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makaylajadewrites · 3 years

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Muted Blue Chapter 1

Here is the first chapter for Muted Blue. It is already up on AO3 here in its entirety, but I will also be posting the chapters here

Pairing: Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid

Summary: Homo ave sapiens was the term, wise man birds, a species on the cusp of endangerment due to trafficking on the black market. Meeting one wasn’t all that uncommon, and in truth, the only difference between humans and home ave sapiens (or avians, as they often preferred), were the feathered appendages growing from their backs.

“Hey there… I’m going to get you out of here,” Morgan said in a hushed voice, crouching down in front of the figure. Those elegant wings lowered to reveal a mop of chestnut curls and a pale face, and Morgan swore he never saw anything more beautiful. Hazel eyes peered up at him fearfully, glowing in the darkness, and had he not known any better, he would think he were in the presence of an angel.

Tws: Human trafficking, mentions of slavery/sex slavery. Nothing graphic

Word count: 9010

"Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.

-Emily Dickinson

The elevator doors dinged upon the arrival to his destined floor, and with a certain heaviness in his step only sleepiness could cause, Derek Morgan stepped off and headed to the roundtable room. To be called in at such an hour could only mean one thing: Something important was going on and needed their immediate attention. He only wondered why this couldn’t have waited until a more reasonable hour, but clearly, criminals didn’t care about his sleep schedule. The bullpen was completely empty, and it was still dim from the night, but even through the blinds, he could see that the lights were on in the roundtable room. Begrudgingly, he entered, and saw that everyone was already inside and settled, all except Hotch and JJ who had yet to emerge from his office where they were most likely discussing the case at hand. This had to be a bad one.

“Alright everyone, please take a seat,” Hotch said just as Morgan was sitting himself down between Prentiss and Garcia, both of whom held a grim expression on their faces - Garcia’s of course more noticeable than the ever compartmentalizing Emily Prentiss. JJ obviously wasn’t going to be presenting this case, because as soon as she passed out the case files, she was sitting next to Rossi who was already examining the files with extreme interest yet with surprise, almost disbelief lingering on his wrinkled face. Morgan instantly understood why.

“Tonight, we were notified that Andi Swann’s unit has located a branch of a… human trafficking ring operating just outside of Las Vegas,” Hotch began, putting emphasis on the word ‘human’ for unknown reasons. With a click of the remote, the monitor turned on to reveal a few of the rescued victims, and immediately the team noticed that they were not human as Hotch had previously stated. Homo ave sapiens was the term, wise man birds, a human-related species on the cusp of endangerment due to trafficking on the black market. Meeting one wasn’t all that uncommon, and in truth, the only difference between humans and home ave sapiens (or avians, as they often preferred), were the feathered appendages growing from their backs. They behaved just as humans behaved, talked like them, lived like them… Yet they were discriminated against and faced many complications, residing alongside humanity.

They demanded for equal riots, and Morgan vividly remembered the Avian Riots of 1999, when he was still a novice in the FBI. Avians marched and protested across D.C., and after several isolated incidents of looting and pillaging, the national guard fired into crowds as if it were open season. In total, over eighty avians were killed that day, and from then on, the government took special interest in protecting avian rights. But it was clear that they weren’t doing enough, with incidents like this and the continued maltreatment of avians and discrimination against them.

“Oh, my god…” Garcia breathed, her eyes impossibly wide as her hand shot out to find stability on Morgan’s forearm, and he too was as surprised as she was. The rescued victims were severely malnourished, practically just skin and bones, and their wings were very crudely clipped and mangled from years of neglect and obvious abuse. Unlike humans, however, feathers danced across their chests and along their shoulders and backs, the plumage sprinkling downwards to the sprout of their wings. The only male had feathers freckling his cheeks. It was clear they once had been so beautiful, but now, these poor creatures were far from pleasant to look at. Despite himself, Morgan felt a discomfort building in his stomach, his throat clenching. It would forever baffle him to know that people thought it was alright to treat any creature like this.

“From left to right, we have Liam Donaldson, twenty-three, Jamie Frost, twenty-four, and Renee Grayson, also twenty-four,” JJ jumped in, “All have been claimed by their families and we’ve been asked for help in interviewing the victims and their families.”

“Agent Swann has reason to believe that this group is still holding more avians, though exact numbers are unknown. They bounce back and forth between several major locations, and we have been asked to assist in the raids at all three locations,” Hotch continued, clicking onto the next screen where surveillance pictures showed hooded figures congregating outside of a large van, and it was clear that these were their suspects. A mugshot of a man popped up on the screen next.

“This is Jonathon Martin, and he is in charge of this specific operation. We have yet to identify anyone else affiliated with this branch. Garcia, I want you with us for this, so grab a go-bag. Wheels up in twenty.” With that, the team rose from where they sat and dispersed to get ready for travel. Garcia looked worriedly to Morgan, and all he could do was offer a small smile in her direction, his arm wrapping around her shoulders.

“Promise me we’ll get them out of there, Derek,” Garcia said in an oddly somber tone. Morgan just sighed and squeezed her shoulder as they followed suit, walking out of the room.

“We’ll get ‘em, baby. Don’t worry your pretty little head.” Although, he only hoped that he could fulfill that promise, for the sake of Garcia and those innocent people.

Upon arriving in Las Vegas five hours later, they were greeted by the one and only Andi Swann, and despite the circumstances she kept a small smile on her face, remembering each and every member of Aaron’s team from previous encounters. She met them at the airstrip, shaking their hands and clearly pleased to have the best team possible helping with such a key operation — a breakthrough in one of their largest avian trafficking rings.

“Once we get to the precinct, we can use the information we have gathered so far to plan our infiltration,” Swann said as they piled into the SUVs made available for them, and soon, they were on their way. The precinct was just as any other; alpha males all around, a conference room made available with three boards filled with information, including that which pertained to their suspected leader and the few victims that had been saved. A map was pinned up on one, with three separate locations circled, all within a twenty mile radius of one another. In one of the interview rooms, a pretty robin was perched in a chair, her legs bouncing nervously while she looked around constantly, clearly paranoid. Avians were often distrusting of authority figures after the riots, and it was clear that this one was no different.

“We’ve brought in Macy Donaldson, Liam Donaldson’s sister. Apparently, she hasn’t seen her brother in over two years, and we wanted your help in preparing her to see him again,” Swann continued on, and Hotch nodded, glancing in Prentiss's direction who instantly nodded and separated from the group to talk to the robin. Morgan crossed his arms over his chest, approaching one of the boards and looking over pictures of the victims, their before and after pictures a true vision of despair. They all had been incredibly beautiful before their disappearances, and now that they were found, they looked like they had been treated as livestock. He had met avians over his lifetime, never really anything more than a brief interaction here or there because of his work as a police officer and eventually an agent.

“We’ve been tracking their movements for the past three months. We want to infiltrate tonight, before they change locations again,” Swann informed, and Hotch seemed a bit taken aback by this revelation. But, if it was possible to save these poor people before they were sold off, then they had no choice but to intervene. Morgan let his eyes linger over another victim, Victoria Pruest, and he felt his heart break at the sight of her mangled wings. How terrible it was, to be given wings yet have the glory of flying stripped away.

“Then we infiltrate tonight,” Morgan said quietly, turning to look at Swann and Hotch with a sharpened look in his dark eyes, “to keep these people from suffering any longer.”

The night came sooner than expected. Outside of a seemingly abandoned factory, the team grouped with SWAT, instructing them of their tactics and strategy. A soft entry was best, since they didn’t want to risk the lives of any avians or have them caught in the crossfire. They were already weakened as it was, so most of them probably wouldn’t survive any harm that came their way. With Morgan taking point, SWAT and the rest of the BAU followed behind and split into three different groups to cover the dark facility. Flashlight beams flickered across the walls, and soon, gunfire was exchanged between them and the workers of the trafficking ring. The ringleader was nowhere to be found, and they soon realized that he must have evaded as soon as he heard the gunfire. They continued to comb the facility for the remaining avians, despite the fact that he had gotten away, because lives still needed to be saved.

“Guys, in here!” Prentiss called for them, and immediately they followed her into a cramped corridor, a total of four cells with bars from floor to ceiling on either side. A chorus of gasps greeted their entry, avian eyes shining through the darkness as wings fluttered and hands grasped at cold bars. After all, it was the middle of January, and most of these poor people had less than scraps on their bodies if not completely naked. A key from the office-like room was passed into them and the cell doors were opened up. Three of the four cells had two or three avians inside, and JJ, Prentiss, and Rossi handled those. But the cell that Morgan was left with only had one individual inside. The avian was balled up in the corner with mangled, owlish wings curling around themselves protectively. The sound of their rapid breathing was somewhat concerning, yet also relieving since it reminded Morgan that they were thankfully alive.

As Morgan slowly approached, he was careful to take light steps, but his approach was enough to elicit a gasp from the avian. He stopped in his place, lowering himself down to a crouch so as to avoid intimidating the abused creature, and he slid his gun back to its rightful place in the holster on his hip.

“Hey there… I’m going to get you out of here,” Morgan said in a hushed voice, wanting to reach forward and touch the avian but he resisted since that could come with dire consequences. Those elegant wings lowered at the sound of his voice to reveal a mop of chestnut curls and a thin, pale face, and Morgan swore he never saw anything more beautiful. Hazel eyes peered up at him fearfully, glowing in the darkness, and had he not known any better, he would think he were in the presence of an angel. Pale feathers sprouted across his cheeks up into his hairline, and along his bare chest and over his shoulders, down to the curve of his neglected wings.

“That’s it, Pretty Boy… I’m here to help,” Derek continued on as those wings slowly lowered further, and as soon as he realized that the boy was naked, he pulled off his FBI jacket and draped it over the boy’s front. The avian instantly clutched to it with shaking hands, his slender fingers burying themselves in the warm fabric.

“I can go home?…” the boy whispered his question, his eyes watering like fountains as tears fell down his face. His hands trembled horribly, lips parting as he searched for more to say, and as much as Derek wanted to just hold him in his arms and never let him go, he resisted the urge to touch him still and continued on as if he were any other victim. But despite himself, Morgan knew this boy was different, and the way his heart throbbed in his chest was a reminder of that fact.

“My name is Derek, and I’m with the FBI,” Morgan gently said to him, “What’s your name?”

“M-My name?… Sp-Spencer. Spencer Reid,” the avian said in response, sitting up slowly on his knees. Morgan realized this boy probably hadn’t been called by his name in years, and again, his chest seemed to tighten up.

“Can you stand on your own, Spencer?”

“I-I don’t… I don’t know. I can try,” Spencer mumbled weakly, and while one hand kept the jacket clutched to his body, he slowly rose to wobbly knees. He only lasted a few seconds, and as he began to crumble, Derek gathered him in his arms. Hoisting him up carefully against his chest, one arm under his long legs while the other held him up under his upper torso, just below his wings. Spencer looked up at him with such wonder in his eyes, the tear tracks still evident on his dirtied face. Even covered in dirt and grime, he still looked like the image of perfection, an angel fit only for the prettiest of skies.

Morgan needed to get his head out of the clouds and focus.

He carried him out of that wretched cell, and swore to himself that he would never let Spencer wind up like that again. The boy seemed breathless from the sudden movements, and an expression of such trust lingered on his face. One hand remained over the FBI jacket, and the other clutched to the front of Derek’s long sleeve shirt. As he was brought out of the facility and into the open air, a soft whimper passed the boy’s cracked lips.

Derek looked down, alarmed and worried he had inadvertently hurt him, but the moment he saw tears trekking down his feathered cheeks once more, he realized why. Spencer’s eyes were caught on the starry night sky above, the moon reflecting in his dark pupils. It had probably been years since the boy saw the living world, and he was filled with such an immense amount of grief for the life Spencer had lost. He had experienced such a tragedy, and although he didn’t know for sure how long Spencer had been enmeshed in the trafficking ring, he knew that he would never be the same person he was before all of this. But then again could anybody, regardless of species?

EMTs began to gather the avians by having them lay on gurneys and pushed into the backs of ambulances, and Derek looked down as Spencer became more aware of the situation. Spencer looked scared, and his eyes fell from the sky to instead focus on the couple of people approaching them with a gurney rolling along between them.

“Derek?...” He whispered in confusion as he was laid down on it, his hands continuing to clutch to that jacket, his knuckles white from his death grip. His breathing was erratic again, and Derek felt himself crumble just a little bit on the inside. Spencer had already imprinted himself onto Morgan and viewed him as a savior — how good of a person would he be to leave the avian all alone as he had been before?

“These people are going to bring you to a hospital where they can help you, Spencer,” Derek said as if that would make him feel better, but Spencer was clearly having none of that. He was abused, not stupid, and Derek needed to remember that in the future. Spencer desperately shook his head, while a flutter of protests erupted from him in the form of sobs as the EMTs began to roll the gurney back towards an ambulance An EMT attempted to slip a blood pressure cuff around his arm on the way, but Spencer shrieked as if in pain and jerked away violently. His wings fluttered, the sheets ruffling up under him, and it pained Morgan to see this poor creature acting on pure instinct alone, as if his wings could really carry him in their decrepit state.

“No, Derek, please don’t leave me…!” He cried out in a shrill voice that pierced through Morgan’s very being, reaching a hand out towards the other man. Derek was by his side in an instant, his hands grasping onto Spencer’s smaller, bonier one. The EMTs stopped just outside of the ambulance, hoping that Morgan could get the poor boy to calm down.

“Calm down, Pretty Boy, I’ll be right here, okay?” He cooed softly, and Spencer whimpered once more, a coo of his own humming in his throat. Avians weren’t necessarily animalistic in nature, but like humans, they had noises they used to soothe themselves or each other. Like whispering or humming, avians had chirping, singing, cooing. It was all instinctual, really. An avian mother would coo to her baby, or avians would greet each other with happy chirps in the mornings, just as humans would do. Derek only wished he could understand more of how Spencer was feeling, to help him get through this smoothly.

“Don’t leave me,” Spencer repeated firmly, and Derek hated how tears seemed to be a constant presence on his face. He reached a hand up, his thumb gently swiping under his eye, being careful of the feathers tracing over his high cheekbones.

“I won’t,” Morgan said instantly. He rode in the back of the ambulance due to Spencer’s insistence, but when the EMTs began to administer tests and take his vitals, Spencer was clearly uncomfortable. However, it wasn’t until they attempted to draw blood that Spencer began to freak out and panic. His limbs flailed and his wings flapped wildly, his hand even striking an EMT across the face. When it was apparent that not even Derek was going to calm him down from this, they sedated him, and soon enough, he was fast asleep. Derek looked at the creature with such pity, his chest tight. He didn’t know who Spencer had been before this, but he could only hope that he could grow past this horrific experience.

At the hospital, Derek eventually met up with the rest of his team where they gathered in the waiting room. All of the rescued avians were eventually identified, either of their own doing or through Garcia’s research. Loved ones were contacted and several were quick to arrive while others had to travel to get there. But when he realized that Spencer had no one capable of seeing him, Morgan soon returned to Spencer’s room, wanting to be there when the young man woke up so that he wasn’t alone anymore. He felt such a desire to keep the other safe from danger, to protect him from all harm with ever fiber of his being.

“Tell me about Spencer, Mama,” Morgan said into the phone from where he sat next to Spencer’s hospital bed, his foot tapping on the ground as he leaned forward over his legs, his elbows perched on his knees. Garcia hummed idly to let him know she heard him, and after a bit of rapid typing, she responded.

“Doctor Spencer Reid, a twenty-one year old barn owl avian and Las Vegas native. He was reported missing by his coworkers at Caltech where he worked as a teacher’s assistant… Wow, he is one smart cookie. He has PhDs in math, chemistry, and engineering as well as BAs in psychology and sociology, all obtained before he turned twenty. He was working on his BA in philosophy before he disappeared. Oh my… He applied to the academy, as in the FBI academy, and was given special permission to join the bureau before he turned twenty-two,” she supplied, and Morgan looked upon Spencer in a new light. This beautiful creature was a genius if ever one existed, and he wanted to be an agent. With his intelligence, that certainly wouldn’t be difficult, although he wondered how he planned on passing the physical aspects of training. Perhaps he would be passed for that as well, simply because he had so much to offer. He caught sight of a lone feather on the ground, probably fallen from Spencer’s resistance towards the staff. With tentative fingers, he picked it up.

“Doctor Spencer Reid,” Morgan repeated quietly, thoughtfully, holding the plume by the stem and letting his eyes take in the sheer beauty of just one of Spencer’s feathers. It was like touching a piece of an angel, and when his eyes rose to see Spencer once more, he realized that could be the only explanation.

Oh, how he longed to see that angel fly again.

Chapter 2->

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #moreid #Spencer reid #Derek morgan #Derek Morgan/Spencer reid

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hutchhitched · 4 years

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Social Commentary in The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

I haven’t written a lot of meta about The Hunger Games trilogy. When I first read them, I devoured the entire set in three days before I was part of tumblr or writing fanfiction. My own metas were in my head and part of things I taught my classes and discussed with my friends, but not something I generally put on my blog. I don’t know why. (I do have a meta about Peeta’s hijacking that I’ve been meaning to write for a while. Maybe once I’ve finished this book. Hint: It has to do with George Orwell’s 1984, which I used in my classes last year and was performed at a theater in Houston right as the pandemic hit.) I don’t know if reading this book when I’m a decade older and after a really rough few years of my own has anything to do with it or just that I’ve been exposed to so much by being in this fandom, but I’ve got a lot of thoughts about The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes. I’ve only read Part 1 so far, but here are some observations. (It’s long, but at least read the last one—even if you have to skip to get there.)

Spoilers below:

Reaping day is July 4. We already knew it was during the summer, so that’s not a huge stretch. What intrigues me is the symbolism of July 4 for Americans since it’s Independence Day. For those of you who aren’t American or aren’t sure why that struck me, here you go. Independence Day represents the day the Declaration of Independence was signed (although, it was actually two days later, but whatever). The Declaration of Independence was issued 14 months AFTER the beginning of the American Revolution in April 1775 at the battles of Lexington and Concord and was not the cause of the Revolution as so many believe. Penned by Thomas Jefferson (at least colloquially), it famously discusses the celebrated (but sadly, not practiced) phrase that “all men are created equal.” That’s the phrase that’s trotted out and waved about, but the Declaration is mostly about tyranny and the role of government. In fact, the Declaration doesn’t start with “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” Instead, it begins with this: “When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another…” In other words, the Declaration of Independence does indicate that all humans are created equal. It also discusses what the government is supposed to and not supposed to do. Having Reaping Day occur on July 4 is a brilliant jab that adds an entirely new level to what Independence Day means and how it’s celebrated—with lots of flag waving and fireworks and BBQ (and very little knowledge of what the document itself actually says).

Which brings me to Sejanus Plinth. Bless him. He’s the voice of compassion and reason in part 1 as he speaks up about treating other humans with respect and dignity, about the humanity of those in the districts, as he feeds the hungry, as he challenges the inhumanity of the Games. In short, he’s the Peeta Mellark voice from the final council of the tributes in Mockingjay. I have no idea what’s going to happen to him in the rest of the book, but he’s the humanity I’m craving as I read. A note on his name: Sejanus was a close friend and ally of the Roman Emperor Tiberius. Sejanus worked to improve conditions in the Empire and served as a proxy to Tiberius when he was absent. He was strangled to death in 31 AD/CE. His last name is what makes me stop and want to hug Collins. Four years ago, I had no idea what a plinth was. I’d never heard the word, but I was the prop mistress for my church’s summer musical, and it was on the list of things I had to find. I googled it and found out it’s a base on which a statue (or something else) is displayed. In Mary Poppins, it was used as the base for a statue that came to life and talked to the characters in the park. In other words, it’s a place on which someone can take a stand and deliver a message—a platform, if you will, of the character’s compassion and humanity.

I don’t remember if we got that Tigris was Snow’s cousin in the original trilogy or not. What I do remember is that she was a former stylist who Snow thought was no longer useful and had her removed from the Games. I haven’t figured out yet how I feel about her in this book, but her banishment and desire to see Snow destroyed are even more intriguing to me as a result of her inclusion as his relative. I would not have pictured her as a Snow before reading the new book. I’m still waiting to be convinced. “Snow comes out on top” is awesome. I wish I could write half as well as Collins.

There’s so much Holocaust imagery in this book, it’s terrifying. The cattle cars, the inhumane treatment of the tributes, using a veterinarian to treat the tributes instead of a doctor, the numbers, the cages, the rats, separation into districts and restrictions on travel, the hunger and starvation. Ugh. I’ve spent the past several years studying the Holocaust with some of the leading Holocaust and genocide scholars in the world both here in Houston and in Israel. I’ve traveled to Germany and Poland to see the death camps and headquarters of the Gestapo and Nazis and so on. The Games themselves are genocide, by definition, as an attempt to reduce the population of undesirables by targeting the children so they cannot reproduce. Hearing Survivor stories always reminds me of how Collins discusses Victors. There are no winners, only survivors. Survivors have never forgotten the Holocaust, nor should they. It’s what helped so many of them find compassion and humanity and forgiveness (and equally what causes such despair and depression in so many, as well). During my time Yad Vahsem in Jerusalem last summer, one thing was repeated over and over and over. The real triumph for Survivors aren’t the children; they are the grandchildren and then the great-grandchildren. In Panem, there can’t be too many grandchildren if the children are killed before they reach child-bearing age. (There’s also something in there about Snow being raised by his grandmother, but I’m gonna let that one rest for now.)

In one of the seminars from last summer at Yad Vashem, a scholar of Holocaust music taught us about the role of bands and singing in the camps (all levels, from death camps down to prison camps). First, there are some achingly gorgeous songs (the lyrics of one which were preserved on a child’s shoe in the death camp of Majdanek). Second, she asked us what we thought were the purposes of songs and music in the camps, and we all gave the standard answers—an attempt to distract themselves, holding onto humanity, finding beauty in the midst of horror, and hope. As a faithful fan of The Hunger Games and the saying “Hope is the only thing stronger than fear,” I was just as astounded as others when she said, “There was no hope. People died in death camps. They were starved and covered in shit and piss and lice and filth. They wanted revenge.” I don’t think revenge is what music represents in this book or in the original trilogy, although I think that argument can be made with the use of the Hanging Tree song in rebellion in the movies, but I can’t get that woman’s statement out of my head when I read this book. Not everybody has hope. Katniss didn’t when she first volunteered. I think there’s something to that.

Lucy Gray Baird is not Katniss. I haven’t exactly figured out who she is, yet, but she’s not Katniss in the first part of this book, which I think some people were hoping she was (as an analogy, obviously). Her flirtations with Snow are fascinating, and her outgoing and peculiar behavior at the reaping in District 12 was my first indication that the title was not as clear cut as Snow=Snake and District 12 female tribute=Songbird (alluding to Katniss). She puts a snake down the dress of the daughter of District 12’s mayor. She also sings. Is she both? Is she the songbird only? If so, then why the snake? And Snow doesn’t appear to be the snake either. My bet’s on Dr. Gaul. She’s a piece of work. Or maybe it’s Clemmie. Interested to see where that goes, too.

Lucy Gray’s insistence that she’s not from District 12 is fascinating. She insists she’s Covey, which by definition is a group of birds. The Covey are a group of traveling performers, who were stopped in District 12 and not allowed to leave. Trapped birds—interesting. Also, besides the Jews, the Roma/Sinti were targeted during the Holocaust. This group was commonly and derogatorily referred to as “gypsies,” people who moved about frequently and were suspected of crime, stealing, and a myriad of other issues. The Roma and Sinti immigrated into Central and Eastern Europe from India. If Katniss and others in District 12 are descended from Lucy Gray, then that covers the non-white argument about her ethnic makeup. I have no idea if that was Collins’ intention, but it makes a lot of sense in my brain.

As for Snow, he’s not a villain in this book. At least he’s not yet. So far, he’s the hero (or maybe anti-hero is better), but he’s definitely not the villain. Since we’ve read The Hunger Games, we know he’s the ultimate villain later, but he’s not so far in this book. He’s got ambition and cunning, but neither of those are ultimately villainous. He mourns his mother. He loves his cousin and grandmother. He’s proud of his father’s military service. He’s sad about his friends who die. He’s interested in, if not attracted to, Lucy Gray. We know what he becomes, so it’s hard to read about him as a person with hopes and dreams and struggles. Why? Because it humanizes him, and when he’s humanized, it’s harder for us to say, “He’s evil, and that’s why he did those things.” This is much the same way people blame the Holocaust and World War II on Hitler. “Well, he’s evil, so of course he did that.” Or how we dehumanize gunmen in massacres—“Well, he was clearly a sick individual, so he shot up the place.” Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not saying these crimes are excusable (in real life or in Collins’ works). What I am saying is that knowing Snow was a child shaped by war, hunger, poverty, and loss makes it harder for us to distance ourselves from this “evil” person. His characterization is uncomfortable because it makes us face that we could also do terrible things in specific contexts. Evil people are rarely born. They are almost always made, which means any of us could be a villain. That is what’s really terrifying.

A couple of other notes before this gets way too long for anyone to read.

The role of the government: Sejanus argues it’s the government’s job to take care of its citizens. This is an argument that’s raged in the US (and other countries) for a long time. The question is how do governments take care of the citizens? By feeding them and giving them health care and making sure everyone has enough? Be protecting them with a huge army? By allowing broad civil liberties (e.g., choosing whether to wear face masks during a pandemic)? By instituting restrictive liberties (e.g., gun control, wire taps, screenings at airports)? It’s a really interesting point Sejanus makes early in the book. Not surprising not everyone agrees.

Mention of the three other book titles (almost): The Hunger Games are mentioned several times. There’s a reference to something that “really catches fire.” And then there are the jabberjays. There are no mockingjays yet. Probably because there is no mockingjay yet. Seriously, Collins is brilliant.

The role of war: War is not good for those who live through it. Snow is traumatized by the war, as are the rest of the Capitol’s citizens. It makes most have little empathy for those in the districts who rebelled against them. War has destroyed the city. It’s weakened the economy. It’s destroyed the Snow’s fortune. And then it also leads to the Hunger Games. This book is anti-war just as much as the original trilogy is. It is not anti-soldier, but it is anti-war.

The role of children: Suzanne Collins lives in Connecticut, right? Yes, she does. You know where? Sandy Hook. More specifically, Newtown. Where children were shot to death in their classrooms by a gunman a few years ago. A ton of gun control people thought the slaughter of children would be enough for gun control to be implemented in the wake of that mass murder. It did not. Since then, there’s been a meme that’s circulated (taken from a tweet) that says, “In retrospect Sandy Hook marked the end of the US gun control debate. Once America decided killing children was bearable, it was over.” On page 60 of the book (right at the end of chapter 4), Snow insists the Hunger Games are to show how much people care about children when Dean Highbottom asks what the purpose of the Games is. And then there’s a paragraph in which Snow wonders if people really do care about children. He concludes that children don’t seem to be quite as important as we claim they are. I don’t think that’s a coincidental commentary on Collins’ part.

So, that became a lot longer than I planned, but wow. This book is fascinating, and Collins is a genius. I’m so ready for more. Part 2, here I come.

Hey, @everlarkedalways, does this count?

#tbosas #tbosas spoilers #balladspoilers #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #spoilers #book spoilers #long post #hunger games meta #meta

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betweenthetimeandsound · 3 years

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Three Minutes to Eternity: My ESC 250 (#220-211)

#220: Yiannis Dimitras -- Feggari Kalokerino (Greece 1981)

"Κοίτα τον έρημο γυαλό Σου ψιθυρίζω σ’ αγαπώ Τώρα θα χτίσω εκκλησιά Για της αγάπης τα τρελά παιδιά" "Look at the desolate seashore I whisper you “I love you” Now I’ll build a church For the crazy children of love" The opening shot, the rose on the piano, set the stage for such a romantic journey under the summer moon. And the soundscape created through the piano and instrumental throw us into this endearing scene, one which is also tinged with melancholy. Feggari Kalokerino is not only an ode to this beauty, but also an admission of craziness for falling in love. With such pretty lyrics, one can't help but get enveloped in this pretty world, where everything is so beautiful. The combination of Yiannis' singing and the woman's piano playing is also quite cute, albeit with some...interesting undertones to it. Either way, it's classical yet timeless.

Personal ranking: 3rd/20 Actual ranking: 8th/20 in Dublin

#219: Liliane Saint-Pierre -- Soldiers of Love (Belgium 1987)

“Neem elkaars handen Smeed nou die banden toe Hoor je die verre kreet? Geen mens vraagt dat leed” “Take each other’s hands Come on, weld those bonds Do you hear that distant scream? Nobody asks for that suffering” Top ten opening themes of anime, haha. It also helps that "Soldiers of Love" is the English translation for the song "Ai no Senshi" from Sailor Moon (which I've listened to many times but haven't gotten that far into the anime...). That said, Soldiers of Love packs a punch with the instrumentation and the high intensity of the melody. The lyrics are a powerful battle cry, albeit one which advocates for peace amongst people. There’s so much energy and determination in Belgium’s host entry, one would prepare themselves for battle for a good cause. Liliane really delivers this earnestly and with determination, though sometimes the military-style get-up stands out to me the most when I watch it again. Though those two guitarists turning their ends as if they were firing guns is a cool thing to behold.

It's one of the host entries that is better than the song which one it for the country, which is something because J'aime la vie is considered a fan favorite.

Personal ranking: 6th/22 Actual ranking: 11th/22 in Brussels

#218: Beth -- Dime (Spain 2003)

"Cuántas veces te llamé en la noche Cuántas veces te busqué Por mis recuerdos yo vuelvo Y no pierdo la fe" "How many times did I call you in the night? How many times did I look for you? I return for my memories And I don’t lose faith" For some reason, Dime reminds me of "Die for You" from two years earlier--both feature modern pop bops with ethnic influences, both imploring about the state of a relationship (while they both want to make it wor. And they're both in the same key! At the same time, Dime holds its own as one of the strongest 2000s entries from Spain. They had similar flamenco/Latin inspired entries in 2001 and 2004, which were highlights in rather mediocre years because of their uniqueness overall. But the guitar flourishes here work well with the dance beat, and it provides its own fun.

Personal ranking: 3rd/26 Actual ranking: 8th/26 in Riga

#217: Svala -- Paper (Iceland 2017)

“Drawing every bit of my truth Colour me in with your blue” I didn’t actually pay attention to this song in the follow-up to the 2017 contest. I also didn’t watch the semi-finals, which could’ve led to me neglecting the song entirely otherwise, especially I've heard a lot about Blackbird during that time. However, the summer after the contest, I discovered the song and listened to it. And I liked it! (And then I got hooked with Svala's other songs through her different groups) I was interested particularly in the lyrics, which discussed a fight between one’s mental demons and anxiety. I like the English version more than the Icelandic one; the latter is a bit more optimistic on winning against the battle whereas the former really takes the issue seriously. The production, while a bit staid, added to the feeling of helplessness with its electronic coldness. The staging also tries to incorporate this, though it didn't work in making it stand out. (I did like Svala's cape and makeup, though!) While I do love "Hear them Calling" a lot, I had a more interesting journey with Paper--it grew until it became something I highly enjoyed. Personal ranking: 6th/42 Actual ranking: DNQ -- 15th in the first semi-final in Kyiv

#216: Live Report -- Why Do I Always Get it Wrong? (United Kingdom 1989)

“You can do what you want to do now...” Honestly, this has to be one of my favorite British entries ever. While "Go" from the previous year gets a lot of acclaim because of its songwriting and Scott's performance (along with how it ended up second in the end), "Why Do I Always Get it Wrong?" is better on how it envelops a mood and could actually be found from this era (though it sadly didn't do too well commercially afterwards, sigh)

Whenever I do something wrong, or self-hate, this is the song I turn to a lot. The synthesizers drew me in—it fit well with the late 1980s-early 1990s sound elsewhere. It's also helped that Celine performed "Where Does My Heart Beat Now" earlier in the contest, which piqued my interest. And while Ray’s ponytail was a choice, it didn’t distract from how he delivered the song.

Despite getting more 12-points, it ended up losing to Yugoslavia by just six points that year. While not my favorite that year, I think it was the better one of the top three; it equally reflects the times and holds up!

Personal and actual ranking: 2nd/22 in Lausanne

#215: Tommy Nilsson -- En Dag (Sweden 1989)

“En dag vi alla förstår, En dag, när stillheten rår, En dag jag finner din hand, När vägarna möts förstår vi varann,” “One day, we all understand, One day, when silence rules One day, I find your hand When our roads meet, we will understand each other” My two favorites from 1989 are sonically different, diverging between despair and hope. I listen to "Why Do I Always Get it Wrong" a bit more, but "En Dag' would stand out for me in a few different ways, more from being just the optimistic song of the two.

The intro features really good brass, which leads way to the fun instrumental. I like how it builds, and Tommy’s interplay with the backing vocalists is incredibly strong. You get a sense of energy from the both of them as they send the song to new heights.

Basically, it's just glorious!

Personal ranking: 1st/22 Actual ranking: 4th/22 in Lausanne

Final Impressions of 1989: It's a pretty fine year, both in songs in production. There are a number of good songs there, though not many classics which hold out in the long-term (except for Vi maler byen rød, which became famous in Denmark and even became the premise of a musical!). Highlights include an overactive conductor from Turkey, two children, and an awesome interval act involving a crossbow!

#214: Bang -- Stop (Greece 1987)

“Ότι κάνεις για δόξα και λεφτά Δες τι χάνεις, αλλού είναι η χαρά”

“Whatever you do is for fame and money See what you are missing, joy is somewhere else”

I’ve heard this song compared to Wham’s output, especially with its vintage rock-n-roll sound (wake me up before you go go). This doesn’t make it any less bad, with its charming tone and thoughtful lyrics about how a girl who only wants material goods should stop chasing them.

(This is another reason why sometimes, the original-language version is better that any other one--the English version to this song has goes on a completely different tangent)

The performance also falls into vintage aesthetics, with the suits for both Thanos and Vassilis and sock-hop style dresses for the backing vocalists. It's really cute, and the way they dance fits the scene.

On another note, apparently Greeks saw this as a favorite at the time, can someone verify that?

Personal ranking: 5th/22 Actual ranking: 10th/22 in Brussels

#213: Guy Bonnet -- Marie-Blanche (France 1970)

“Nous sommes là dans une douce quiétude Nous avons mis fin à notre solitude Nos corps apprennent de tendres habitudes Et Marie-Blanche est à moi”

“We’re there in a soft stillness We’ve put an end to our loneliness Our bodies learn tender habits And Marie-Blanche is mine”

By 1970, chanson was on its way out; in its place was folk, rock-n-roll (spearheaded in France by Johnny Halladay, who has a great French version of "House of the Rising Sun"), and psychadelia. Within France itself, some of the #1 singles from that year include Comme j'ai toujours envie d'aimer, Let It Be, and Bridge over Troubled Water (a total masterpiece, I tell you).

So, what does one make of Marie-Blanche, in this case?

It's a really sweet love poem, in which Guy declares his love for the girl. and conveys a particularly cute scene. Whenever I listen to this, I envision two lovers cuddling inside while watching the snow fall during the winter. There's a sense of magic and serenity in all this, and the lyrics match the pretty piano melody.

Basically, hits are important to keep the contest alive. But songs like Marie Blanche can pull on the feels in the right ways.

Personal ranking: 2nd/12 Actual ranking: =4th/12 in Amsterdam

#212: Justyna -- Sama (Poland 1995)

“I czuła się tak marnie Poczuła się tak marnie Jakby Bóg, dobry Bóg Nie lubił pcheł..”

“And I feel poor Feeling so poor As if God, the good God Didn’t love little fleas...”

If 1994’s To nie ja represented something classic and hopeful, 1995’s Sama takes it and reverses it. (And in the grand Eurovision timeline, they're only separated by the last song of 1994, Je suis un vrai garcon from France) Instead of a young woman filled with life and singing a decent ballad, we have another one pondering herself, all alone, with nobody to help her.

Also, this is more of an acquired taste with its out-of-tune recordings and Justyna’s scream. But it doesn’t feel out of place within the 1990s, with its alternative influences and production, and I like Sama a lot for that!

Unfortunately, it also caused it to do substantially worse, which is simultaneously explainable and baffling. A good result would've made waves for future Eurovision entries; the 1990s are my favorite decade, but they did misalign quite a bit from the mainstream.

Personal ranking: 7th/23 Actual ranking: 18th/23 in Dublin

#211: The Shadows -- Let Me Be the One (United Kingdom 1975)

"You and I could have an affair/make sweet music, go anywhere"

Isn't this lyric really charming? I couldn't help but have a little giggle because of it; there's a sense of naughtiness (especially with choosing "affair"; are they trying to something illicit?) underneath it.

That said, The Shadows are mainly known for their instrumental rock, but Let Me Be the One has a neat melody line. The rock-n-roll vibe, which could be released within that decade, is light but lovely, and added a jolt of uniqueness to the otherwise poppy contest up to that point. The flubbed line in the beginning ("let me be the one who literally holds you tight", haha) adds to the whole thing, but they were able to carry on, nevertheless.

And while I like all the 1970s winners to some extent, I would switch out "Ding-a-Dong" for Let Me Be the One in terms of winners vs. runners-up; like with Sama, it could've changed the contest in a positive way.

Personal ranking: =3rd/19 Actual ranking: 2nd/19 in Stockholm

#esc 250 #esc top 250 #esc greece #esc belgium #esc spain #esc iceland #esc united kingdom #esc sweden #esc france #esc poland #vintage eurovision #three minutes to eternity

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suffering-and-happy-about-it · 4 years

Text

Cold (White Demon’s Love Song, Part 1.)

Series description: A new job was what the reason you found yourself on a lonely roadtrip on the western coast, ending up in the woods of Olympian Peninsula. Yet a sudden car malfuction was what cause your unplanned stay in Forks. To your surprise, there was a lot of sinister things going on under the veil of fog.

Part summary: On your way to Port Angeles, your car just suddenly gave up, dying just in front of the Forks welcome sign. Well... It was time to call the local mechanic.

A/N: The series’ name is obviously a call-back to Twilight Saga: New Moon soundrack, A White Demon Love Song (by the Killers), used in the ending credits. Honestly, the song is amazing and you should give it a listen, or two, because it reminds me of Jacob so much.

Word count: 4.5 K

Twilight playlist: ✨ Twilight Crackheads ✨

Series masterlist: H E R E

PICTURE SOURCE

Dedicated to the best hooman being I know, my dearest, @missdictatorme

It was nothing but a small town, located close to the western coast, standing in the middle of nothing but deep, dark woods. Its population never crossed the milestone of 4.000 people at one time - neither it had a chance to do so. The town was located in northern America, in the state of Washington. Its name was Forks - close to Forks, there was a native-American territory named the Quileute reservation, La Push being its tiny, beating heart; a slightly bigger town named Port Angeles, and one big city - Olympia.

The forests and nature of the Olympian Peninsula was one of the most mysterious and beautiful to ever be experienced by a human being. There were mountain lions and bears, wolves, and bigger, more dangerous animals hiding in the deep, all-year-long green woods. For such a small town, Forks had its fair share of unnatural, mythical, and legendary creatures roaming around/in it. The deepest nightmares of horror and fairytales coming true, if you will. It also seemed that the town just can't leave the cycle of repeating events, one man in the woods thought.

It wasn't just a man, no, that wouldn't be accurate to say. It was a man with a literal animal inside his body. An animal about which he hoped will never come on the surface once again. All he wanted was to grow old without complications, that was his whole deal. Now that he was left alone, behind and Cullens, the residing vampire family, had left the town, he and his brothers had a chance to do so... Finally. Five years ago, he and Sam Uley, the leader of another pack, watched the Cullens leave the city for another... Hundred years or so. It appeared it's the time to stop with the whole wolf thing, letting them let the wolves inside of them die.

Being a werewolf, a child of the moon, a wolf, or a shapeshifter, whatever you wanted to call it, wasn't as brutal as it was described in horror stories over the years. More than anything, the men and women of the Quileute tribe were carrying the spirit animal inside - the animal was waiting inside, sleeping, until it was called to rise once more. Not everyone could become a wolf - only the ancestors of the first big chief, Taha Aki, could do so. There also needed specific things to happen for their transformation, whether it was the first one or another beginning of the cycle. They needed to smell the scent of vampires.

No-one could predict a pack of vampires taking refuge just a small bit from Forks, again. Yet this time, it wasn't the 'good' vampires feeding on animal blood; these were wild, unpredictable, and red-eyed. These could not be debated to reach any sort of agreement or truce, as the Cullens did a century ago. These had to be stopped, killed, and burned. Whether they would be acting nice or not, they were a threat to Forks and everyone living in it. Which the spirits realized - they started to re-awaken once more.

First, it caught most of the pack unprepared - both alphas of the Uley and Black pack started to feel the sensation of intense heat, of rage and fury all of a sudden. For Jacob Black, it happened when he was in his workshop, repairing an old engine. He barely had the strength to walk out of the building. His muscles were tensing uncontrollably, a high fever appeared all of a sudden. Just muttered groans of pain and heavy breathing could be heard as Jacob walked past the first line of high trees, waiting for the feeling to rip him apart like a rag doll. This shouldn't be happening. There were no vampires in Forks anymore, why was the wolf urging to come out?

The man fell on both his knees. In despair, his fingers dug deep into the forest soil as he let himself cry out in pain. No-one could see him or hear him now, it was fine. The spasms made him fall on his back as his pupils were wildly rolling. If any Catholic priest would see him, he could easily claim that Jacob was possessed by a demon. Another groan left Jacob's body, which was still writhing in convulsions until the part came - the one where his human form just exploded, a hoard of russet fur sprang out as the wolf tried to get on his feet. The man was highly confused. Why did this happen? He wasn't left in the dark for too long - soon, he heard the familiar voice of Sam Uley, who was just a few years older than him, inside his head.

Sure, both of them decided to separate some time ago, creating two packs in Forks, but they could still communicate telepathically - as two alphas, the leaders of the pack. - 'Is that you, Jacob?' - Sam screamed into the void, being scared beyond his wildest dreams. It was understandable - back in the day, Sam was the first to awaken his spirit wolf when the Cullens moved back to Forks. Naturally, he was alone and didn't get what was happening to him that much - until the elders told him. This time, it might've been the same thing, again. Naturally, Sam was relieved when he felt another mind connect into the web of shared thoughts, even if it was just Jacob. - 'Did it just happen to you too? Are you the only one as well?' - Sam asked with anxiety. - 'Yes. I can't hear Seth or Embry or Quil. You?' - Jake informed about his current situation. - 'I can't hear anyone either. Do you know what's happening?' - Yet this time, Jacob was silent.

He didn't know what was going on. The only thing he knew was that he has to protect his territory by all costs - and that something is going on around Forks.

A few days later, road 101:

"You are now tuning into Radio Forks on 140.5 FM. The weather is nice today, but remember to be careful on the roads anyway. On a request from our listener, we will now play The Violet Hour by Sea Wolf... Take it away." - A woman in the radio said, her voice mashing up into happy guitar rhythms in the end. The song was nice and fast, so it made you dance in the seat of your Beetle while you gripped on the steering wheel. The car was most probably at least twice as old as you were, it wasn't in the best condition and the stereo was also kind of shit, and the AC worked only when you pulled out the lighter out, but it was still your car in the end. Well, you couldn't afford anything better from a teacher payment anyway - the Beetle never gave up on you, it had never malfunctioned and even if it did eat a lot of fuel, you still loved the car.

Now, you were on your way to Tacoma because of the work you've been given there - starting in a few weeks, you've already had moved most of your stuff into the new apartment which you shared with a roommate. It was exciting, starting another stage of your life in Tacoma. Sure, your mom was a bit scared when you told her how far you were moving out, but you promised to call and text her all the time, so she would be calm.

But before your final settling down in Tacoma, your friends advised you to take a short trip along the western coast - especially the upper part of it. So you did as they told you - you were now close to some small town named Forks, which you wanted to just drive through quickly, before continuing to Port Angeles. These towns were small and hadn't much to offer, but according to your friend, it was magical to stay there, even just for a while. So far, you hadn't stopped in many towns, but you had to say that you liked the weather - hot, sunny days? You were starting to question them after spending a week on the road. The higher you got in Washington, the more cloudy and rainy it got. More importantly, it was freezing in this part of the world. What was the sun? You didn't know. You hadn't seen it since you entered the deep, green, and rainy woods of the state. The roads were always slipping from the rain, so you had to focus on the damn road at all times.

There was deer here and there on the road, but even if the view was mostly the same, you liked it. The air was cold and humid even though, in the nights and sometimes even during the day, it got very cold up here. You've chosen to move to Tacoma, didnt you? This was what you should be prepared for.

Quickly, you glanced over the map to see if you're still on the right road when your eyes widened in horror. The motor just made a damn weird sound. Oh no. Oh crap! You cried out internally as you felt the car slowing down. All you did was to ride to the roadside with panic as the car made a few very unpleasant sounds before the engine stopped completely. The Forks sign was mocking you from the distance, telling you that you were just a small while from the city. So much for just passing through, huh? Without too much waiting, you tried to call the local post office, the only number you had on your phone and to your surprise, the woman knew a number on the local mechanic. Why wouldn't she? According to the number on the board, this town was damn small.

Or, maybe, a lot of people called her and asked her for a towtruck.

More so, she switched you over to the workshop just moments after. You've been sitting in the car, already having your winter jacket pulled on since it was getting cold in there rapidly, watching the damn sign just mocking you silently. You were in the temptation to stick your tongue out, but it was just a dumb sign. - "Jacob Black on the phone, what can I do for you?"

First off, the voice, regarding the polite question, sounded almost fed up and annoyed - and you haven't spoken out yet. Someone had a bad day. Second of all - the man sounded quite young. Did the post-office-lady switch you to a bad number? - "Hello? Is someone out there?" - The Jacob mechanic asked again. The tone, again, was unpleasing to listen to. But this time, you gathered yourself to answer. - "Yea, yea. Hi, I got your number? They told me you're the Forks mechanic with a towtruck? Is that right?" - You quickly got out of yourself. While you were talking, you got out of the car and walked around the car in circles, trying to warm yourself up. Which was borderline foolishness when it was drizzling outside, but whatever. - "Where you're stuck? What happened?" - The man said without a hint of caring about the topic.

"My car just... Stopped suddenly." - You described. After a quiet sigh, you could almost hear the Jacob man rolling his eyes. - "I'm just a few yards from the Forks welcome sign. Can you help me or should I call someone else?" - Wow, you got straight to the point. Damn, you didn't need some fed up, annoyed mechanic. He could at least pretend to care. It wouldn't have killed him. - "Listen, miss. The nearest towtruck, except me, is in Port Angeles. If you don't wanna pay ridiculous prices for the service, it will be wise to hire me, okay? It's one mile... So I'll be asking for five bucks just to get your car to my garage, with the services and everything counted in. Is that alright?"

Again, even if the question was meant to be polite since you were his potential customer, it was said in such a manner that couldn't be described other than rude. Jacob was straightway rude with you. Also, five dollars for a mile were a bit overpriced. You could be glad that the mechanic of such backwater didn't ask for ten bucks... Let alone how much would the Port Angeles mechanic want? You had some money with you, but it wasn't much either. And for now, you had to save until you'd get to know what's wrong with your car. - "Okay. How long until you'll be here?" - You asked, now you were fed up as well. That made two of you annoyed, great conversation. - "In about... Half an hour. See you there." - And the phone line went dead. With empty gaze, you were staring into the woods with both your eyebrows raised as you listened to the long, beeping sound.

Half an hour? Did he want to let you freeze out there, in the woods, lost on the road 101? And for the love of God, you couldn't wait for the moment you'll talk with the man from eye to eye. That will be an unpleasant conversation, you could tell already. Quickly, you ran back to your car. For some time, you tried to get at least the almost non-existent heating system on, but the car was dead. It didn't even start. You were sure that you'll freeze to death before the towtruck comes to save you. And you almost did - by the time you've seen an old, big Chevy truck with a hook on its back, your mouth were already feeling your teeth-gnashing being fully set. You were hugging yourself inside the car, there was mist slowly coming out of your lips. Well, this was bad.

The man jumped out of the towtruck, watching your car in horror. How old was this thing? Sixty years? Well, it was certainly older than its owner, who was sitting inside. It could be told you weren't used to such cold, because you were looking as if you were about to die any minute. With your eyebrows knitted, you watched the man approaching your window. The first thing that punched you in the eyes was the fact he was wearing just a plain, short-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of old jeans. The man also had long hair pulled into a man bun and damn, these eyes could start shoot bolts of lightning at any time.

He also was... Huge. You'd swear you hadn't seen a man who would take as much space as him. This man was at least six feet tall... And a lot of inches more. As he approached you, you suddenly felt the need to scold him down about politeness fading away. As he knocked onto the window, you rolled it down with a super awkward smile, feeling every inch of you being scared by the man. As soon as you rolled the window down, the man leaned both his palms into the door - with a glance, you figured out he would be able to just break the door if he'd want to, and leaned closer to you.

"You were the one that called?" - The man asked, annoyed once more. So, this was Jacob Black himself - the local mechanic in all his glory. A freaky dude, in your opinion. - "Yep. 't was me." - You peeped out while trying to keep the smile on. Jacob straightened up and sighed, looking away from you for a moment. The way you were smiling, as if you weren't feeling physically well, was giving him the creeps too, don't you worry about it. - "Get out, I'll help this bad boy up." - Jacob patted your car's top. For a moment, you were afraid that the car might break down to pieces as the cartoon cars did - the trunk would fall, the tires would roll away and you would be sitting there on the seat with the steering wheel in your palms. That, thank God, didn't happen.

As the man worked on pulling your car up so you could drag it to the workshop, you could ask him a ton of questions - why was he naked in the middle of such weather? Was being pissy his all-around mood? How was he doing? Yet out of respect, you were just standing there with the same terrifying smile and watching him doing all the job. If you weren't standing there and if you weren't watching him without moving, he'd have so much easier job. Jacob would just take the car, drag it to the hook and click to place - but solely because of your stare, he had to pretend he was struggling with the task a bit. Yet even though he was pretending to struggle, he was done in a few minutes. - "Well, get into the trunk. We don't want you to get... Cold." - Jacob spoke out to you carefully, trying to lower the level of annoyance in his voice.

It was just a simple misunderstanding - while Jacob was worried that the weather around here, to which you quite obviously weren't accommodated to, had done something to the muscles in your face, you were just worried that the man might do something to you if you say something wrong. That was the whole problem. You couldn't know that Jacob wouldn't ever hurt anyone and he couldn't know you're just afraid of big boys. With a nod, you walked to the cabin of the old Chevy truck. It was pretty old, but taken care of - the black paint wasn't that old, it was still shiny in the drops of rain.

The way to the workshop was as quiet as hell - and uncomfortable the same. Jake didn't know what he did wrong and how to start a conversation with you. Honestly, you were just glad that the cabin of his truck was nicely warm. The color got back into your face in no time. And seemingly, the worried smile had disappeared as well. The way was quick - sooner than you'd say, Jacob already had the car inside his workshop. - "So, here's what I'm going to do. I'll check your car, see what's wrong and what can I do for you. You wanna a coffee, tea, or a cup of hot chocolate in the meantime? There are some magazines in the waiting room too, if you're interested." - The man looked at you while he cleaned his palms in the rug. - "The chocolate sounds nice if you don't mind." - "That's a buck worth of excess fare." - He mumbled to you, but walked to his office, getting the coffee machine ready. You almost wanted to tell him something back - yet just at that moment, the man turned his head at you.

His palm quickly pulled a strand of his black hair behind his eyes while his brown, warm eyes gave you a look. - "I was joking. It's counted into the services." - Jacob explained quickly. Oh. You nodded. It didn't sound like a joke, but who were you to judge that. Were all the people in Forks like this? If they were, well, this was sure a great place to live at. Just after he put the small cup on the table in the waiting room, he made sure the heating is on in there. After that, he disappeared into the workplace. All you could hear was some quiet music and rattling of tools as Jacob got into work.

All you did was that you sat there like a small kid, sipping on the warm treat. It was making you feel a bit better. Suddenly, the man almost kicked the door, standing in there with a horrified expression. - "How old is the car?" - Jacob asked simply, rubbing his palms into the rug again. Something in his eyes told you he's being freaked out by what he had seemed. - "I don't know. I bought it six years ago from my neighbor who was forbidden to drive because she couldn't see anymore." - You answered immediately, standing up to look the man in his eyes. - "I don't know how did it drive for so long. This is a wreck." - The mechanic informed you and turned on his heels, marching back to the shop. When you didn't get his hint and didn't follow, he turned his head at you and rose his eyebrow. You were there in no time at all.

"I don't even know where to start. The AC is busted, the hoses in the engine are clogged by various stuff, your alternator... Wow, I'm wondering that it's one piece..." - He was pointing his fingers around, talking about the breaks, some small parts, and various other stuff. - "Um, Mr. Black, I don't understand what you're trying to say, so... Can you get to the point? What is wrong and how much will it cost to repair the car?" - The expression you had on your face told Jacob that you, indeed, were confused as hell. He knew women, Rosalie Hale and such, who were into cars massively, so he would never say that cars were just a 'guy thing' - yet there were people who just weren't gifted in this sort of thing. - "Uh, I think it might be better to just buy some new car," - Jacob started, but your face told him you weren't thinking about leaving the beloved Beetle behind. - "Or, I can try to figure out what to do, yeah." - Suddenly, he walked to his small desk and started to work with his calculator, writing things down on a list. Then, he showed you how much you were about to pay - and the sum made you sit on the chair he had there. With a long sigh, you leaned your elbows to your knees, trying to keep it together.

700 dollars with his work counted in. That was quite something - somehow, you were positive that Jacob Black gave you a pity-discount as well. Sure, you had something saved - but you needed to eat something in Tacoma and 700 bucks wouldn't be healthy for your dying bank account. As a university student, you had multiple loans and stuff, you also had to pay the rent... And certainly, you didn't have spare 15.000 bucks to buy a new car. And you needed one. With a shaky sigh, you put your head to your palms and tried to keep it together. - "It will take me at least two weeks to get all the parts I need and then... Listen, I didn't know the car's this bad either." - Suddenly, you realized that the man is standing next to you, smoothing your shoulder. He could understand people in bad financial situations - he hadn't much himself, though it was significantly better than when he was younger.

He wanted to help you somehow, but the parts were simply too expansive against his liking. Especially for something like the Beetle in front of him. This bad boy needed to take care of everything - and Jacob, sure of his experience with old cars, knew he can repair it... Somehow. - "Is there a motel somewhere out here? Do you know the prices?" - You asked silently. Dear God, were you crying? What should he do? A crying woman, when did he encounter a situation tricky as this one the last time? His brain circuits almost burned up when he thought about what should he do with you. And suddenly... The small bulb was there. - "Um, are you a murderer or something like that?" - Jacob mumbled, trying to joke - and to his surprise, you joked back. - "I won't be killing anyone for you to repair my car with a discount." - This made him chuckle.

"That's good to know. I'll present you an idea, okay? Since I'm now sure you're not so mentally okay..." - "What did you say?" - Suddenly, you sprang up, making Jacob grin even more as he walked around the room. - "Nothing. All I'm saying is... The motel could get expansive for a long-term stay and I have one spare room above the shop. It's used for visitors mostly, so nothing you'd have to worry about. I'll ask ten bucks for a week and it would be kinda fine if you'd buy some food sometimes... And if you'd like to, you can help me out here - and in exchange for that, I'll give you a discount. I think I can lower the sum to 500, maybe 450 if I'll be lucky. I have to make something outta this, you know?" - The man leaned his ass into the car standing behind him, smiling at you carefully. Okay, this sure as hell was an act of pettiness, you could tell just by the look he gave you. But, honestly, he didn't seem to be that bad now.

Also, this was genuinely nice of him. When you imagined how much you'd pay for the motel, the car, and your food altogether, just for the two-week stay, your eyes rolled on their own. - "Why are you doing this?" - You asked quietly. You appreciated the help, you did, but it was strange. Maybe, if everyone was like the mechanic Jacob Black in Forks, the town wasn't half bad. - "Listen, I'm not some dude who would be into a kidnapping or other weird stuff... I just know how it's like not to have much money. You're young, driving this piece of crap, what do you work as, might I ask?" - "A teacher. I'll be starting in Tacoma this September." - Jacob didn't answer to your answer, he just rose his eyebrows to get his point across. - "Take it or leave it. That's all I'm saying." - "You also did miss the fact that I don't know cars at all." - There you were again, the joking-around girl he had seen just a few moments before. - "I also didn't say you'd get near my cars, God protects you if you'd try to do so. I have... Uh... Some problems with the administration if you wouldn't mind. Paperwork isn't my thing and picking up calls isn't my stick either." - "I've noticed."

For a moment, you've been looking at the dude in dead silence. Well, it was a risky plan - but you weren't in the position to do much more. Jacob gave you the best possible alternative you could hope for, it was just because he, under all the annoyance, could maybe be a pretty reasonable guy. - "I'll take your offer, only if I can tell the chief of local police that I'm staying in this workshop." - Jacob snorted at your condition, but he needed to say it was fair enough. - "Sure. So... Is that a deal?" - The man offered you a palm and you stood up, shaking it. - "It is a deal, Mr. Black. Name's Y/N, by the way. You probably should know that."

#a white demon love song #such a great song #omg #jacob black x reader #jacob black #the twilight saga #twilight saga #twilight renessaince #twilight crackheads #forks washington #the olympic peninsula #la push #the quileutes #lemme start another story babey

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ilovemybarricadebabies · 4 years

Text

Another Round of Fanfic Asks

Again I know that these are supposed to be asks, but I’m taking a break from editing my latest fic and this seemed fun to do. It’s these questions that I’m doing this time.

Behind the Scenes of Fic Writing: 30 Questions for Authors

1. What was the first fandom and/or pairing that you wrote fic for?

I first started writing fanfic for the 2012 CW reboot of Beauty and the Beast for Vincent and Catherine. But these fics have since been deleted. I didn’t write fanfic again until 2015.

2. Do you participate in any writing events or challenges throughout the year? If so, what do you like about them?

No, I don’t. I would like to one day, but right now, I’m content just writing whatever I want to write, whenever I want to.

3. Do you write fics from start to finish, or skip around?

Start to finish. I need to go in order of events or I get all confused.

4. Do you outline before you start writing? If so, how far do you stray from that outline?

I create some form of outline. For the most part, I don’t stray, but every once in awhile it will happen.

5. What is the perfect environment for you to write in?

I prefer to write in the comfort of my own home, but I can write from anywhere. The only thing is that if I’m writing in public, my back and the screen NEEDS to be facing a wall, so that people can’t read over my shoulder and the screen brightness is turned all the way down.

6. If you’re really concentrating, how many words can you write in a day?

I don’t have an exact number, but it’s a lot.

7. Which part of writing do you struggle with the most?

Connecting things from plot point A to plot point B, and so on. This is where writer’s block tends to come in the most.

8. Do you listen to music while you write? If so, share a song that’s been inspiring you lately.

I need background noise while I write whether that be the TV or music. I can’t have silence. But if I’m listening to music it’s either a playlist or a Taylor Swift album.

9. Do you prefer to write AU’s, canon divergence, or canon-compliant fic?

AU’s. I think I would fuck up writing anything canon, especially for Les Mis. I know for a fact that I would never get the voice/language right for writing 19th century France.

10. Do you enjoy writing dialogue, exposition, or plot the most?

Plot first (I spend a lot of time thinking about it), dialogue second, and exposition third. Exposition is the hardest for me.

11. If you could only write angst, fluff, or smut for the rest of your life, which would it be?

I love all three very much, but if I have to choose it would be fluff.

12. Is there a trope you haven’t written yet, but really want to?

A story about going away to war, with the love letters, and then the despair/grief when the person you love is MIA and waiting for them to hopefully come home.

13. Is there a trope you wouldn’t write if it was the last trope on earth?

I’m sure there are, but I can’t think of any right now.

14. If you were stuck on a desert island with only two character, which would you pick?

Enjolras and Grantaire, hands down.

15. A Hollywood producer tells you that they want to film just one of your fics. Which fic would you want it to be?

Enemy of Love

16. What is your most underrated fic?

I personally believe it’s Forever Was In His Eyes.

17. What fic are you most proud of?

My upcoming fic, Beating of Our One Heart, because I pushed myself out of my comfort zone.

18. What is a line/scene you’re really proud of? Give us the DVD commentary for that scene.

~~~SPOILER ALERT FOR ENEMY OF LOVE! DON’T READ THIS ANSWER IF YOU DON’T WANT TO BE SPOILED!~~~

The scene where Thierry appears to Enjolras as a ghost.

Commentary: This was the scene that spawned the whole story. It was always going to be Thierry that forced Enjolras to admit that he has fallen in love with Grantaire. Forcing him to come to terms that Thierry wasn’t coming back. Without this scene, the story would have been incomplete. This is the scene that is probably the turning point in the story. The point in the story where Enjolras lets go of his dead lover, and sets out to earn Grantaire’s forgiveness, love, and make up for the pain he’s caused him.

19. Who is the easiest/hardest character to write about? Why?

It’s both easy and hard to write Enjolras because my version of him is me half projecting myself on him (the easiest part to write) and the other half is making sure to get his passion for his country, people, and his activism in the story (the hardest part to write).

20. This question was originally what’s your favorite minor character you’ve written, but I’m changing it to who’s your favorite original character that you’ve created?

I have three. Casey from Begin Again. Thierry from Enemy of Love. Cameron from Beating of Our One Heart who no one, but me has met yet.

21. What is the one fic that got away?

I’m not 100% sure what this question is asking, but no fic has really ever gotten away from me.

22. Have you cried while writing a fic?

YEP! I cried writing Forever Was In His Eyes, and I still cry whenever I re-read it.

23. If you had to remix one of your own fics, which would it be and how would you remix it?

Um...I’m not really sure, tbh.

For the next few questions, I’m going to do all of my fics. To avoid spoilers, I’m leaving Beating of Our One Heart off of these lists.

24. How did you come up with title for [x fic]?

Where He Went: The title came from the book, Where She Went by Gayle Foreman (which this fic is very loosly inspired by), so I just changed the pronoun, and voila, I had my title.

Forever Was In His Eyes: This title is a lyric from the song “Cry” by Mandy Moore, but the lyric is originally “forever was in your eyes”, so once again I just changed “your” to “his” and I had my title.

The Enjolras Guide to Weddings and Love: I just took the title of the musical, A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder, and changed it fit my story.

So Let the Words Slip Out of Your Mouth: A lyric from the song, “The Words” by Christina Perri.

Right Seems Wrong, Wrong Seems Right: Taken from Marius’s line in “Red and Black”.

Somethings Are Meant to Be: E and R were pre-destined mates in this story, so they were “meant to be”.

Poison and Wine: I was listening to the song of the same name from The Civil Wars, and it just seemed perfect for this story.

Enemy of Love: The title came from a quote from episode 22 of season 3 of Once Upon a Time.

I’m Falling, but Who Will Catch Me?: I had the plot planned, so I just took the plot and turned it into a title.

Wildest Dreams: The whole plot is a dream, so...I think that’s self-explanatory.

Begin Again: E and R were being united after years apart, so they are beginning again. Very cliché, but I don’t care.

Will You Love Me Tomorrow?: It took forever to come up with a title for this story, but one day I was listening to the song of the same name by Carole King, and it just seemed right.

Never Let Me Go: Grantaire is first with Christian, and then with Enjolras. One of them is abusive; the other is not. Christian is relentless in letting Grantaire go; even though it would break his heart, Enjolras would let Grantaire go if he was asked to.

25. Which idea came to you first in [x fic]?

~~~DON’T READ THE ANSWERS TO THIS QUESTION IF YOU DON’T WANT TO BE SPOILED~~~

Where He Went: the conversation on the Brooklyn Bridge, E and R were separated, and Grantaire was a musician

Forever War In His Eyes: the whole fic came at once since it’s based on A Walk to Remember.

The Enjolras Guide to Weddings and Love: I knew there was a wedding and a fake relationship, that was all.

So Let the Words Slip Out of Your Mouth: I knew Enjolras wasn’t able to say I love you, that was it.

Right Seems Right, Right Seems Wrong: I don’t really remember, but what I knew was that it contained a teacher-student relationship and a one night stand.

Somethings Are Meant to Be: E and R were mates and they were going to have a baby.

Poison and Wine: Enjolras wasn’t Grantaire’s soulmate, but they still found love in each other.

Enemy of Love: As mentioned above when Thierry came to Enjolras as a ghost.

I’m Falling, but Who Will Catch Me?: E and R going round and round in a dance of pining and feelings for many and many years.

Wildest Dreams: It was inspired by another fic, so I can’t take credit for the idea.

Begin Again: the moment Enjolras realized that the reason Grantaire left was because he was pregnant and the following conversation.

Will You Love Me Tomorrow?: Grantaire had amnesia and he and Enjolras were engaged to be married.

Never Let Me Go: Grantaire had an abusive boyfriend and needed to escape him

26. What part of [x fic] was the hardest to write?

Where He Went: keeping the elephant in the room as long as possible as E and R explored NYC.

Forever Was In His Eyes: This was easy for me to write

The Enjolras Guide to Weddings and Love: this too was easy for me to write

So Let the Words Slip Out of Your Mouth: Again easy to write.

Right Seems Wrong, Wrong Seems Right: Nothing was really hard to write, but I had to grapple with the fact that the type of relationship that is in this story was one that people, as well as myself, deem inappropriate.

Something Are Meant to Be: Not having Enjolras reveal that he loved Grantaire before he was ready.

Poison and Wine: This was pretty easy to write too

Enemy of Love: Enjolras fighting his feelings for Grantaire

I’m Falling, but Who Will Catch Me?: Making Enjolras’s reluctance to be with Grantaire because of fear, and not because he didn’t love him, believable.

Wildest Dreams: Again fairly easy

Begin Again: Again fairly easy.

Will You Love Me Tomorrow?: Keeping the dual/alternating timelines straight

Never Let Me Go: the moments when E and R tell each other of their respective abusive relationships

27. If you were ever to do a sequel to [x fic], what would happen?

*Most of these I’ve never thought about what a sequel would be, so...yeah.

Where He Went: A sequel is coming, so I can’t talk about it.

Forever Was In His Eyes: Grantaire being reunited with Enjolras in the afterlife.

The Enjolras Guide to Weddings and Love: E and R navigating the change in their relationship from friendship to romantic.

So Let the Words Slip Out of Your Mouth: They would still be together, but Enjolras still wouldn’t say “I love you” very often.

Right Seems Wrong, Wrong Seems Right: E and R navigating their relationship now that it’s not a secret anymore.

Something Are Meant to Be: Them raising their sons to the best of their ability.

Poison and Wine: Grantaire finally starting to believe that Enjolras loves him, even though they aren’t soulmates.

Enemy of Love: I have no idea.

I’m Falling, but Who Will Catch Me?: Again, no idea.

Wildest Dreams: Them in a relationship, working toward the life in Enjolras’s dream

Begin Again: A sequel one-shot collection is coming, so I can’t talk about it, either.

Will You Love Me Tomorrow?: No idea.

Never Let Me Go: The sequel for this would probably be what would happen if Enjolras’s abuser got out of jail early and him coming after Enjolras.

28. In [x-fic], what is a happy, post-fic headcanon you have about [pairing]?

*I’m leaving the ones that have definitive sequels coming off this list.

Forever Was In His Eyes: R and E getting to live together in the afterlife. Finishing up Enjolras’s bucket list with the things they couldn’t do before he died.

The Enjolras Guide to Weddings and Love: E and R going on their first date

So Let the Words Slip Out of Your Mouth: E and R having a lie-in the morning after Enjolras tells him he loves him.

Right Seems Wrong, Wrong Seems Right: This one is more takes place in the fic, but you don’t see it, E and R going to IKEA and picking out furniture for their apartment.

Somethings Are Meant to Be: Them introducing Jace to Sébastien (the new baby) that is mentioned in the epilogue of this story after Enjolras gives birth.

Poison and Wine: This one takes place in the fic before Enjolras comes home with it, Grantaire writing his name on every inch of Enjolras’s skin in Sharpie to make sure his name is somewhere on Enjolras

Enemy of Love: The morning after the fic ends, Grantaire spends it drawing Enjolras in the nude.

I’m Falling, but Who Will Catch Me?: The proposal where the promise ring becomes the engagement ring.

Wildest Dreams: Enjolras explaining to Grantaire what he saw in the dream

Will You Love Me Tomorrow?: Their honeymoon

Never Let Me Go: Grantaire finishes moving his stuff from his apartment to Enjolras, then them spending the night christening the apartment that is now officially theirs.

29. Send me a word. If it’s your WIPs, include the sentence and a short summary of the fic.

Since I have no word, I’m just going to choose a sentence from Beating of Our One Heart to use, but there will be NO summary.

Grantaire arrived at headquarters at 8:45 A.M. with coffee in hand, the next morning.

30. Tell us an idea for a longfic you want to write in the future.

This is a story that I already have a basic plotline for, but I want to do a Prince and the Pauper AU where Grantaire is mistaken to be a French socialite and gets swept up in the world, falling in love with Enjolras in the meantime.

#fanfic asks #personal post #ask game #long post #fic writing

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damnjk · 6 years

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no replacements found

So I can’t say that I’m finished, or satisfied with this. I kind of started off well, then it went downhill because of the lack of motivation lmao. If you want me to do another part, I will.

love you.

warning: swearing?

words: 1, 944

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confusion / kənˈfjuːʒ(ə)n / noun / uncertainty about what is happening, intended, or required.

His touch felt like fire on your skin, sending thousands waves of warmth towards your heart. Your eyes followed him as he went up to the barista, who was writing down your orders.

He flashed his signature smile, that could make every girl’s jaw drop. Not only that, he put the cherry on top with his flirtatious wink, luring them in with his gesture. He was drop dead gorgeous, just like that.

When he got back, the whiff of the freshly brewed coffee hit you, making both your mouthes water in anticipation. Shawn handed you your coffee, smiling when your hands touched.

“There you go, hun.” He softly said, before taking his own. “Thanks, you didn’t have to pay for me though.” You laughed, brows slightly furrowed.

“Maybe, but I want to.”

His words made you all warm inside, your grin widening. The thought of you sitting in your favorite cafe, at your favorite table, with your favorite person filled you with great happiness.

His eyes looked out of the window, swearing he felt himself shiver just at the sight of the amount of snow that was covering everything with it’s bright whiteness.

Then he moved his gaze to the girl who took their orders, chuckling as she moved hers away from him, a small blush covering her petite face.

“She’s cute,” He mumbled, the small smile never fading.

“Right?”

Turning to you, who sat with a now slightly saddened smile, which got him questioning. As if he pulled you out of a trance, you swiftly forced a big grin, slowly nodding. “Yeah, I mean she seems nice.” You coughed, hiding the big lump that formed in your throat.

“I know, which means I’m lucky I got her number.”

The boy in front of you laughed, pulling out a piece of paper with a rushed handwriting that read ‘call me ;)’ and a number scribbled down on it along with a small heart and a name signed at the end.

Meghan.

There you sat, squirming in your seat with guilt and pure chaos filling a pit in your stomach. Tears pressed against the corner of your eyes, threatening to spill right in front of the boy you secretly had feelings for, but he was too busy staring at the other girl that slowly won him over.

You were supposed to feel happy for him, excited that your best friend found someone that pinched his interest, but you couldn’t, and you felt guilty for that. you were so sold that he felt the same, hell, you were about to confess tonight.

At least Meghan helped you, in some kind of way. She made you realize that his flirting and the pet names were only a part of his personality, his charm. And she saved you from all a huge fiasco that supposedly were bound to happen.

“Uh, shawn? I actually don’t feel so well right now, so I’m gonna head home a little earlier, okay?”

Instead of frowning, he gave you a smile and told you that he hoped you’d feel better soon, then went back to sipping his warm drink, casting subtly flirty looks at the barista.

“Bye!” He yelled as you tearfully went out the door, and into the cold.

parting / ˈpɑːtɪŋ / noun / the action of leaving or being separated from someone.

When shawn started dating the barista, you were the first one he told. He rambled about how beautiful she looked, or how amazing and sweet she was to him. But the more you listened, the more you could feel your heart breaking.

It was like he, himself had the thumping muscle in his hands, ripping small pieces off. Your time with him decreased, and the excuses increased. “What happened yesterday? you were supposed to come over for movie night?” You whispered, saddened due to the lack of your best friends presence.

“Sorry, babe. got kind of caught up in something with Meghan, can I make it up to you with pizza and movies tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, me and Meghan were thinking to stay in together, uh, just kind of us two.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s fine” You forced out, trying you best to keep your voice from cracking. “Baby? who are you talking to?” Suddenly you heard a feminine voice on shawn’s end, who you guessed belonged to the girl he was just talking about.

“I gotta go, y/n” And with that, he ended the call, leaving you with a single tear sliding down your cheek.

replacement / rɪˈpleɪsm(ə)nt / noun / the action or process of replacing someone or something / a person or thing that takes the place of another.

“H-hey, shawn. uh, I were just calling you to see how you’ve been, y’know, since it’s been weeks? Just wanted to know if you’re not like dead or something.”

You let out a small, fragile laugh that used to make his heart swell, but now it was filled with sadness and pain that he knew you were hiding.

“And it was kind of worrying when you didn’t pick up the phone or anything, so I hope you’re at least listening to this, and if you are, please send me a message or call me, okay?”

He could hear the slight despair that were laced with your words, and he felt bad about all of this. Yet instead of replying, he turned it off, and put it at the counter, and went over to his girlfriend that was cuddled up on his couch. Meghan lazily smiled, twirling her hair around her finger.

“Hi, baby. Was that y/n, again?”

She rolled her eyes when she mentioned his best friends name, frowning when he nodded.

“Yeah, don’t worry, hun, she’s just-”

“Being clingy as hell. You do know you can block her?”

“I mean, I really shouldn’t, babe. She’s my best friend and she was just checking in on us.” Instead of her understanding, she got up and angrily stomped out of his condo before he could say anything else.

Sighing, he buried his face in his hands and chuckled to himself. He knew this would happen. She wasn’t like her at all.

Meghan could never be the sweet, caring and gorgeous y/n that he loved.

yearn / jəːn / verb / have an intense feeling of longing for something, typically something that one has lost or been separated from.

His heart harshly beat against his chest, breath caught in his throat at the sight of you. It had been months since he had seen you, and maybe he started to miss you. Yeah, he definitely did, but he knew he couldn’t or at least he shouldn't. Cause he was the one who started this, with all of his bullshit.

Shawn knew that y/n’s patience was running out. Your voicemails were getting fewer and shorter. It was like you were slipping right through his fingers.

Your hair flowed in the slight breeze that hit you, a small smile rested on your face as you were talking to somebody on your phone.

You seemed happy.

But the smile faded quickly as you eyes landed on him, a sliver of anger glowed in your eyes, and he watched as you quickly excused yourself from the phone call.

Yet he sent you a smirk, following with his wink. It made you sick to your stomach. How could he act like nothing happened? But you still couldn’t keep the butterflies from fluttering at the flirtatious gesture.

“Hey y/n! Long time no see, eh?” He chuckled, trying to lighten the tension.

You hated it, you hated how just his smile made you weak in the knees, or how a single word could make you melt inside.

“Oh, so now you care?”

“Babe, I wasn’t trying to actually avoid you, it’s just been busy with, you know, Meghan and the studio, album and stuff.”

Shawn nervously scratched his neck, breaking the eye contact when he saw the slightest flash of hurt mirror your eyes. “Yeah, meghan.” You lightly mumbled, mentally face palming yourself.

Of course he was still with her.

“Uh, how are you guys doing?”

“We’re doing fine.” He assured you, forcing out a small smile.

“Good to hear.” And with that, you walked away from him.

heartbroken / ˈhɑːtbrəʊkən /adjective / suffering from overwhelming distress.

Your mind was racing. Should you give him a chance? What if he only talked to you to be nice? Was he still going strong with Meghan? Was this a good idea in the first place?

Step by step, you neared his door, placing three gentle knocks on the door. footsteps could be heard from the other side, coming closer and closer. Soon it opened, revealing the same girl that took your orders at the cafe.

“Hi! you must be y/n, nice to meet you!”

She stretched out your hand, that you unwillingly shook. Then you noticed something.

Was she wearing your clothes?

The ones you left at shawn’s? That’s when the anger began boiling.

“Hi, meghan. uh, is Shawn here?” You watched as her expression became icy cold, like a damn ice queen. “Shawn, baby? Someone’s here for you.” She sent you a fake smile before stepping aside, letting Shawn through.

“O-oh, hi Y/n. What are you doing here?”

“I came here to try to make things right, but I guess you have some other ideas.”

“W-what?” He stammered, keeping his gaze at his feet.

“That’s my fucking hoodie, Shawn.”

The singer looked up and saw his girlfriends clothing, that, yes, was yours.

“I’m sorry- I”

“What has happened to you shawn? We met yesterday and you didn’t seem have any trouble at all, but now, in front of your girlfriend you have a little trouble?”

With eyes widening he looked up only to see Meghan running off, with basically steam coming out of her ears.

“No, it’s not like-”

“Cut the bullshit shawn, what’s been happening for the past five fucking months?”

“I’ve been trying to replace you, okay?!” He shouted.

“Because I knew you would never feel what I’ve been feeling for the past four years we’ve known each other! Because I knew that I needed someone who was willing to love me! I tried so fucking hard to search for someone who looked like you, but.”

“But what?”

“But they were never you.”

mend / mɛnd / verb / repair (something that is broken or damaged).

It had been days. You’ve still not heard anything after the day you up and left his apartment. As bad as it sounds, you couldn’t think of anything else. But you knew you deserved how horrible you felt after that. His confession brought tears to you, your ice cold heart thawed. Anxiously you’ve sat beside your phone, waiting for something, a message, call, anything. And suddenly he did. you jumped up as soon as his contact popped up on your screen, accepting it. “Shawn?”

“y/n?” He whispered, voice slightly cracking.

“Are you okay, Shawn?” No matter what he had done to you, you could never stop him from getting to your heart. Just the thought of him hurt brought tears to your eyes.

“I-I’m so so fucking sorry I-”

Sobs raked through his chest, stopping him mid sentence.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you away, I-I shouldn’t have tried to replace you, I’m so fucking stupid.”

“You are not stupid, shawn peter raul mendes.” your firm, yet soft voice soothed him. A single tear falling onto your cheek.

“How? How can you even talk to me right now, after what i’ve done?”

“because i love you.”

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jessefferguson · 6 years

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My Double Life: 5 Years And Going

It’s been a LONG TIME since I wrote one of these, so I figured now was as good a point as any.

Words, spoken out loud, are funny. They can mean very different things.

Try this one:

I am still here.

and

I am still here.

Both of those are the best summary I can think of for how I feel today since today, May 21, is the 5th anniversary of when I was diagnosed with cancer. Five years ago, I sat in a sweltering doctors office in Washington, D.C. as he told me the results of my first biopsy. Five years later, I still have it.

After 5 years, I have two conflicting emotions: I’m still here (thank God) and I’m still (only) here. Five years later, not much has really changed but, also, everything has.

Over the 5 years, I’ve sort of lived a double life – that of a cancer patient and that of a political operative. Sometimes they overlap but, more often than not, they’re separate worlds.

By my best count, over the 5 years, I’ve had 4 surgeries, 33 days of radiation, upwards of 60 rounds of either chemotherapy or targeted therapy, about 75 blood tests, and 150 doctors’ appointments. And over the same 5 years, I’ve worked on 191 television ads, 311 polls, thousands of press releases and speeches, spent over $100 million (of other people’s money), and sent over 40,000 of my own tweets.

I continue to believe the same thing I did – and wrote about - 5 years ago, there are three keys to getting through this sort of thing: (1) Your family and friends; (2) Doctors who are the best; (3) Doing something with your time that you love to do. Even on the worst days of work, the fact that I was doing the work I wanted to do made it that much more possible to fight a disease I did not want to deal with.

WHAT’S THE LATEST WITH ME

I’m living and working from Brooklyn, still. I decided to stay here after the Clinton campaign ended rather than move back to D.C. for a bunch of reasons – closer to my doctors at Sloan Kettering and further from Trump at the WH. Both sounded like good ideas.

For just under a year, I’ve been on a clinical trail and it’s getting some pretty good results. It’s a targeted therapy drug and I’m one of the first to apply it to my unique disease. It’s unlikely to result in me being “cured” or “cancer free” but it’s definitely shrunk the disease in my skin tissue and throughout my head, neck and chest. It’s also brought down the swelling. The swelling issues are far from gone, but they’re better. The best case is that it continues shrinking things; the next best case is it stops anything from getting worse again. Either way, it’s turned my condition to a chronic one, for now. I’ll take it.

Every three weeks I do the same routine. I book a someone to come clean my house for that morning and I take a car down to Sloan Kettering. I take a blood test. The doctor and I talk about medical stuff for a few minutes and politics for a few minutes and then he sends me for treatment. He’s not from America and has a healthy interest in all the crazy things in our politics.

It takes them about 2 hours to prepare the drug, so I have found a corner in the hospital that is usually empty for work — open the laptop, put on the head set and get to work. It’s my own cancer-center-based mobile-office. I have edited TV scripts and polls, held conference calls, did a radio interview and even convinced a donor to contribute – all from a table in a hospital waiting room. Last week’s discussion was about the placement of a media buy. It’s amazing what you can pull of when people don’t really know where you are.

The drug I’m on is an easy one – targeted therapy. It’s like a smart bomb of chemo that only goes to the cells that have the disease. The worst part is the IV, which I barely notice anymore and after 30 minutes, I’m out. On the road home to a clean house with the mild side effect of an uneasy stomach for a few days. Compared to the other drugs I’ve been on, this is like a piece of cake took a walk in a park.

How long will I stay on it? No clue. But it has made this condition chronic. If you offered me a deal today — get this treatment every 3 weeks for 30 minutes and the disease stays under control, I’d sign in a minute. I’d sign it for the next 10 years. For now, I’ll stay on it unless or until it stops working – then I’ll try something else.

WHAT HAPPENED SINCE 2016

As you may remember from my last blog post, just before election 2016, I had spent the previous 6 months working while dealing with the return of my disease.

On election night 2016, I did venture out. It wasn’t something I did often but I wanted to be with the team that night at the Javits Center in Manhattan. I could, now, try to pretend that I had doubts about the outcome of that night to try to make myself look extra smart, but that would be bullshit. I didn’t; I thought we’d win.

The beginning of that afternoon and evening were great. We were monitoring voting and doing the work we needed to do and I was also seeing some good friends who I had been away from while I worked the last few months from home.

Then, the results started and the mood changed. My heart started to sink, but I kept hoping. Florida, North Carolina, Ohio and others poured in. We knew we needed to hold Michigan, Wisconsin and Pennsylvania to make it work.

While we waited for those results, I got up to go to the bathroom. As I stood at the urinal, a friend who had better sense for numbers and data than I do, approached the stall next to me. We looked at each other with the same forlorn look of despair as if our confidence was waning. He said “I just looked at the latest data from Michigan; it’s gone.” And with that, I found out we had lost in a way befitting the occasion -- standing at a urinal.

Whether you believe we lost because of a mission from Russia or a miss in Michigan, or any other reason, one thing was clear: we lost the electoral college. It was over. And while I stared at my peers and colleagues – friends who had hired me and friends who I had hired – I couldn’t stop thinking, “What’s next?”

Despite what you might see or hear, the group who I worked with on that campaign were some of the smartest, most talented and most committed people I’ve ever had the privilege to work with. As I stared at all of them, I wonder what was next for them. As I thought about it more, I worried what was next for me.

At one point, I wandered away and ended up sitting in the middle of the massive loading dock in the Javits Center with 4 senior staff from the campaign. There where shipping boxes, fork lifts, and one table with a few plastic chairs in the middle. We all just kind of stared at each other. Someone would say something about what we should do or what we should say and we’d all agree but, for the life of me, I couldn’t tell you today what anyone said.

As the night ended, I was one of the last ones to leave. I’m not really sure why, I just couldn’t. I kept finding someone else to talk to. I was trying to be a bit of team cheerleader – as best as was possible at that moment.

At around 4:30am that night, I left the Javits center along side two reporters I had gotten to know. We walked for a bit and then they got into cabs and drove off. I just started walking. And walking. I was thinking about what had happened and what it meant for the country. And, if I’m honest, what it meant for me. I had cancer and had just devoted two years of my life to trying to win the presidency – and had failed. I just kept thinking, maybe even crying a bit, and walking.

When I looked up, it was 6 am and the sun was rising. I had walked from the Javits Center at 36th street down almost to the World Trade Center. Much like I did while wandering around the streets of Washington on May 21, 2013, I had done lots of thinking. But now it was November 9, 2016, and it was time to go back to work. I took a cab home, slept for a few hours, and opened my laptop.

WHAT HAVE I BEEN DOING SINCE

Since the campaign ended in 2016, I’ve been “consulting.” I’m still not sure what “consulting” means but it’s what I’m doing. I’m working on my own for a variety of political projects on a variety of important issues, trying to lend my experience to things where I think I can do something interesting and make a difference in the insane moment we’re in right now.

My work has ranged from the fight over the tax plan and some new digital campaign innovations, to a new polling project and an advertising campaign and others. It’s all kept me busy and kept my mind going – in the fight and doing what I love to do. The work is good cause it’s meaningful, it’s the work I want to be doing, and the variety of projects appeals to my attention-span-of-a-fruit-fly-nature.

It’s also allowed me to speak up a bit more about what I think, which has been quite a change. For the last 15+ years, I’ve always represented someone else – the DCCC Chairman, Secretary Clinton, etc. Now I’m speaking more and writing more in my own voice.

I still feel somewhat like a hermit. I live and work in my Brooklyn apartment. I get out more now than I used to, but, nothing like I did when I was healthy. When you’ve been dealing with this as long as I have, you start to lose track of what looking, feeling and being normal would be like. I get to the deli almost every morning and they know to make my eggs and have my iced coffee ready. Others around know me too. Life is easy and that’s important for me right now. One of these days, I’ll be up for making it harder again – but not yet.

THE HEALTH CARE ISSUE

The first project I took on was to help some friends with the coalition fighting the Obamacare repeal legislation. It’s been a hard-waged battle over the last 16 months to improve health care for people instead of letting it get dismantled.

But it’s also been the first time my double lives overlapped a bit. When the Affordable Care Act passed Congress, I was at my office near capitol hill, celebrating with everyone else. But it didn’t really mean anything to me. It was a good thing, but it wasn’t personal.

Seven years later, when repeal of it failed – repeal that would undercut protections for people with pre-existing conditions like I have – it was a very different moment. In fact, when the first repeal plan was pulled from the House floor, I was actually sitting at Sloan Kettering getting my chemo. I was on the phone talking with someone working with me while in the hospital room getting treated as a news alert came across my computer screen.

I don’t often invoke my own personal health care situation while working on the issue because it shouldn’t be about me. I’m fortunate and would be able to get the care I needed if I had to. But sitting there at age 37, with an IV bag dripping a toxic chemical designed to keep me alive into my arm, I certainly had a different perspective than I had 8 years earlier as an otherwise-healthy, overweight 29 year old who saw passage of the ACA as a good reason to go to the bar and celebrate.

FIVE YEARS AND COUNTING

Once and a while I think about what I could be doing if I was fully healthy. I get sad. Maybe I get mad. As I approach 38 years old at the end of this year, more and more of my friends are having their first or second child and I’m forced to think if my life would be different if I hadn’t gotten this diagnosis five years ago. For sure, it would be. But, in the end, you play the cards your dealt and make damn well sure it’s a game you enjoy. You could win big or you could lose your shirt, but either outcome has to be worth it.

Five years ago I was diagnosed with a disease that probably should have killed me. Five years later, I’m still here. When I put it that way, it actually brings a smile to my face. I know talking about having cancer isn’t something that normally is joyful but being able to do what I love while living with the disease sure beats the alternative.

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holmesoverture · 7 years

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The Telegraph Boy, Chapter 6

Chapter 1 Be Here Chapter 5 Be Here

“I was somewhat cavalier as a young man, as are most young men, so confident are they that neither age nor consequences ever shall ensnare them. It was with such jejune buoyancy that I familiarised myself with the bedrooms of London’s most dapper unnatural offenders, eventually growing careless enough to dispense with the bedrooms altogether and to enjoy the company of my many acquaintances in whatever location was most convenient and, more importantly, most thrilling.

“It was during one such encounter in a theatre that a newspaperman spied us and went directly to my father to see how he might profit by his splendid eyesight. You must forgive my vagueness when describing this event. It seems so long ago now and there was so little emotional attachment to the other gentlemen and to the venue that when I try to recall either of them, I find myself confronted with a great blank spot in my memory. Red velvet seats, a shock of dark hair, a woman’s strained soprano—trifling details are all that are left to me now. As for the newspaperman, I have my doubts as to his true motives for observing our activities, but that hardly matters now. He had observed them, and he exhibited an enthusiastic willingness to sacrifice the Walmsleys’ reputations for the sake of establishing his own.

“My father paid him well and we have never since been harried by him, but the passing of the Criminal Law Amendment Act had brought an end to my dear father’s patience. ‘You will be married immediately,’ said he, ‘to Helen Willoughby, Lord Willoughby’s eldest daughter. I am loathe to hand over a shameless wastrel such as yourself to so fair a creature, but perhaps she will succeed in domesticating your impulses where I have failed.’

“My father spoke truthfully in his assessment of Lady Willoughby. If you gave a man a hundred years to find a wife, he should never find one as loyal or as fine as my own, but there has never been a shred of true affection between us. Whatever you may think of me, I am not so much of a cur as to divulge Helen’s secrets, but suffice to say she is no more capable of loving me than I am of feeling more than platonic gratitude for her. I imagine she was well-pleased to find me gone.”

“She was not displeased,” Holmes allowed.

“Nor should I have been, were our positions inverted. Still, I have tried to make the best of our unenviable situation. We both were fully aware of our respective circumstances before our wedding and had no grand expectations of each other, so it was with a pure conscience that I pursued the company of Reuben Kendall. We met at our club and had in common both our hobbies and our restive temperaments. Perhaps you will find the sentiment abhorrent, but Reuben is dearer to me than any woman ever was to a man, and the one occasion upon which we separated plunged me into a despair such as I had never imagined.

“I had grown paranoid, you see, that we might eventually be discovered. Every man on the street, in the train, and in my clubs appeared to my eye as another newspaperman hungering for the kind of publicity that only Reuben and I could provide. I convinced myself that breaking off our relationship was for the best, and Reuben saw that I had made up my mind about it and offered little protest.

“‘I only hope that you never have cause to regret your decision,’ he said, little suspecting that I was already wishing I had bit off my tongue rather than part company.

“That evening found me at the home of a friend, one whose name I shall not reveal lest he be forced to share my fate. He was sympathetic to my situation and determined he would cheer me by bringing me to Mr Hammond’s establishment in 19 Cleveland Street. There my friend passed a pleasurable enough evening. I could not bring myself to move past the entryway, still consumed as I was by my self-inflicted sorrow. I felt quite the fool, sitting alone for nearly an hour with my hat in hand. Of far greater moment was the aftermath of that evening. No newspaperman came knocking upon my door to ransom my honour, nor did the newsboys on the street shout my wickedness to lure customers. I had done as I pleased without bringing the slightest bit of shame upon myself or my name. After a number of other such evenings, my confidence was like that of a king, and I hastened to Kendall Estate to beg Reuben’s forgiveness. That he granted it so readily is a testament to his compassionate nature and to my very good fortune.”

“And on none of those occasions did you ever venture past the entry?” I asked, incredulous.

“Not once. I had no desire for the sort of entertainment to be found there, only for the challenge the place offered me. Escaping without consequence only once could have been simple coincidence, but if such an incident occurred several times, then I could know my paranoia was just that, and that Reuben and I might have a chance together after all.

“Upon the night in question, I was in my study burning our correspondence. I do not do so for every epistle written by Reuben’s hand but on occasion we forget ourselves and compose an especially poetic yet incriminating passage that I, now a sadder and a wiser man, know would ruin the both of us. Still I was more than content with my lot in life when I heard a soft knocking upon the door. I bade the stranger to enter and in came Sally Farrier, who curtsied and asked if we might have a word. She seemed frightfully out of sorts, pale and stiff and trembling from head to foot. I assumed it to be nerves and offered her a drink to soothe her.

“I envisioned our interaction going thusly: I would fix her a drink, she would calm enough to tell me of her quandary, I would do all in my power to help her, and she would return to her work all the more contented for it. But before I had taken five steps in the direction of my desk, she spoke again. She said, ‘My brother is Alfred Farrier. He recently has found employment in Cleveland Street.’ At first I did not respond, for I knew nothing of the name she had uttered, but at the mention of Cleveland Street, my heart fairly stopped within me. Sally must have known the impact her remark would leave and stood in perfect, silent stillness, allowing ample time for her terrible words to strike home. She knew of my sins, and she had seen fit to inform me that she knew, which spoke to only two outcomes of our meeting: she intended either to blackmail me or to ensure I did not leave that room with my life. As I said, I had done nothing but sit by myself in 19 Cleveland Street, but no one but myself, my friend and Mr. Hammond were aware of this, and in any event, my mere presence in such a place would be more than enough to condemn me.

“‘What are your plans for this information?’ I asked.

“‘I’ll be honest with you, sir. When Alfred confessed to me where he got all that money, I was so angry that if you’d have been there I’d have shot you where you stood, and that’s the truth. But then I caught myself, and I thought that you being dead wouldn’t do anybody any good, least of all the ones you wronged.’

“‘So it is money you’re after.’

“‘Give us enough to leave the city and set ourselves up someplace else, someplace nice, and the pair of us won’t ever trouble you again,’ she said, nodding. Sally had become increasingly confident as she went on, more confident than ever I had seen her, and my old paranoia rose with her assuredness. Could I trust her to keep her word? Even if I gave her my fortune, my household and all within it, would she never again be tempted to benefit by her illicit knowledge? But as the silence lengthened her confidence was joined by anxiety. Seeing her fear reminded me with whom I was dealing and allowed me to take command of my own fears.

“‘I take no joy in saying such things, I assure you,’ said she, eyes wide, ‘but of all the possible outcomes of these circumstances I really think this is the most profitable for everyone involved.’

“In addition to bonds and documents and such I kept one hundred pounds in cash in my strong-box. I gave it all to Sally, much to her surprised delight. I daresay she did not fully expect her gambit to meet with such success so quickly. She finally accepted the brandy I had offered, but even as she relaxed I could hear Lady Walmsley prowling the halls. Her insomnia must have been troubling her again, but if nothing else it served to remind me that someone may look at the empty strong-box or at Sally’s abrupt departure and suspect illegal activity, so I left there a little note telling her what had happened and left the study door ajar to encourage her to find it.”

“Ah, so that’s what you wrote,” said Holmes, looking satisfied. “It was quite clever of you to rip up and throw away the blotting paper you used so that no one would read what must have been a most incriminating missive. Still, you’d have been better served by leaving your letter in some more obvious place. Lady Walmsley did not find it until after the police had been called.”

“Oh, how awful!” Lord Walmsley cried. “Oh, how foolish of me! The police haven’t caught Sally, have they?”

“Not that I’m aware. If you were to write another letter, one that is not quite so incriminating, that absolves Sally of responsibility for the missing funds, I should be glad to deliver it to one with the authority to end the chase. Lady Walmsley would certainly be glad to follow any instructions found in such a letter. But please do finish your testimony first.”

“Yes, of course, Mr Holmes. I shall do exactly as you say. The sound of Lady Walmsley’s footfalls brought the precariousness of our positions to the forefront of our thoughts. We knew we had to leave immediately to avoid suspicion and capture, but we didn’t want to risk having a cab driver see us together. By a wonderful stroke of luck, the groom’s widowed mother had taken ill that morning, and of course Lady Walmsley gave him the day to tend to her. With the stables thus abandoned and the house servants retired for the evening, it was a simple thing for us to bid a harefooted farewell to Shrewsbury House and slip out. The police will find the horse and carriage abandoned at the St Pancras station, if they have not already done so.

“For all her success, Sally Farrier was not meant for such an underhanded business. She nervously chattered the entire way to the station.

“‘I should never have even considered blackmail as a solution to my situation,’ said she, ‘but my uncle has been so very ill and would greatly benefit from a new atmosphere, and as for my dear brother, well sir, this is most kindly intended, but I feel it’s better for me to sully my own hands a little than to allow him to sully his own, thinking it’s the only way to support the three of us.’ She even recommended a friend of hers to take her place as our maid. She is a very good girl, in spite of it all, and I told her so before we parted ways.

“At the station Sally boarded an unknown train for an unknown destination. She said she would send for her relatives once she was safely away from London. What o’clock is it? Almost eleven? Well she has surely done so by now.”

“In that case, I have one final question for you. Why did you run?”

“I have had quite enough of blackmail for one lifetime. I came here intending to stay only until I could secure passage to France, where I would spend my remaining years in exile. I want to resent Sally Farrier for her actions, but now that I am forever free of the prison in which my own youthful foolishness placed me, even if I have only traded that prison for another, I am grateful it was Sally who uncovered my secret rather than someone with neither heart nor conscience.”

The ticking of the clock exploded in the silence that followed this singularly sympathetic narrative. It was soon joined by the scratching of a pen as Lord Walmsley made good on his word and cleared the good name of Sally Farrier while excluding any mention of his own indiscretions. With the missive safely in his coat pocket, Holmes rose and extended his hand.

“I wish you a safe and pleasant journey to the Continent, Lord Walmsley,” said he. “Please convey our regards to Lord Kendall.”

I shall never forget the expression of pure relief that these words brought to Lord Walmsley’s features. The toll imposed by years of dread and hiding was, for this one small moment, forgotten and supplanted by an unfettered joy that I have only rarely been privileged to witness, much less experience first-hand.

Chapter 7 Be Here

Notes of Interest

Criminal Law Amendment Act – Specifically, Section 11 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act 1885. This stupendously vague law made it illegal for two men to engage in “gross indecency.” The punishment was up to two years in prison, which was actually an improvement considering that previous punishments included life imprisonment and execution.

#sherlock holmes #the telegraph boy #my writing #confession time

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rayalez · 7 years

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The Anti-Vaxxer Sisterhood — Part 2

(Part 1 is here.)

The story of the sisterhood starts with Deb’s tragedy.

Deb wasn’t always anti-vaccine. She was married to a prominent physician, Dr. Harold Markowitz. Twenty years ago they bought 1889 Houston together and had two twin boys, Harold Jr. and David.

Although both boys were vaccinated, it was only Harold Jr. who started to have complications afterwards.

According to Deb, the day after both boys had their MMR (measles, mumps and rubella) vaccine, she had to wake Harold Jr. from his crib, unusual given that the one-year old was almost always awake by 6 am and his brother, David, had been playing noisily in the room for at least an hour that morning. Something was not right. Harold was extremely tired. He whimpered and moaned. Most shockingly, he had a red rash all over his body.

The young parents took Harold Jr. to the hospital. The doctors thought Harold Jr. must have had some allergy to something in the house, that or a virus. They prescribed some anti-biotics and sent the Markowitz’s back home, advising them to try new bed sheets in case Harold Jr. was having an allergic reaction. Harold Jr. perked up later that day and seemed back to normal by the next day. Unfortunately, the same thing happened the following week. Unlike his first episode, Harold Jr. did not bounce back so quickly. He spent a few days in the hospital before being discharged. Then, a week or so after that, he was re-admitted to the hospital, the same conditions present — extraordinary tiredness, discomfort, and the red rash.

For months this cycled continued. During this time, Deb began to notice that even when Harold Jr. was “feeling better”, he was showing almost a dulled existence. At this age, parents expect to see their children’s curiosity and mental vigor shining brighter and brighter with each passing day. With Harold Jr., the opposite was true. He seemed to be growing distant, uncommunicative, enervated.

One day, during one of his many episodes, Harold Jr. slipped into a comma and never bounced back, eventually passing a month later as his mother sat by his bedside. He was 2 years old.

For months, Deb laid in bed. She could’ve easily stayed there, but the heart wrenching loss of her child was compounded by the fact that there was no valid explanation for it. It was like the devil was playing a game with her. She needed an explanation, something that might give some closure.

People close to Deb call her a pit bull. In law school she placed at the top of her class, moving on to a large law firm where she displayed a tenacity in the courtroom that intimidated and impressed colleagues. She quit her job after marrying Harold, but she never lost her drive, often working late nights at her non-profit fundraising position and volunteering for a number of organizations on the weekends.

One day Deb decided to set her considerable persistence on finding an answer for Harold Jr’s death. No physician ever told Deb that vaccines led to Harold Jr.’s death. And for a long time, one or two years afterwards, Deb didn’t really give vaccines serious consideration. Still, though she was too embarrassed to mention it, since the first time she had awaken Harold Jr. to find that awful red rash, she had some suspicion, some nagging thought, that the vaccine might have had something to do with it. The events were just too close in time to ignore. Get a shot one day, get sick the next.

At first she didn’t’ necessarily think the vaccine itself had caused the sickness. Maybe the needle was the culprit. If it hadn’t been properly cleaned, it could have delivered an infection. Then, late one night at the NYU Medical School library, Deb spotted a journal article about the anti-vaccine movement. Her life’s purpose was about to come into focus.

The article reported on the work of Dr. Indiri Singh, an Indian-born Canadian who conventional science blames for establishing the modern anti-vaccine movement. The article was dismissive of Singh and his followers, but it peaked Deb’s interest. She ordered a copy of Dr. Singh’s most read book, Vaccine Nation, scouring it late at night when her husband, who would have disproved, was asleep.

Throughout his career, Dr. Singh posited that modern-day childhood vaccinations are at the root of a host of troubles, from inexplicable death (like with Harold Jr.) to — most famously — rapidly increasing rates of autism among children in the past few decades. Dr. Singh claimed to have performed dozens of studies showing that vaccines weren’t just correlated with increasing autism rates and other conditions, but were in fact the direct cause. None of these studies were ever peer reviewed and they’ve since been debunked by numerous researchers throughout the years. Still, Singh’s work held firm in a small, but strident subset of the population.

Singh gave talks around the US and Canada, often at Holiday Inns. Universities refused to host him. One day in early February 2002, after telling her husband she was going to do some volunteer work, Deb got into her car and drove to a presentation Dr. Singh was giving in Hoboken, NJ.

She was surprised to see a packed room, mostly made up of women but some men were in attendance as well. Singh was charismatic and convincing and Deb couldn’t help but approach him afterward. She told him about Harold Jr.’s story and they quickly bonded, keeping in touch through phone calls and emails. Singh was impressed by Deb’s intellect and, being a former trial lawyer, knew she’d make a good public speaker. He also thought his audience would appreciate seeing the “human” side of the issue, a real mom who had suffered infinite tragedy because of modern vaccination. Singh asked Deb to join him on the road.

It was a difficult decision for Deb, mostly because she knew Harold — who until then assumed his wife had only a passing interest in the safety of vaccines — would not approve. She was right. Harold was a mild-mannered man and never would have prevented his wife from doing something she wanted to do. But he had serious concerns, not so much about the presentations but more so the fact that his wife harbored such views. As a successful medical doctor, Harold thought the anti-vaccine movement was pure charlatanism and was troubled that his wife had apparently been hijacked by it. A gulf quietly started to grow between the couple.

Dr. Singh was right — Deb was a huge draw for audiences. She was a natural, but more importantly, she had a genuine story that connected the “science” to the human side of the story. She knew she was having an impact when audience members went from telling her how long they had driven to talking about how long their flights had been. In a matter of months Deb was being invited onto conservative radio and had signed a book deal with a small publisher.

The Singh-Markowski one-two punch was short-lived. In 2004, the co-presenters had a falling out. It wasn’t so much that Deb was stealing Singh’s spotlight (though that might have added a layer to it). Rather, in speeches and on radio appearances, Deb began to up the ante, espousing a new view. Not only were vaccines harmful, she said, they were made intentionally so by governments and the pharmaceutical industry. This was too radical, even for Singh. The two went their separate ways.

Deb wasn’t the first one to talk about vaccines and mind manipulation. The conspiracy theory had been floating around among the usual bunker-owning suspects for years. It’s hard to compute how an extremely bright and gifted cosmopolitan woman like Deb could start to believe it, but in some ways it’s futile to try to make sense of a person’s conspiratorial beliefs.

Almost by definition, conspiracies can’t be proven, either because they really are the just the conjuring of an overly-active mind or because the person behind the conspiracy — if it does in fact exist — has already taken steps to hide it from the light of truth. Why do people believe in the unknowable? Why does a person believe in some things that are unprovable and not believe in other things that are equally unprovable? It’s like trying to rationalize one’s faith in the divine; you can’t really make sense of it. People believe in God because people believe in God. God’s existence is not provable, yet people persist in their belief, probably because the divine is a sort of answer for them — the solution to a riddle, the centerpiece of an incomplete puzzle. To Deb, I assume, the global vaccine conspiracy was a piece that happened to fit well in the puzzle of her life.

In 2005, Deb launched her website, which quickly shot up through the ranks of popular anti-vaccine internet bastions. Very shortly after, however, another tragedy struck. Harold committed suicide.

Harold was never able to get over his son’s death, Deb says, and she knows it was this unending pain that caused him to take his life. Deb says she might have done the same thing, if it weren’t for their other son, David, and the anti-vaccine message she had been tasked to spread. She feels terrible saying it, but at the time of Harold’s passing, they had grown so distant that she found herself feeling guilty for not again experiencing the infinite sadness she did when Harold Jr. died. She was crestfallen, but her despair did not reach the depths she thought it should.

Deb continued spreading the anti-vaccine message after Harold’s death. She limited her presentations to be with David, but she put extra efforts into her book writing and webpage, all the while connecting with thousands of people around the globe, from India to Beirut. Many were like her, trying to explain the inexplicable. Why is my son autistic? How did my daughter go blind in a matter of weeks? Why was my child ripped away from me? Why aren’t doctors able to explain these horrible things?

Mothers and fathers across the globe needed an answer. In Deb, many found someone who at least purported to have one. Whether speaking the truth or not, at the very least Deb offered a culprit, something that could be blamed. For many, that was good enough.

From this congregation the sisterhood took root.

***

Deb often engaged in personal emails with people who contacted her through her website. One of them was a woman in her early 30s named Tara McConnell from Dover, New Hampshire.

Tara and her sister, Eve, had had a hardscrabble life. Their mother was an alcoholic and freelance druggy. Their father was a huckster, often in and out of the house as he pleased. He sometimes worked odd jobs, but often didn’t work at all. Around town they called him “gimp” because he walked with a slight limp. He attributed it to a Vietnam War injury; to this day, Tara has no proof he actually served. Twice she had to bail him out of jail before she could even drive, using money she had saved up while babysitting or having to borrow from aunts and uncles.

At 20 years of age Tara got married to a Brazilian transplant named Raul. Originally Raul had come to New Hampshire to marry another woman, but was promptly dumped when he lost his factory job and was unable to make the bundles of money he promised he would after opening his own chain of private gyms.

Tara and Raul met at the local community college. Tara was a night custodian; Raul had just started working as a night security guard. On the first night they met each other, they’d made love in the college library.

Like her mother, Raul was a drunk and, worse yet, possessive. He railed against Tara when he thought she had looked at another man or another man had looked at her. Sometimes he’d hit her.

Besides her sister, Tara didn’t have anyone to turn to. Her father was living on the couch of an old friend, starting to die from cancer. Her mother was still an addict, sometimes coming over to grab a bite to eat.

Tara remembers one night her mother coming over and noticing a black eye she had.

“He hit you?” her mother asked.

“No,” Tara lied.

“No, he goddamn hit you,” said her mother.

For a moment, Tara thought she was about to see something from her mother that she’d never seen before — concern.

Instead all she got was a half-drunk, insincere “tell that goddamn mother fucker to knock it off.” She then left, sandwich in hand, getting into the crappy car of some guy Tara had never seen before.

Tara got pregnant, had a baby they named Felipe after Raul’s grandfather. For a time, Raul limited his drinking and showed some hope of becoming a decent father. But then Felipe started to have issues. He grew distant and didn’t speak. He would have epic tantrums that left the young couple feeling exhausted and bitter, at the situation, at the life, at each other.

The trips to the specialists became more frequent. Tara began to take more time off work for Felipe’s visits. This was a financial double-whammy. Tara was losing hours of pay to bring Felipe to specialists they already couldn’t afford.

Raul began drinking again, eventually losing his job after showing up inebriated one too many times. The couple then lost their home. Worse yet, Tara’s sister, Eve, her one well of support, had to move to Texas with her husband who’d just been re-stationed by the military.

Tara spent many nights thinking about how she’d leave Raul, and when. She’d run over the logistics in her head a thousand times. Where to put the note, what friend of hers they’d stay with for the first few nights, whether to leave her tiny engagement ring on the table or not. But she didn’t leave Raul. With no money and a child with special needs, and with her sister being thousands of miles away, a drunken partner was better than none at all.

Without a place to live and with no other good options, Tara, Raul and Felipe packed up and moved to Brazil to live with Raul’s mother and grandmother. (They sold almost everything they had to afford the plane tickets, keeping just some clothes and toiletries.)

Brazil wasn’t so bad. Raul got a job at a local school, and his drinking seemed tempered by the presence of his mother and grandmother. Felipe was enrolled at a pre-school that could support children with autism in a half-way decent manner. Though they mostly communicated in smiles and nods, Tara got along well with Raul’s mother and grandmother, finding in them a maternal connection she’d never experienced before. Soon, Tara had the couple’s second child, Ana.

It was in Brazil that the anti-vaccine spark first went off in Tara’s head. During Ana’s visit to the doctor to get vaccinations, the doctor posed a question that you’d rarely hear from an American doctor.

“Are you sure you want the vaccinations?” he asked Tara, speaking English in a thick Portuguese accent.

Tara was taken aback. “Of course,” she said, “What, do some people not get them?” Heretofore, she had never even thought to ask the question.

“Yes,” the doctor said, “Some mothers choose not to get vaccinations.” He explained the common reasons why, which intrigued Tara, given her son, Felipe, and the claimed link to autism. The doctor didn’t seem to actually believe the theories, but he said his patients deserved to be able make an informed decision.

What the doctor said gave Tara some pause and she told him she’d wait a day or two to think about the vaccination. The doctor put his needle away and said he’d see her some other day.

Tara had never before questioned why Felipe was born with autism and, frankly, she didn’t think the answer was all that important. But if autism was man-made, if it was in fact some pharmaceutical company’s fault, something they should have warned her about, she wanted to know.

She went online. In almost no time she’d happened upon Deb Markowitz’s anti-vaccine website.

Ana never got vaccinated, and neither did her new baby brother, Thomas. Tara grew into an anti-vaccine true believer, connecting with other parents of autistic children and posting frequently on the forums of Deb’s website. She calls these posts her “rants.” It was like the vestiges of her Scotch-Irish heritage, long dormant, had begun to burn bright. Tara was a forceful writer, and no doubt a fighter.

Eventually Tara and Deb began emailing each other directly. Deb was impressed with Tara’s disdain for the pharmaceutical companies, and occasionally posted Tara’s emails prominently on her anti-vaxxer website.

By 2009, Deb was becoming an anti-vaccine media empire. She needed some help, someone who could regularly post and edit content for her website. She gave the American lady in Brazil a job offer.

Tara was flattered but didn’t want to uproot her family from Brazil. Besides, they wouldn’t be able to afford New York City. No matter, said Deb, Tara could work remotely.

And that’s likely how their relationship would’ve stayed — confined to the cloud — if Raul hadn’t got arrested. Life back at home wasn’t all pluses. It was like yin and yang, coming back home to Brazil. While Raul’s home life had improved, his social life had darkened. He started hanging out with old friends and cousins who had spent their whole life in the favela, growing up to become low-level drug dealers.

Raul, made vulnerable by years of just scraping by, easily succumbed to the allure of making some side cash by dealing cocaine and other narcotics. One summer night in 2010, he and several of his friends were arrested for drug dealing and thrown in jail. His plea deal called for a 3 year sentence.

Tara remembers the night he plead guilty. As she tells it, she went down to the local beach at sunset and just stared off into the distance, a bit like a Lifetime movie. She could wait it out, wait three long years for a man who use to beat her, who she wasn’t sure she loved. In the meantime, she’d be in a country that wasn’t hers, raising three children with her imprisoned husband’s family. Or she could move back to the states, separating her children from their father for good. It wasn’t a decision she took lightly.

She confided in Deb, who kept in frequent contact with Tara during these times. Having lost her own husband, Deb could speak to the pain and advised how difficult it was to raise a child without a father. But she also spoke to the relief Tara might feel if she separated herself from Raul and made a clean break. In one email, she told Tara that poison is all around — sometimes it’s injected into our bodies, sometimes it comes in the form of another human being. What was Raul to her — a loving husband or a poison?

Two months after Raul’s plea deal, Tara packed up the children and boarded a plane to New York City. She arrived on Deb’s doorstep that night, 3 suitcases in hand and 3 children at her side.

The sisterhood had begun.

The Anti-Vaxxer Sisterhood — Part 2 was originally published in Fiction Hub on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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