season three will begin.)

But what makes The Good Place so fascinating is that it manages to be a show about the afterlife that is, nevertheless, not about religion. It takes seriously the demands of moral and ethical philosophy; the show’s emotional heart lies not in Chidi and Eleanor’s budding romantic relationship, but in the notion that they can become better people. It also plays the metaphysical framework surrounding the characters — the existence of God or other deities, and the actual structure of the universe — for laughs.

It’s the disconnect between The Good Place’s serious approach to ethics and lighthearted approach to metaphysics that makes the show such a powerful and affecting watch in an era in which one in three millennials no longer affiliate with an organized religion. The Good Place is, at its core, about goodness, not God. It’s a show about heaven and hell, but it’s also incredibly, tellingly secular.

From the first scene of the pilot, we know that the show plans to mine the theological element of its premise for comedy. Eleanor wakes up after a fatal shopping cart accident in what looks like a dentist’s waiting room.

Michael — who initially poses as an architect of the Good Place — welcomes her and quickly dispenses with the idea that the show will contend with the existence of God, or Jesus, or any other deity.

Each religion, he tells her, got the structure of the universe “about 5 percent” right — although, he notes, a Canadian stoner named Doug Forcett got it “92 percent” right while high on mushrooms, before promptly forgetting what he’d learned. The line, like most of the dialogue surrounding the metaphysical nature of the Good Place, is played for laughs. But that line is central to the show’s conception of what kind of show it wants to be, and which big questions it wants to explore (and which it doesn’t).

Traditional questions of theology — Does God exist? Is God good? Why does a loving God allow evil in the world? — never come up in the Good Place. Basically, the process of determining one’s fate in the afterlife is presented something akin to playing a video game: When you die, all the points you’ve earned throughout your life for doing good deeds, and lost for doing bad ones, are tallied up. The score determines whether you end up in the Good Place, the Bad Place, or (for a very select few), the Medium Place.

But The Good Place’s characters rarely wrestle with the implications of this. None of the central quartet seems to have been particularly religious. Nobody is, say, deeply bothered to find out that a loving God does not seem to exist in the show’s world, or even deeply curious to know or worship whatever deity does control the Good Place.

According to showrunner Michael Schur, this is intentional. “I stopped doing research [on world religions] because I realized it’s about versions of ethical behavior, not religious salvation,” he told the Hollywood Reporter before the show premiered. “The show isn’t taking a side, the people who are [in the Good Place] are from every country and religion.”

The creators and administrators of the Good Place all exist either as plot architecture — pushing the characters on their voyage of self-discovery — or as comic relief, though sometimes they function as both. The “demon” Michael is not the horrific monster of Catholic tradition but a midlevel functionary who finds himself drawn to the charges he’s been tasked to torture. (Technically, the demons’ human forms are just costumes — we get a brief cheesy-CGI clip of one in his “monster” form — but this too is largely played for laughs.)

The closest thing we’ve seen to God, the Judge (Maya Rudolph) is a frazzled, burrito-gobbling bureaucrat whose days are dictated by her lunch breaks. In the season two finale, as the foursome pleads to her to allow them into the Good Place, the obstacles they face on their road to heaven are fundamentally funny, in part because they map onto viewers’ familiarity with and frustration with bureaucratic inefficiency.

The idea of eternal agonizing punishment is never treated psychologically realistically, which is to say, as something brutal and horrific and genuinely, soul-wrenchingly terrifying. (Whenever we do get glimpses of the Bad Place’s “torture,” the visuals are kept offscreen, with sounds that mimic a particularly schlocky theme park haunted house.) When torture is referenced, it’s often done so in a tongue-in-cheek way that signals to the audience that we’re not meant to find it actually scary. In fact, the existential horror of the Medium Place (boredom and a lack of cocaine) is treated with much more gravity than the possibility of eternal physical torment.

But the premise of the Good Place (the place) and the premise of The Good Place (the show) are both, ultimately, red herrings. Though the show takes place in the afterlife, that’s not what it’s really about. (Indeed, you could argue that it is only to able to work as a comedy because it trusts that its audience is comfortable with a comedic, lighthearted portrayal of hell.)

Rather, it’s about human beings living in the here and now, trying to be better people, trying to navigate their obligations and relationships to one another. The show may not take, say, God or heaven that seriously, but it takes other big questions — what it means to be a good person — more seriously than any other show on network television.

That a character’s moral evolution could become the single most important plot point on a successful television show tells us a lot about why The Good Place works. It works because it recognizes that its audience appreciates stories that deal seriously with the question of what it means to be a good person. But it works, too, because it explores that problem within a specifically secular framework. (After all, in the world of the show, even language is secularized, with the “Good Place” and “Bad Place” standing in for more theologically loaded terminology.)

Religion may be the source of The Good Place’s humor. But ethics is the source of its soul.

During one of Chidi and Eleanor’s many arguments about the nature of goodness, he explains that just performing good deeds to get into the Good Place doesn’t “count.” You have to act morally, or not, for its own sake, rather than out of a desire to attain a reward.

In the Good Place, the “reward” — our characters’ ultimate salvation — is just a MacGuffin, designed to keep us invested in their journey. The show cares about what we do on earth, not what’s stored up in heaven.

Original Source -> The (secular) gospel according to The Good Place

via The Conservative Brief

#IFTTT #The Conservative Brief

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newstfionline · 7 years

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Not Dead. Not Alive. Just Gone.

By Azam Ahmed, NY Times, Nov. 20, 2017

XALAPA, Mexico--At 5 a.m., the couple stirred to the buzz of a cellphone alarm. They had hardly slept--Carlos Saldaña had been in the hospital the night before, betrayed by his fragile stomach.

He had prayed that the pain would subside, that God would give him strength. Today was the raid, the culmination of years of tracking the cartels, of lonely reconnaissance missions to find where they had discarded his daughter.

For so long, he had begged officials to do something, anything. Now, he wondered if he could even walk.

“Why tonight, God?” he had murmured in the hospital, doubled over. “I’ve been waiting so many years for this.”

He had spent the last six years searching for his daughter Karla, charging through every obstacle with an obsession that bordered on lunacy--cartel threats, government indifference, declining health, even his other children, who feared that his reckless hunt had put them in danger.

Vicky Delgadillo watched as he eased out of bed and grabbed a cane. She had a missing girl as well, Yunery, whom Mr. Saldaña now thought of as his own. For the last two years, the couple had shared a home, a life and a love born of loss. She understood the raw fixation that defined his life. It defined hers too.

Before dawn, their prayers were answered. If not fully recovered, Mr. Saldaña was at least well enough to get to his feet. Sheer will and adrenaline would do the rest, allowing him to go on the raid of the ranch where he knew, deep down, both girls were buried--two bodies among the thousands lost in the state of Veracruz, among the tens of thousands nationwide.

The couple moved in silence, checking and rechecking their bags. Ms. Delgadillo packed a lunch--apples, carrots and a stew made of vegetables to avoid upsetting his stomach.

She heated water for instant coffee and made toast as Mr. Saldaña searched for his essentials: binoculars, gloves, boots and a battery charger.

Mrs. Delgadillo’s grandchildren--Yunery’s little girls--slept in the second bedroom. After making breakfast, she applied mascara in front of a mirror on the living room wall as Mr. Saldaña finished packing.

They left before sunrise that humid June morning, carrying four bags and a familiar ambivalence, hopeful and afraid of what they might find.

Officially, the Mexican government acknowledges the disappearances of more than 30,000 people--men, women and children trapped in a liminal abyss--neither dead nor alive, silent victims of the drug war.

But the truth is no one knows how many people are missing in Mexico.

Not the government, which does not have a national registry of the missing. Not the families caught in emotional purgatory. Not the authorities in states like Veracruz, where both Karla and Yunery disappeared in a single 24-hour stretch.

When the new governor of Veracruz began his term last December, the state’s official figure for the number of missing was in the low hundreds. Upon the most basic review, the governor revised it--to nearly 2,600.

In the last year alone, the remains of nearly 300 bodies have been unearthed from clandestine graves in Veracruz, unidentified fragments that only begin to tell the story of what has transpired in the state, and more broadly the nation, over the last decade.

“There are an infinite number of people who are too scared to even say anything, whose cases we know nothing about,” said the state’s attorney general, Jorge Winckler.

Not that the state could handle many more. In March, Veracruz announced that it didn’t have money to do DNA tests on the remains that had already been found, leaving parents like Mr. Saldaña to panhandle in the street to raise it themselves.

Overwhelmed, the state also decided to temporarily halt all new searches for clandestine graves. There was simply nowhere else to put the bodies.

“The entire state is a mass grave,” the attorney general said.

For more than a decade, cartels across Mexico have taken out their rivals with utter impunity, tossing their remains into unmarked graves across the country. Soldiers and law enforcement officers often adopt the same approach, leaving many families too terrified to ask for help from a government they see as complicit.

It is both highly efficient and cruel: Without a body, there can be no case. And the disappearances inflict a lasting torture on enemies--robbing them of even the finality of death.

“The cruelest thing about a disappearance is that it leaves you with this desperate hope that your child might actually still be alive somewhere,” said Daniel Wilkinson, a managing director at Human Rights Watch. “You’re trapped in this horrific limbo where you can’t mourn or move on because that feels like betrayal, like you’re killing off your own child.”

“How could I stop looking for her?” Mr. Saldaña says. “She is my daughter.”

In the summer of 2013, Mr. Saldaña’s love life was falling apart, which was hardly new for him. Only, he wasn’t recklessly careering from woman to woman, as he did when he was a younger man.

This time, his marriage was being torn apart by loss.

In the two years since Karla’s disappearance, he had become a man consumed by rage, impotence--and purpose. He spent every day planning his next search for his daughter, his next interview with her friends, his next stakeout of the men he thought responsible.

His wife at the time, who was not Karla’s mother, couldn’t take it. His single-mindedness was creating another hole in their home. After more than a decade together, they split.

On the walls of his new apartment, he taped up pictures of his daughter, a shrine of sorts. He loved her deeply, but theirs had been a troubled relationship, volatile. Karla viewed him as a part-time father, an accusation that stung all the more because it was true.

In a life ruled by urges, he had fathered nine children, with multiple women. He was short, with a heavy paunch and a square mustache, and he pursued women like some people devour food, to the point of addiction. To support his families, he gave up any chance of going to college and became a driver, leaving a trail of bitterness.

Finding Karla, in some way, would be his redemption.

She had disappeared with one of his estranged children, Jesus. The half brother and sister were close, though Mr. Saldaña rarely saw him, thanks to an ugly separation with his mother.

Jesus and Karla had gone out together that night, Nov. 28, 2011, to a party. They enjoyed the night life, though the clubs and bars were often populated with members of organized crime. The two were last seen in her car. It was recovered two days later in the possession of an off-duty policeman.

Mr. Saldaña wonders whether some cartel member hit on Karla at a bar that night, or whether she and Jesus witnessed something they weren’t supposed to. But as with so many other cases, the circumstances of their disappearance are unknown.

From that moment, Mr. Saldaña’s life was re-centered on a single mission--finding Karla and, with her, Jesus. He joined a collective of families and began attending meetings.

To search for a missing loved one in Mexico is to inhabit a life of desperate entrepreneurialism. Families, resigned to looking on their own, build coalitions, pressure and cajole officials, and cling to every shred of hope.

Mr. Saldaña threw himself into it, combing areas where criminals may have murdered people, organizing free DNA tests and raising money to pay for it all.

He and others scouted out suspicious plots of land, looking for signs of slightly upturned earth. When they found one, they hammered long metal crosses six feet into the ground, then wrenched them out to sniff for the smell of decay. This is how the poor search for their dead.

During his first year with the collective, he met Ms. Delgadillo, a 43-year-old mother of four with luminous brown skin and green eyes. She graciously welcomed him.

Like him, she showed up at every meeting, every fund-raiser and every media campaign, denouncing the government for its inaction or inefficiency. She was warm, too, bringing a calming presence to a group often seized with rage.

She and Mr. Saldaña had an especially haunting bond. Their children had disappeared less than a day apart--abducted, they believed, by the same group of criminals. To them, it seemed inevitable that their children would be buried in the same place.

Mr. Saldaña had scoured Veracruz for details of the criminal operation: where it conducted business, where it buried its enemies. A friend of Karla’s told him of a ranch where cartel members were believed to dissolve their victims in acid. He felt, somehow, that this was where their children had been taken.

He shared his suspicions, the fruit of his one-man investigation, with Ms. Delgadillo. They folded their individual searches into one, meeting over coffee to compare notes, and sometimes just to be in each other’s company. Slowly, the friendship became something more, a love wrought from the inescapable forces shaping their lives.

“We were friends and companions in this fight,” Mr. Saldaña said. “But we decided to spend our lives together and live this struggle united.”

On his birthday--May 24, 2015--he moved in with her, shifting his modest belongings into the two-bedroom cinder block flat where she lived with Yunery’s two children.

Their life moves to the same rhythm these days, an odd cadence that is both comforting and isolating. Their friends, even their other children, are afraid of the course they have taken--the endless chase, the constant pressure on state authorities, the media campaigns.

They don’t tell people anymore when they find threatening letters on the windshield of their Volkswagen. Or when strangers call their phones with cryptic, menacing messages, ordering them to stop their crusade. The traumas have drawn them closer as a couple, but farther from their families.

“It just leaves you with so little time to raise and be a parent to the rest of your kids,” said Ms. Delgadillo, whose contact with her two other children tapered off in recent years.

Mr. Saldaña nodded. “One of my daughters called me up recently and said she wanted to chat. We went to a coffee shop and she told me: ‘Dad, please, I want to ask you to stop doing what you are doing. I am scared, scared for you, scared for me and for all of us. Please, just stop.’”

“I told her: ‘How could I stop looking for her? She is my daughter, she is your sister,’” he said. “I will never ever stop looking for her.”

He wiped away a stray tear and cleared his throat.

“It’s like you lose your other children as well,” he said.

To disappear has a particular meaning in Latin America, a vocabulary shared by nations that have suffered its tragic distinction. It is not simply to vanish, but to be vanished: forcibly abducted and, often, never seen again.

In the 20th century, the authoritarian governments of Argentina and Chile disappeared thousands of supposed opposition members, robbing spouses, parents and children of closure. Guatemala and El Salvador razed communities of accused sympathizers, both before and during their ultraviolent civil wars.

Mexico took part in the campaign, amassing some 1,200 disappearances during the 1960s and 1970s at the hands of the Institutional Revolutionary Party, which ruled for nearly 70 years and governs again today. Historians call this period of disappearances the dirty war.

But unlike Argentina, Chile or Uruguay, Mexico never really investigated its atrocities. While truth commissions and exhumations of mass graves sought to exorcise the sins of past regimes elsewhere in the region, government responsibility in Mexico largely stayed buried. Attempts in the early 2000s fell apart, leading to few arrests or prosecutions.

As the nation wrestled with that mysterious chapter of Mexican history, another was already starting.

The disappearances continued, in a new form. The numbers were small, the cases isolated and the purpose distinct from earlier iterations. It was not political but criminal.

This time, the disappearances were carried out by organized crime as it battled for territory in the lucrative drug trade. Along the border with Texas, the numbers slowly ticked higher. The government eventually launched a war against organized crime in 2006. And as the violence mounted, so did the disappearances.

The cartels are not the only ones responsible. In hundreds of cases, the military and the police have been accused of disappearing individuals across Mexico’s coasts, deserts and mountains.

The families of victims in Baja California have meticulously documented 95 cases involving the authorities and delivered them to the International Criminal Court with a plea to investigate. Five hundred cases have been recorded in Coahuila and sent to the court as well. Similar disappearances in Chihuahua and Guerrero have also been brought to the attention of international bodies.

Until recently, the disappearances were largely ignored by a government neither willing nor capable of effectively confronting the atrocities. But as families have become more organized, their plight has become harder to ignore.

In 2012, leaked documents showed that the government believed there to be a total of 25,000 people missing across the country, perhaps the first time any official recognition of the problem surfaced. This year, the tally climbed to nearly 33,000.

The convoy left at 6:30 a.m. sharp, a procession of camouflage trucks bearing marines, police officers and officials. Mr. Saldaña and Ms. Delgadillo trailed in a small van transporting the families.

After countless phone calls beseeching the government for help, hundreds of hours chasing down leads, years of rallying other families and stalking officials with a megaphone of grief, Mr. Saldaña and Ms. Delgadillo were getting a shot. Maybe their only shot.

They drove for nearly an hour, slowing in the town of Cosautlán de Carvajal, the last population center before the ranch Mr. Saldaña had heard about. Like many places taken over by organized crime in rural Mexico, the property was scarcely discussed in town. Locals knew not to ask what the armed men were doing up there. They began to whisper as the convoy passed through the narrow streets, wondering what was happening.

Past a creek flowing over an unpaved road, the vehicles came to an entrance. The marines got out and began a clearing operation that lasted three hours.

The ranch, meandering over expansive terrain, had been abandoned. But only recently. The team--a mix of forensic scientists, police officers and investigators--discovered healthy horses, cattle and well-tended sheep roaming around when they arrived.

The couple wandered the grounds in a dream state, led more by instinct than clues. They stumbled on a large metal bin filled with dirt and random pieces of clothing, perhaps, they thought, the belongings of captives.

Having been the engine behind the entire raid, Mr. Saldaña tried to take control, barking orders.

The officials grew weary of his commands. He was pointing to undisturbed earth, where the police dogs caught no scent.

The next day, they continued searching but came away with more questions than answers. A cinder block room contained a soiled mattress and chains--some grisly torture chamber, the couple imagined. Nearby, a stack of women’s undergarments--bras and panties--tied together.

He and Ms. Delgadillo continued down the hill for another kilometer. He carried a metal stick with a hook fixed on its end, to pry loose items from the soft earth. His hook snagged a piece of clothing, and then another, and another. He laid them in a pile at his feet and called for help.

The forensic specialists took over, drawing a circle around the spot. They dug. An hour later, a pile of 500 items sat before them: baby outfits, women’s blouses, worn-out jeans and shoes.

A profound sadness settled over Mr. Saldaña. He took no comfort in finding the clothes that he had chastised officials to look for, no comfort in being right. It only reminded him how far they were from finding Karla, Jesus and Yunery.

The authorities gave the families one more day to search the property, a stretch of land that would take 10 times that many people a week to cover.

They found nothing else.

In Veracruz, the missing are not only buried in secret graves. They are also recorded in small black books, where their names and details are lost to the modern age.

The state’s forensic laboratory chief, Rita Adriana Licea Cadena, pulled out a ledger. In it, she said, were the names of thousands of individuals who had turned over their DNA in the hope that it might match some of the remains disinterred from mass graves across the state.

But no one had been able to computerize the records, which were drawn from 2010 to 2013, some of the most violent years in the state. In notebook form like this, the data was virtually useless. No one could realistically search the DNA samples to find a match.

“We just don’t have enough people to do the work,” she said this March.

Outside her offices, a family sat quietly in the lobby, hoping for some news. The families come often, asking questions no one can answer.

“One woman came into my office crying, asking me to give her a body, any body, so she could bury it as her son,” said Mario Valencia, the official in charge of all forensics in the state. “I told her I could not: ‘How can I take someone else’s child to satisfy your grief? What about their grief?’”

The cause of the disappeared was often a forgotten one--until 43 college students vanished at once on Sept. 26, 2014, forcing a national reckoning in Mexico.

The students, who were preparing to become teachers, were heading to a protest in Mexico City. They had commandeered a fleet of buses to get there, a practice more or less accepted over the years.

But that night, the police opened fire, creating a panic that left at least six people dead. The remaining 43 students, frozen in fear, were rounded up by the police and turned over to a criminal gang that the officers were working for.

The motive for the attack has never been fully explained, and after more than three years, only one of the student’s remains has been positively identified.

After the mass abduction, hundreds of thousands of Mexicans poured into the streets in protest. The entire world was shocked. Mexican officials had not only failed to find the students. Some were clearly complicit in the crime.

Scenes of relatives hunting in the forested mountains of Guerrero for mass graves, equipped with little more than picks, shovels and blind resolve, reinforced the extent of the phenomenon.

The public pressure helped lead to a new law, enacted this month, to combat disappearances. Its passage has given some hope that the proper resources and attention might be paid to an issue long bled of both.

“It will not solve the problem, but it’s a start,” said Juan Pedro Schaerer, the director of the International Committee of the Red Cross in Mexico, who helped shape the legislation. “The challenge will be implementing the law.”

On paper, the Law Against Forced Disappearances creates a national registry of the missing, something that is currently maintained piecemeal across multiple lists, by multiple agencies. It should also bring more resources, for forensic investigations and the management of precious DNA information.

But in Mexico, laws are seldom the issue; on paper, they are often perfect. Rather, change hinges on the will and capacity to enforce them. On this score, advocates for the disappeared have tempered their hopes.

A highly touted legal overhaul, completed last year to replace an antiquated system, is facing an attack from the government that put it into practice.

Amid new laws to protect the nation’s media, more journalists have been killed this year than in any other in recent history.

Meanwhile, anti-corruption efforts passed with great fanfare this year have been met with scandal after scandal and a refusal to investigate.

The couple’s next target--another ranch, this one tucked into the verdant hillsides of central Veracruz--was abandoned when they arrived in late September.

The couple searched the ranch for three hours that fall day, making their way through heavy brush before coming across a set of stables. The entrance was locked. Mr. Saldaña scaled the wall and jumped inside. A flock of bats stirred.

Once again, scattered throughout, were clothes belonging to a mishmash of ages and sexes. Some had been burned, and others were puzzling--like the stack of heavy coats in a state where the temperatures range from hot to infernal.

Further on they found what looked like tombs.

“It could be something,” Mr. Saldaña said, beaming.

They didn’t have the tools needed to open the covers, so they moved on. Later, they heard the sound of all-terrain vehicles, a favorite mode of transport for cartel lookouts.

The three fled, racing down the hill and back to the car.

As a couple, Mr. Saldaña and Ms. Delgadillo have decided to adopt a new approach to mourning. Instead of learning to live without their children, they are trying to live with them. To celebrate them every day.

This October, the couple decided to throw their daughters a joint birthday party, with cake, candles and balloons. The girls’ birthdays were only days apart.

Mr. Saldaña and Ms. Delgadillo wanted to invite their extended family--the other parents, husbands and wives who had lost someone.

“We wanted to do something happy with them,” Mr. Saldaña explained.

“This way, until we find them, we will keep them present in our lives,” Ms. Delgadillo added.

But their plans soon gave way to reality, and there was no party. Between the trips up and down the state and basic necessities, they had no money for it.

Despite everything, Mr. Saldaña said he was filled with more hope these days than ever. He dreamed about Karla, felt her close to him, as if the end was near.

In a recent dream, he confronted the men responsible for Karla’s abduction. With an arsenal of automatic weapons, he fought them like an action hero, leaving no survivors.

In the dream, he said, it was up to him and no one else. No failing system, numb to his pleas. No crooked cops or courts that so often failed to reach convictions in Mexico. Only justice.

“If you kill them,” he said, “at least it’s over.”

#Mexico #Veracruz #disappeared in Mexico #desaparicidos

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