#uploaded on public wifi guys

[noobartperson]

tried a different style (use one weird brush and keep every layer visible) and I like it ithinks?

Anyway here’s a tea party. The tea is fancy

part two?

#I can imagine that the journey here was rather traumatic for the poor employee #lethal company #my art #bracken #tea party! #also IMAGE QUALITY? NAH #uploaded on public wifi guys

[tealin]

McMurdo Internet

Internet service is supplied to Antarctica via a geostationary satellite. This far south, the satellite is only a few degrees above the horizon, and unfortunately for McMurdo, it's behind Mt Erebus. So the signal is beamed to a receiver on Black Island, about 20 miles away to the southwest, and bounced over to the sheltered alcove at the end of the Hut Point Peninsula where McMurdo sits.

The Chalet, administrative hub, with Black Island in the distance

The Black Island telecommunications infrastructure was installed in the 1980s, long before the internet we know and love today. It was upgraded in 2010 to allow more data transfer, mainly realtime weather data to feed into global forecast models. For this reason, it's probably the only place I've ever been where upload speed is remarkably faster than download speed – 60Mbps for outbound traffic, but only 20Mbps for inbound. Most regular internet use is receiving, not sending, so that's an entire base running on a connection that's only marginally faster than the average American smartphone. As you can imagine, this is somewhat limiting.

The limits to one's internet access actually begin before one even reaches the Ice. At the orientation in Christchurch, one is directed to a URL from which one must download and install a security programme from the U.S. government. It may feel like a hippie commune full of nerds, but McMurdo is an installation of the American state, and as such its computer network is a target of whatever disgruntled conspiracy theorist decides to hack The Man on any given day. Computers that are allowed onto this network (such as the one on which I am typing right now) have to have an approved firewall and antivirus service installed, then this extra programme on top of them. I am not sure what it does. For all I know the CIA is spying on me even now. (Hi, guys!) But you need to install it to get on the McMurdo Internet, such as it is, so I did.

To be honest, I was rather looking forward to a month cut off entirely from the hyperconnected world, so I was a tiny bit disappointed that quite a lot of day-to-day communication is done by email, and I would need to be on my computer a fair bit to get it. Had I known just how important email would be, I'd have installed an email client that actually downloads one's messages instead of just fetching them; as it was, the cycle of loading an email and sending the reply, even in Gmail's "HTML for slow connections" mode, took about five minutes, not counting the time it took to write. Tending one's email was a serious time commitment; sometimes I felt like I was spending more time on the computer in Antarctica than I did at home.

Crary scientists waiting, and waiting, and waiting

In a way, though, I was lucky, because I was technically a scientist and therefore had access to the one building on base with WiFi, the Crary Lab. And don't think you can just waltz into Crary with your laptop and poach the WiFi – in order to access it at all, you have to get set up by Crary IT with your own personal WiFi login. If you do not have Crary access, your portal to the Internet is one of a handful of ethernet cables in each of the dorm common rooms, or some public terminals in the main building. You can hop on, download your emails, maybe check the news or Google something you needed to look up, and then leave it for someone else. When most online time sinks are either blocked or too heavy to load, it’s amazing how little internet time you actually turn out to need.

Things that we have come to take for granted in The World are not a part of McMurdo life. Social media is pretty much out – the main platforms are bandwidth hogs even before you try to load a video or an animated GIF. There is no sharing of YouTube links, and no Netflix and chill. Someone was once sent home mid-season for trying to download a movie. Video calls with family and friends? Forget it. People do occasionally do video calls from Antarctica, often to media outlets or schools, but these have to be booked in advance so as to have the requisite bandwidth reserved. Jumping on FaceTime does not happen – not least because handheld devices have to be in airplane mode at all times for security reasons. Your phone might be secure enough for your internet banking, but not for US government internet!

It is, unavoidably, still a digital environment, it just gets by largely without internet access. Nearly everyone has an external hard drive, mostly for media that they've brought down to fill their off hours. If you want to share files you just swap hard drives, or hand over a memory stick. When the Antarctic Heritage Trust wanted some book material from me, I dropped it onto an SD card and ran it over to Scott Base on foot – a droll juxtaposition of high- and low-tech, not to mention a good excuse for a hike over The Gap on a beautiful day. It took half an hour, but was still faster than emailing it.

There is also a McMurdo Intranet, which includes a server for file sharing. Emailing someone your photos will take ages, but popping them into a folder on the I: drive and sending them a note to say you've done so (or, better yet, phoning them, or poking your head into their office) is much more efficient. To conserve space, this informal server partition is wiped every week, so you have to be quick about it, but it's an effective workaround, and also a good way to get relatively heavy resources to a large number of people in one go.

The telecommunications centre on Black Island is mostly automated, but like anything – perhaps more than some things, given the conditions – it needs to be maintained. There is a small hut out there for an equally small team of electricians and IT engineers; Black Island duty attracts the sort of person who might have been a lighthouse keeper back in the day.

Towards the end of my time on the Ice there was a spell where they needed to shut off the connection overnight, to do some necessary work. Given that most people's workdays extended at least to the shutoff time at 5:30 p.m., this meant essentially no internet for a large portion of the population, and some amusing flyers were posted up to notify everyone of the impending hardship.

Someday, faster, more accessible internet will come to Antarctica.  It's more or less unavoidable, as communications technology improves, and everyone's work – especially the scientists' – depends more and more on having a broadband connection at all times.  It will make a lot of things more convenient, and will make the long separation from friends and family much easier.  But I'm pretty sure that many more people will mourn the upgrade than celebrate it.  One can, theoretically, curtail one's internet use whenever one likes, but even before the pandemic it was almost impossible to live this way with the demands of modern life: I know from personal experience that opting out of Facebook alone can have a real detrimental effect on relationships, even with people one sees in the flesh fairly regularly, simply because everyone assumes that is how everyone else communicates.  Being in a community where no one has access to assumed channels, and is more or less cut off from the rest of the world in a pocket universe of its own, levels the playing field and brings a certain unity.  The planned (and, unarguably, necessary) updating of the physical infrastructure of McMurdo will wipe out a lot of the improvised, make-do-and-mend character of the place; how much would free and easy access to the online world change it in a less tangible way?

I'm sure the genuine Antarctic old-timers would shake their heads at the phone and email connections we have now, and say that no, this has already ruined Antarctica.  It's not Antarctica unless your only link to the outside world is a dodgy radio.  It's not Antarctica unless you only get mail once a year when the relief ship arrives.  Doubtless the shiny new McMurdo will be seen as 'the good old days' by someone, someday, too.  Change may happen slower there than elsewhere, but just like the rust on the tins at Cape Evans, it comes eventually, regardless. 

For my own part, I'm glad I got to see 'old' McMurdo, such as it was, all plywood and cheap '90s prefab.  The update will be much more efficient, and tidy, but yet another generation removed from the raw experience of the old explorers.  My generation is probably the last to remember clearly what life was like before ubiquitous broadband; to some extent, Antarctica is a sort of time capsule of that world, just as the huts are a time capsule of Edwardian frontier life.  I hope they'll find a way to hang on to the positive aspects of that. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to waste an hour mindlessly refreshing Twitter ...

If you'd like to learn more about the Black Island facility, there's a lot of good information (and some photos!) here: https://www.southpolestation.com/trivia/90s/blackisland.html

And this Antarctic Sunarticle goes into greater depth on the 2010 upgrade: https://antarcticsun.usap.gov/features/2114/

#mcmurdo station #antarctica #internet #wifi #connectivity #antarctic blog

[writingabouteverything]

The Perfect White Flower--and Other Nonexistent Things

a/n YALL THIS IS PROBABLY DUMB BUT I HAD THIS IDEA ABOUT A HARRY STYLES X READER FIC THATS BASED ON THE PLOT OF JANE THE VIRGIN AND I WANTED TO WRITE IT SO BADLY I MADE THIS ACCOUNT

disclaimer--wont follow the show exactly 

Pairing: Harry Styles x latina! reader (a key factor of the show revolves around the lead being latina, and im latina and honestly love writing for us but anyone can still read and understand/hopefully enjoy and the fic doesn’t involve any physical descriptions:)) 

Series Summary: Y/n l/n has had the world figured out since she was a child. She won’t be a writer because it’s risky, she’ll just focus on school and becoming a teacher. She’s never been a child, because her mother had her at sixteen and hasn’t aged a single year since. That’s part of the reason the promise she made to her grandmother means so much to her--if she doesn’t have sex before marriage, her child will never have to grow up as quickly as she did. And Harry Styles is at the top of the world--his music has never been more successful, he has a lovely girlfriend, and he’s never been more in demand. He has everything in the world...except a child, and through a series of unbelievable events--y/n might be his only chance to have one. Ever. 

Chapter One Summary: Who knew getting a pap smear on two hours of sleep and three cups of coffee was as bad as having unprotected sex? 

There’s something dangerous about taking public transportation in LA. And no, I don’t mean it in the ‘there are bad people in the world’ type of way. I mean it in the ‘I live in one of the casual influencer, celebrity, tourist hubs of the world and each time I step onto the bus I find myself mesmerized by all the stories I see in them’ way. Kind of pathetic, I know, but sometimes a child with blonde pig tails or a woman streaming on instagram live will catch my eye and the urge to pull out my lap top and start something I’ll never finish. 

I know that writing isn’t some kind of disease. But I can’t let myself fall in love with it the way I want to. There’s nothing wrong with writing a short story or two, but trying to write a novel? That’s impractical. It will distract me from school, from the four year plan I’m almost done with.

Sighing, I brave taking at my surroundings. I deserve this today, after the anonymous, rude costumer at the hotel today, I need positivity. No one is particularly inspiring. The bus stops and I watch out the window. At first the crowd is ordinary, and then i see them...paparazzi. Flashing cameras from all angles, grown men violating all rules of personal space. It never sits right with me, but I guess it’s just part of living in LA. The bus starts moving again. When it stops again, I see even more paparazzis, but their cameras aren’t flashing. Good for whoever escaped that. 

The bus door opens and I snap my attention back to my computer screen. I rub my eyes as I stare at my word document. How is there more that needs to be edited? This professor is the harshest grader I’ve ever had, and my friend, Gisa, is kind for giving me even more notes. But I’m exhausted. Two tests and an essay due before 12:00. And it’s...11:38. Great--I have to upload it the second I’m at my doctor’s office and have WiFi again. 

I spend some time highlighting and rewording sentences, and once I’m done I reward myself with more people watching because I deserve it and I can’t fall asleep here. I’m kind of invested in the girl live streaming her bus ride...maybe she’ll say her instagram handle. 

But when I look up, she’s not on the bus anymore. Almost no one is. An elderly couple is sitting towards the back. A woman with a toddler sit two rows in front of me...and there’s now a man directly across from me. I blink for a moment, imagining a story for someone who’s face I can’t quite see beneath such dark sun glasses. His dark waves and strong jaw do most of the imagining for me--he deserves a mystery, a dramatic one with a happy ending and just enough romance to keep the people interested. A good romance, too--not too sappy. Enemies to lovers, maybe. A mysterious stranger that’s not really a stranger because something about him is just...familiar. 

He turns his head and I drop my gaze immediately. There’s no doubt he caught that, but I still pretend to edit the title of my essay. “You’ve been typing stubbornly since I first got on the bus.” There’s an accent--of course he’s english. But it’s more than that, I’ve heard that voice before. I’ve been...soothed by it. And--oh my god, I’m sitting across from Harry Styles.

Okay, don’t freak out. Don’t freak him out. He’s probably on here to escape the the whole ‘oh my god, you’re Harry Styles!’ thing.  

“What are you writing?” Harry Styles just spoke to me. I greeted my one direction poster every single day in middle school, and Harry Styles just spoke to me. Okay--relax, breathe--it’s only weird if you make it weird. 

There’s a kind of curt curiosity to his question. He could have been ruder, considering how blatantly I was staring at him. “I um...an essay.” I’m temped to turn the screen so that he can see I’m telling the truth. Though he wasn’t hostile, a part of me is paranoid that he thinks I am writing about him. It’s a fair assumption, for all he knows I’m drafting a tweet about who I saw on the bus this morning or preparing to send something in to some gossip girl-esque blog. “It’s due today at noon and normally I’m way more on top of things, but I had this last minute doctor’s appointment rescheduling because my usual doctor is out of town and--” I cut myself off before I can tell Harry Styles that I’m ovulating and that if I don’t go to my OBGYN now, I have to wait an entire month and I’ve already been off birth control longer than I’d like. I might not have actual sex in my near future, but my cramps have been extra terrible. “An essay, I just finished an essay.”

He nods once. Maybe he feels bad for so thoroughly startling me into such a rambling, because the corner of his mouth tilts upwards. A soft smile adds even more grace to his features, I focus on the dimple that appears in his cheek. “An aggravating essay, I take it, considering the death glares you’ve been giving your laptop screen.”

I smile at his polite humor. “It’s for the harshest grader on campus. She took three points off of my first essay freshman year because I spaced my bibliography wrong.” 

He cringes in sympathy. “Good luck.” 

“Thanks,” I hum, proud of myself for not letting him know that I know who he is. The bus stops, I can see my doctor’s office behind a few paparazzi. “This is my stop.” 

Harry nods once, ducking his head slightly. A tiny part of me feels sympathy for him; from what I’ve gathered, he genuinely loves his fans and the relationship they have, but it must be draining to never have a moment of privacy. Especially when it’s people who care more about selling your picture than your mental health. 

I linger on the bus’s step, watching the men with large cameras look around. “Excuse me, are you guys looking for Harry Styles?” Most of the men disregard me, but one looks at me. “I know he’s near here because I’m a really big fan and my friend just texted that she saw him.” This gets me the attention I wanted. “He’s at Northfield--a cafe like three blocks down. I just know that if she got a picture with Harry in like a magazine or something she’d totally lose it--in a good way, and she’s been having a bad time so if you see her can you try to make it happen? Knowing her she’ll be at his side, she’s blonde, shortish hair.” 

The men seem skeptical, but I guess they realize that this is the best lead they have. I think the fact that I gave a reason to justify selling Harry out for no reason helped. They disperse together, heading at least three blocks away from Harry. I don’t know if I’ve actually helped him, but I hope I have. 

“Essay girl.” I freeze, half cringing. Did he hear that? That’s embarrassing. I consider darting away, but decide that would just make me cringe more. So I turn on my heels. “You...you forgot your phone.” 

He just saved my life. “Thank you.” I take my phone from his outstretched hand, ignoring the slight thrill that runs through me when our fingers brush. “You’re my hero--the last thing I needed today was to run all over the city searching for my phone.” I finish the awkward admission with a partial laugh. 

“Least I could do,” he mumbles, “especially considering what you just did.” 

...He did see that. “Oh um--it was nothing, I just kind of made a connection and assumed the only reason you’d be on a public bus is because you were trying to avoid some things, and you make really great music and a lot of people happy, so you deserve that break.” Why does it feel like I’ve been talking forever? “Anyways, thanks for the whole phone thing, and I hope I got them off your tail.” 

My joke seems to somewhat land. His lips part, like he’s planning on saying something else. A timer on my phone interrupts him. I instinctually look down--great, the alarm on my phone warning me that I’m only ten minutes away from being late. “I’m late.” I turn towards the bus’s exit. “I gotta go, but thanks again, and I hope you have a good day.” 

I disappear after that, still not sure that that whole thing wasn’t some kind of hallucination. Did I just meet Harry Styles? He...he gave me my phone. Harry Styles has touched my phone. I can’t wait to tell Gisa, she’ll lose it.

I’m still thinking about Harry Styles when I finally reach my OBGYN’s office. When I get there, things are a lot more hectic than I thought they’d be. Many people crowd the waiting area and the receptionist’s desk is clearly understaffed. Two young girls are trying to address multiple upset pregnant women and take phone calls at the same time, all while practically buried in a sea pf paperwork. Wow, I didn’t realize that transferring was such chaos. One of the girls waves me over and barely checks my name before shoving a form towards me. I fill out as quickly as possible. 

 I upload my essay quickly after checking in. Who knows, maybe Harry Styles’s blessing will get me an A? A third person in scrubs emerges from the back after a moment and ushers me into a room. I tell myself to focus on going over the facts I need for the test I have to take in a little over an hour. Or to focus on the fact that I just met Harry Styles. But instead, I feel my heavy eyelids fall shut. 

I don’t know how long I sleep, but I know that I wake up during the middle of a doctor’s sentence, “...I know I’m not your usual, so I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.” 

“Hm...Yeah, yeah I’m comfortable.” She nods once, her wide eyes slightly red. “But I do have a class today in like an hour, so I was wondering if this was going to take longer because of the office’s move?” 

“Oh, no,” she shakes her head. “Just because Dr. Rodriguez gave us no notice before deciding that she no longer wanted to work here...or in the country. Or even live in the US, despite the fact that we just signed a lease on a place together...” Tears well in the stranger’s eyes, pity settles in my stomach. 

“That sounds incredibly complicated, I didn’t mean to rush you.” 

She blinks twice, her expression blanking as she fights against the pain of what’s clearly a terrible break up. “No, no--you have every right. Today is your day and if..honestly, if you’re strong enough to go to a class after this, and do what you’re about to do by yourself, then I’m strong enough to get through today.” 

Um...didn’t realize a pap smear counted as something that needs moral support, but I’ll chalk it up to her heightened emotions. “Thanks.” 

She snaps on her medical gloves. “No, thank you for your patience. Now lay down.” 

I do as told, preparing for a sensation I haven’t often experienced. A moment passes and I know she’s started. She’s moving away from me much faster than expected. Oh--I guess pap smears are a lot shorter than I expected. 

“That’s it?” 

“Yep,” she hums, pulling her gloves off. “Now just take it easy, and hydrate.”

Weird...but that’s like general doctor advice. “Thanks!” 

--

I’ve never wanted to keep a secret from Gisa, but sometimes I really regret telling her I met Harry Styles. It’s been almost a month and I find my mind wandering back to the moment in which our fingers brushed more than I should. Sometimes I let myself wonder what he might have said if my phone hadn’t rang. I was probably just imagining the way his lips parted, but my ind refuses to let it go. 

“...You know it’s kind of sad, I read an interview in which he spoke about the fact that he has some genetic condition that makes it hard to have kids. He has so many godchildren, and I feel like he’d make such a great father.” 

I try to keep up with Gisa’s words, but the dull ache in my head makes it feel so far away. “Yeah...he seemed really patient.” 

Gisa nods, turning to face me. “You alright, you’re looking kinda green?” 

“Yeah...” I reach for my canvas bag. “I think I just...I probably just need some water.” 

My hand grazes the metal of my water bottle and then the corners of my vision blur into blackness. I sway, Gisa’s hand is on my shoulder...and then it all goes black. 

--

I sit uncomfortably on the hospital’s cot. Gisa is a traitor for telling my mom that I fainted. I knew she’d just drag me here--hispanic mothers, they either believe they can cure you with vic’s vapor rub or they want you in the ER. No in between. 

“I know you didn’t want another test, but you’ve been throwing up in the morning for days and now you’re fainting.” 

“Fainted,” I correct, “it happened once.” 

“C’mon, mija, it’s just one doctor’s appointment.” 

Speaking of, an ER nurse returns. “Fainting and nausea spells explained,” he says, glancing at his clipboard, “you’re pregnant.” 

My mom and I can’t help but exchange a look before bursting into laughter. Pregnant. If I’m pregnant then the second coming is here. “That’s impossible, I’m a virgin.” 

He glances at my mom, “maybe we should have this conversation in private.” 

“No, what you say in front of me you can say in front of my mom.” 

My mom raises an eyebrow. “Y/n, did you and that guy from your english class--” 

“No! No, we did not. I am a virgin and there’s no way I’m pregnant.” I glare at the nurse. 

He then ushers me to a bathroom so that I can provide a urine sample. After I’m finished, he shows me a pregnancy test strip. “Pink means pregnant.” I bite my tongue as he tests the strip in my sample. He pulls it out and it’s...it’s bright pink.

“I’m calling my doctor, because this has to be a mistake. It has to be like a hormonal thing.” 

“Exactly, pregnancy hormones.” 

I glare even harder, calling the doctor that I saw last week. “Hello, Dr. Ash? I was wondering if I could get a consultation because I’m in the ER and some crazy doctor is trying to tell me I’m pregnant.” 

Silence on the line for a long second. “...I actually cleared my calendar for you.” 

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #jane the virgin #jane the virgin AU #lot #hslot st louis

[deartoru]

𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘦𝘺 || k. takami

++ 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: keigo takami (hawks) x reader and slight touya todoroki (dabi) x keigo takami (hawks) or (hotwings)

++ 𝘀𝘆𝗽𝗻𝗼𝘀𝗶𝘀: you and keigo have been the bestest of friends for years, until one day you fall in love with him. little did you know that years later hanahaki would come back to bite you. hard.

++ 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: angst

++ 𝘁𝘄/𝗰𝘄: hanahaki!au, suicide, implied suicide, blood, vomiting and unrequited love

++ 𝘄𝗰: 1217 (longest thing i've written as of 07/05/21)

++ 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: this is my peice for @suedebunn's april shower's collab! you can read the other amazing pieces here. sorry it was late! i didn't have wifi to upload this as i was on vacation.

You’ve always thought that Keigo would be by your side forever. After all, he had been your best friend for years. Almost everything you’ve been through, you’ve been through together. You both were renowned heroes working for the hero public safety commission. You met Keigo during your training with the hero commission, instantly bonding over your common interests. Little did you both know that this would be the start of what would become the reason for your demise.

•─────────•❋•─────────•

It was another boring day on campus and you and Keigo were joking around and having a good time. You both decided to take a seat on the bench, for no reason in particular. Keeping a light conversation you looked up at the sky and realized how much you enjoyed it. After some time you guys weren’t even talking, just enjoying each other's company. There was a sense of serenity in your heart. One you hadn’t felt in a long time. A warmth not like the sun but the warmth of love. At the time you weren’t in love with him like you currently are. Both of you were too young to even understand what love was.

•─────────•❋•─────────•

This couldn’t be happening. As you sat there frozen in place, you looked down at your hand in horror. Blood-stained petals. The petals of a yellow rose in fact. You knew what it symbolized. Friendship. The problem with you and Keigo is that he only sees you as his sister. Only that. Being his best friend for years, you knew almost everything about him. The best and the worst. Even the person he liked.

The ironic thing was that you were in love with him, but he never loved you. He was always hung up on the raven-haired, mysterious villain; Dabi. You knew this was against the rules. It was morally wrong. Keigo knew he would face affliction for pursuing Dabi. So you kept your mouth shut. Hoping that he would realize you right in front of him. But he never did. As your hero career progressed along with your illness, your performance had decreased. Almost everyone noticed a change in your behavior. The way you excuse yourself to the bathroom too often. The way you’re quieter. The sparkle of youth left your eyes. Everyone caught on. But you can’t risk anyone knowing. That would put you and Keigo in danger.

As a pro hero, the public always had their beady eyes on you. Everything you do must be done discreetly to avoid the media’s discourse. You don’t even know the amount of backlash you would get if the world found out you had hanahaki. You’d put all of your loved one’s at risk. You’d make yourself vulnerable to all of the villains of the world. As a hero, you were supposed to protect not be protected.

You know you should take the surgery. You have to. But something in your heart won’t let you. It yearns for a feeling you cannot describe, yet it goes against everything you’ve learned. Your will to live, your future, and all of your loved ones. Your illness will consume you and will leave nothing. But, without your love for Keigo, you don’t know what life is. Before you met him your heart was empty; nothing about life was special to you. Keigo gave your life a purpose, something to live for and that’s all you ever wanted.

What point is there is in living if you don’t love Keigo? That is the only reason you live. Your heart is a hollow place without your love for him. Your life has no meaning. What kind of life is there with no meaning? That’s what led to your decision. You would let hanahaki consume you. Maybe you were selfish. You don’t know what led you to this decision. You’d hurt everyone around you and you’d waste your future. But nothing mattered.

•─────────•❋•─────────•

Saying goodbye to everyone you loved felt eerie in a way. So did doing your favorite things for the last time. This was only something you do when your very old or on death row but, there you were. Talking to the hero commission and writing a letter to your loved ones felt strange but you had to do it. You don’t even know how you’re going to face Keigo. How would he feel about this? He’d probably get over you quickly with his raven-haired lover by his side.

Rushing to the hospital wasn’t fun at all. You could feel the vines start to grow inside of you. The urge to vomit was unbearable. As it crept closer and closer you finally saw the carnage around you. Your blood, vomit, and petals scattered all around the room. Moments later your met with the pain of the vines growing into your heart, followed by the flatline of your heart.

You didn’t forget about Keigo or your loved ones. You left them a letter with everything they’ll need to know, but Keigo’s letter was the most important. He’s the one who deserves an explanation after all. After everyone had found out, Keigo had rushed to the hospital. Hoping that it wasn’t too late, he begged the doctors to tell him but all he got was this letter.

Dear Keigo, Thank you so much for all of the things you have done for me and given me. You were my one and only best friend and I don’t what I’d do without you. But if your reading this I’m probably dead. I had hanahaki but I didn’t get treatment because the person I love is you, but you never loved me. Still, something inside of my heart latched on to the feeling of love even if it kills me. I’m sorry Keigo but this is for the better. I know I was selfish but my life has no meaning without. You love Dabi more than anything else so I’m sure you get over me. Just remember that’ll you’ll see me soon. You’ll know your time comes just look at the moon, as it shines brightly throughout the night, and remember everyone’s facing their own demons. You’ll make it through the night just hug your pillow tighter. I know in a year you’ll forget I’m gone cause I’m not really someone to be dwelled on. If anything, I hope this makes you stronger. You were the best friend that I ever had it’s such a shame I have to make you so very sad, but just remember that you meant everything to me. To my heart your the only one that held the key.

Keigo couldn’t believe what had just unraveled in front of his own eyes. He caused the death of this own best friend. That is a burden that will haunt him for his entire life, but he can’t live without you. He needs you. You are the only one who understands him. He knows what he has to do.

As Keigo stands at the edge of a skyscraper, he inhales the crisp night air looking up into the night sky with the flickering moon taking the majority of his view. He stares at it for the last time before whispering;

“Don’t worry, I’ll see you soon y/n because only you hold the key to my heart”

#.april.showers.collab #cw blood #blood cw #tw blood #cw suicide #suicide cw #blood tw #tw suicide #vomit tw #suicide tw #tw vomit #takami keigo x reader #hawks x reader #takami keigo x you #keigo x reader #keigo x you #keigo x y/n #hawks x y/n #takami keigo x y/n #hawks x you #bnhacity #anistars #paccheri’s place

[fiveminuterice]

hey guys just tested positive for covid, which means no new art for 2 weeks because I can’t go out and upload art from my laptop using public wifi

I’ll still work on requests, just can’t upload them for the time being

#covid mention #yeah sorry gamers but also I’m not gonna go to my public library while I’m sick #also yes I still don’t have wifi lol #also dw I’m fully vaccinated and the first day was rough but I feel almost normal now

[dominickxqxb679]

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[samsexualdeancurious]

Thanks For Listening | Chapter 1

Square: Free Space

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Words: 8,498

Warnings: hurt!Reader, pining, eventual smut, dirty talk, voice!kink, unprotected sex.

Summary: Sam hosts two podcasts - a secret one for hunters called the War Room and a public one with fellow hunter Y/N called Criminal History. Y/N and Sam have never seen each other, let alone met, but that doesn’t stop Sam from worrying when Y/N suddenly goes missing.

Betaed by @manawhaat 

Written for @spnkinkbingo

Header by me and Mana

Masterlist - AO3

--

You rest your elbows on the cheap motel table, leaning on it as you speak into the microphone. "Chief, you've heard my thoughts on this. What do you think?"

There's a pause, the same little dramatic one Sam does every time, and then that rich voice you adore says, "I think he's guilty as hell."

You can't suppress a small laugh at Sam's straight-forward statement. "Well, folks, the Chief has spoken - and the jury has, too. Guilty. As. Hell. Keith Hunter Jesperson, A.K.A. the Happy Face Killer, was sentenced to life without parole and is currently housed in Oregon State Penitentiary. If you want to hear another side of this story, I recommend the podcast Happy Face, which is hosted by Melissa Moore, Jesperson's daughter. Anything else you want to add?"

"Definitely check out that Happy Face podcast, guys. It's a great one."

"Thanks, Chief. Until next time, then, folks. This is Criminal History. Thanks for listening."

You sit back from the mic, both you and Sam leaving a moment of silence where Sam can later cut the recording and add in the outro music.

"How was that?" you ask. "Think we need to go again?"

"No, you were great," Sam assures you. "You always are. You know that."

Your cheeks warm at the compliment. "I know," you say, putting on a little bit of a playfully cocky tone. "I just like hearing you say it."

Sam laughs and your stomach does happy flips. "Fine," he teases. "I see how it is. You're just using me for my voice."

"You caught me," you say with enough playfulness in your voice to hopefully combat the heat in your cheeks, even though Sam can't see that.

You find yourself staring longingly at the computer screen, wishing for the hundredth time today alone that you could see Sam's face. But, unfortunately, voice recordings are easier on shitty motel WiFi than video calls are.

“If you think we’ve got everything we need, I’m gonna stop my recording,” you continue, pushing past your wandering thoughts.

“We’re good. Go ahead and stop the recording.”

You do just that, saving the file and uploading it to a file sharing service Sam found. “File’s uploading now. We’ll see how long it takes on this motel WiFi. I’m surprised we didn’t have any connection issues. The WiFi really sucked earlier.”

“Gotta love motel WiFi. What episode number is this?”

“47 according to my notes,” you reply. “We’re not even to 50 and you’re already losing track?”

“I’m running two podcasts. There’s only so much my brain can handle.”

“What? Sam Winchester’s brain has a limit? Alert the media.”

You can practically hear his eyes rolling. “Ha ha. You still chasing that vamp nest?”

“Unfortunately. I’m gonna meet up with Allen Burton tomorrow. He caught wind of the nest moving south past Moab.”

“Allen. I’m not familiar with that name. He’s experienced?”

“Not as experienced as I would prefer but everyone else is caught up in something or on the other end of the country, and I’m not waiting around for these bastards to kill anyone else.”

Sam makes a soft, displeased sound. “Be careful, okay?”

Your heart warms at the concern in Sam’s voice and you try to play it off with a little joking. “Always am.”

Sam doesn’t fall for your change of tone, though. “Y/N. Please. Vampires are no joke.”

“I know. I’ll be careful,” you promise, suddenly eager to reassure him.

“Call or text me when you’ve got the nest wrapped up?”

“Of course.”

---

Sam is reluctant to end the call. He always is. Y/N is just so easy to talk to, which is part of why they make such good co-hosts. Recording their weekly episodes are one of the highlights of his week.

He reaches over and flicks the switch on the wall behind his desk - the one connected to the “Quiet Please. Recording in Progress” sign and the red light above his office door. This was his own special addition to this room and the wiring was a giant pain in the ass but it was definitely worth it to minimize the sounds in the hall outside. 

Someone knocks on the door as soon as the sign and light are turned off. “Come in,” he calls, saving his own audio file to a folder he’ll download Y/N’s to once it’s uploaded.

“Ya done in here?” Dean asks, poking his head in.

“Done with Criminal History,” Sam tells him, spinning his chair around. Another worthwhile investment, his nice desk chair. “Still gotta record an interview for the War Room.”

“I’m Sam Winchester,” Dean says in a gruff voice, stepping fully into the room. “Welcome to the War Room.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I don’t sound like that.”

“You totally sound like that.”

“Do you have a reason for being here or are you just being annoying?”

Dean holds up a plate Sam didn’t notice he had. “Dinner.”

“Have I really been in here that long?” Sam asks, happily accepting the plate to find that Dean made chicken and rice with chipotle green onion gravy.

“You sure have. You and Y/N must’ve been a coupla of old Chatty Cathy’s today.”

“Yeah, it took us a while to get going,” Sam admits around a bite of food.

“What’s she been up to?”

“Still tracking that vamp nest. It’s moved into southern Utah now and she’s gonna meet up with another hunter, some guy named Allen, to finally take care of it. Well, that’s what she’s hoping for, at least.”

“You two gonna hang out once she wraps that case up?”

Dean shoots Sam a wink and Sam responds with a glare. That only prompts his brother to laugh.

“Seriously, Sammy,” Dean says. “You’ve been digital pen pals for over a year. It’s about time you finally meet.”

Dean’s right and Sam knows he is, but it’s his duty as the younger brother to never admit it. Truthfully, Sam’s dying to meet Y/N. As hunters, they’re both a little paranoid about new people and despite knowing each other for so long, they’ve never actually video chatted, let alone met in person. He trusts Y/N, though. He feels like he really knows who she is, after all their texting and phone calls pre-podcast, all the time they spend just talking ‘off the clock’, and the hours of recorded chat he sometimes edits down into bonus episodes.

In all honesty, Sam likes Y/N. He likes her a lot. He’d never tell her that, though. They’ve got a good thing going and he doesn’t want to ruin that with his own mess of feelings when it’s so much easier to just keep things to himself.

“We’ll see,” is all Sam gives his brother. He drains his water bottle washing down a mouthful of rice and shakes the empty container at Dean. “Can you go fill this?”

“I’m not your butler,” Dean grumbles even as he takes the water bottle.

“Thank you!” Sam calls after him, spinning to put his plate on the desk and really go to town on his dinner. It’s a simple recipe but a delicious one, if a little spicy.

Dean returns with the water bottle just as Sam is scraping his plate clean.

“You’re the best,” Sam says, happily accepting the bottle in exchange for the plate.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean replies. “Don’t you forget it.”

“I won’t. Now get out so I can record.”

As soon as the door is closed behind Dean, Sam flicks his sign on again and swings over to his microphone. He drinks a little water to clear his throat, checks the clock to see that he has a few minutes left until his guest hunter calls, and hits the record button. A thirty-second wait for white noise and then he leans in a little closer to the microphone than he usually does for Criminal History.

“I’m Sam Winchester,” he says, unable to resist being just a little dramatic. “Welcome to the War Room.”

---

Y/N texts Sam right up until she and Allen are headed out to where they think the vamps are hiding, three days after they’d first met up.

She doesn’t text Sam after that.

---

"You've reached Y/N. I'm probably off having more fun than you are. Leave a message."

Sam signs, scrubbing a hand over his face as he enters the bunker kitchen. "Y/N, it's Sam. Again. Please call me as soon as you can." He hangs up, tapping his phone against his hand as he fights the urge to call again.

"She still not answering?" Dean asks from where he's standing at the stove frying bacon.

Sam shakes his head and shoved his phone in his pocket. "It's been almost a week. I'm getting really worried."

"Do you know where the nest was? Maybe you should go check on her."

"Somewhere in southern Utah. I don't know exactly where, though. Last we spoke she said the vamps had holed up somewhere not on a map." Sam slams one hand flat against the door of the fridge before running that same hand through his hair. "Shit, I should've gotten the coordinates from her."

"Hey, hey," Dean says, dumping bacon onto a paper towel and returning the pan to the burner. "I'm sure she's fine. She probably just lost her phone somewhere and hasn't been able to get a new one"

"After a week?" Sam shoots Dean an incredulous look.

"Just trying to think positively."

Sam slumps, leaning against the fridge. "I know. I'm just-"

"Really worried. I know. I can tell." Dean nudges Sam to the side so he can get a carton of eggs from the fridge. "Are there any hunters we know that are in the area and can check on her?"

"I don't know. I think Charlie was in Idaho."

"Well,” Dean says, cracking a couple of eggs straight into the bacon grease that still coats the pan. “Go give Charlie a call."

Sam feels a little better having something he can do right now and he immediately pulls his phone out. He realizes too late that Charlie is in a different timezone, but by some miracle Charlie is just getting back to her car after a salt and burn and answers after the second ring. She promises to head south and see if she can track down Y/N.

"I'll keep you updated," she promises. "It's almost a seven-hour drive, though, and I need a few hours of shut-eye before I get on the road."

Sam nods, stirring a bit of creamer into his coffee. "Do what you need to do. I don't want you putting yourself in danger."

"I'll text you when I'm on the road."

"Thanks, Charlie. I really appreciate it."

"Hey, man. After everything you've done for me? Checking up on someone is the least I can do. Plus, Y/N is a friend, too. But I know you guys are really close and it's not like her to be out of contact this long."

Sam leans against the counter, suppressing another sigh. It feels like he’s done that a hundred times in the last hour alone.

“Hey,” Charlie says gently, seeming to sense Sam’s distress. “We’ll find her.”

“Thanks, Charlie,” Sam murmurs. “I’ll let you get some sleep.”

They end the call and Sam turns his attention to his coffee, fighting to keep his mind from wandering.

“It’ll be fine,” Dean says from where he’s now sitting at the table, mouth full of eggs and bacon. “Eat some bacon and find something to distract yourself.”

“I’ll try,” Sam mutters, snagging a piece of bacon and heading off to his office.

---

Sam’s really glad they’re ahead on recording for Criminal History because he’s able to lose himself in editing and getting the episode uploaded. Then he gets the next episode of War Room ready to go. From there, though, all he has left is to edit more episodes of Criminal History and he just… can't. He can't sit in his office and listen to her voice when he doesn't know if she's even alive 

No. Don't think like that. He rubs both palms over his face, trying to scrub that horrible thought from his brain. She's alive. She has to be.

--

Like this fic? Support me longterm on Patreon HERE or make a one-time donation of Ko-Fi HERE

--

Team Forever: @mrswhozeewhatsis @books-and-icecream @laughing-at-the-darkness @tumbler-tidbits @imsuperawkward

Team Sam: @saxxxology

Team TFL: @wonderfulworldofwinchester @kickingitwithkirk @muchamusedaboutnothing @ellen-reincarnated1967

#thanks for listening #my writing #sam x reader #sam winchester #spnkinkbingo

[psychic-timetraveler]

Time Traveler’s Oliver and Company AU

About the AU (x) Other Drabbles (x) ___________

Part 4: Streets of Gold

The sunrise over the city was quiet lovely, despite it already being rush hour. People were eagerly on their ways to get to their jobs throughout the city. The traffic on the streets were just as bad as the traffic on the sidewalks. Rose made sure she was always within an arms reach of Quincy, especially having no idea where they were headed.

Eventually, Rose finally asked a question that had been bugging her since she woke up that morning. “Okay. What did you find out?”

“What?” He asked looking down at her quickly.

“You know what I mean. You were there all night. Like you didn’t do some digging on the internet. What did you find?”

He shrugged. “Nothing much. Social media accounts, foster system file, your paypal. No wonder you’re not worried about running from the system.”

“If you saw my social media, then you saw my YouTube account. Thus, the paypal. Stay in a place for so long, make a few videos, post them sporadically, rake in a few pretty pennies.”

“I didn’t watch any videos, just saw that you had one. Honestly, I was too focused on the foster system file. You have some track record there. Coast to coast and everywhere in between.”

“What can I say? I hated the system.”

“Obviously.”

He quickly grabbed her backpack strap and pulled her into an apartment building. She made a tiny noise at the sudden change of direction. The stairwell to this building seemed a bit run down but not to the point of being a shit hole. Hell, she’s lived in houses worse than this. He lead her up three flights of stairs and down a hallway. Always the last door on the left. Always!

He stopped at the last door on the left, so cliche, and opened it. He ushered her in first and shut the door behind them. “So my roommate should still be out. Bathroom is down the hall, you’re free to use it. Was not expecting to spend the night at the warehouse so, I gotta shower and grab some shit for the day.”

She nodded and headed back where he had pointed. Before she could even shut the door, she heard another door close. Assuming it was his door, she went into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. Though a shower sounded nice, dry shampoo would be her friend for a day or two still.

Instead she brushed her teeth first before spraying her hair down with dry shampoo. She dug into her backpack and changed clothes for the day. Those travel sized vacuum seal bags were lovely, the kind where you just rolled out the air. Layers were also a friend. She changed everything but her hoodie and jacket. Deodorant went next after feeling not disgusting anymore followed by some body mist.

She debated for a minute if she even wanted to bother with makeup, which she decided yes. Just some eyeliner and a nice lipgloss mostly. Soon she deemed herself presentable enough and cleaned up the bathroom like she had found it.

By the time she opened up the door, the apartment was still empty and Quincy’s door was still shut. Already hearing his voice in her head about not touching anything, she went over to the couch and sat down. This was going to be an ideal time to plug her phone in for a bit and charge it, alongside her backup battery. Despite it charging, she poked at it a bit and checked on her social media accounts to keep occupied.

A door opening caused her to look. What she thought was going to be Quincy was not, it was another man instead coming through the front door. He gave her a look and an equally confused courtesy wave.

“Q?” The man asked.

Rose pointed to his bedroom. Jesus how many nicknames did this dude have?

The man, instead of knocking, burst right into Quincy’s room. Rose turned her attention back to her phone, best to just stay out of it.

The man didn’t care by this point and just walked into Quincy’s bathroom in his room. Thankfully he was still in the shower.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Quincy yelled.

“I should be asking you the same thing!” The other man shouted back.

“Fucking knock next time, asshole!”

“Why the hell is there a teenager sitting in our living room?”

“Uh, my living room. You’re the one who’s moving out.” Quincy was terrible at answering questions.

“Not the point, there’s still a teenager in the living room!”

“I know that!” He shut off the water and grabbed the towel he had draped over the shower curtain rod. “It’s a long story, okay? When are you officially moving out?”

“I came to grab a few more things and I’m out today. I’m leaving you a check for the rest of the month’s rent and whatever else I owe you and I’m gone.”

“The rest of the shit in your room?”

“Leaving it here.”

Quincy groaned and stepped out of the shower with a towel around his waist. “God you suck.”

He shrugged. “Well at least I don’t bring teenagers to the apartment.”

“George, it’s a long story okay? I should still be pissed at you for leaving all of your fucking furniture for me to deal with.”

“Well the next poor sap you live with won’t have to worry about it.”

Quincy gave his ex-roommate a look. “You done roasting me now? Leaving?”

George groaned. “Yes, I’m leaving. Jesus. Just going to leave everything on the kitchen table and I’m gone.”

“Still see you at the gym next Thursday?”

“Obviously.”

With that, George left Quincy’s room. He dried off and go ready, or at least as best to his ability. That mostly consisted of picking things throughout the room that he assumed were still good to wear. Whatever, it was good enough. Hell, he even threw on a dodgers baseball hat to seal the deal.

By this point he did not care, he just wanted to get the job started. He grabbed his own backpack of goodies from beside his bed and double checked he had everything in there. Everything seemed to be there, what really mattered was his flash drive. That had everything in it for the job.

He grabbed his jacket and slung his backpack over his shoulder. When he walked out into the living room, he wasn’t surprised to see Rose sitting there on her phone.

“Is George still here?”

“Nope. He left a few minutes ago.” She responded, not looking up from her phone. “You two argue like an old married couple.”

Quincy rolled his eyes. “Whatever. You ready?”

“Waiting on you.” She had already begun to gather her chargers and plugs. “What’s the game plan, chief?”

“Use public wifi to get into a big name business computer for starters. The key is getting in, everything else can then be done remotely at the warehouse.” He explained, opening the front door again. “And don’t call me ‘chief’ again.”

Rose shoved the charger plugs into her bag and zipped it up. She flung it over her shoulder and headed out the door. “Fine.”

He shut the door behind her and they walked down side by side. “You’re the first one of the gang to see where I actually live, let alone half meet my roommate.”

“Ex roommate.” She corrected. “For real though, argue like a married couple.”

“Thus why he’s moving out.”

“Is it really though?” She arched an eyebrow at him.

“Nah, he started seeing someone and decided to move in with her.” He rolled her eyes. “Spare me.”

“That means you have an opening for a new roommate. Melissa perhaps?” She smiled to him. If anything it was a shit eating grin.

He gave her a tired look. “I swear to the gods above, you are worse than the rest of them and I’ve known you the shortest.”

“Oh, I heard a lot yesterday while you and Charlie were out. A lot.”

He let out a defeated sigh. “I bet.” With that he opened the door and ushered her back onto the busy sidewalks. “In this lighting, you can see the new patches of grey I obtained just from that conversation. Thank you for that.”

“Glad I can be of assistance with that.” She smiled proudly.

He let out another sigh. “God, you’re going to be the death of me.”

“Yet, you still haven’t told me to fuck off yet.” She reminded.

“That’s correct.” He began to nudge her down the street again.

She decided to leave it at that. Not knowing what the day ahead was going to bring, it was probably for the best that she kept her mouth shut. Besides, she was too focused on how lovely the city looked this morning.

The rising sun cast an orange glow onto the buildings and streets to give everything a pleasant glow. Actually, it looks as if the streets were paved with gold. This had to be one of the prettiest cities she had lived in since she’s been in the foster care system. It took seven years to finally feel at home and at peace but it came.

That was quickly taken away from her as Quincy was pulling her backpack to the right as they took a corner. This street wasn’t as pretty as the last one they just walked down but something about this city was really starting to feel peaceful, despite it being loud and dirty as hell. It was a city of wonder and mystery that she loved.

Now it was time to get to business. Quincy and Rose went in and out of coffee shops all morning and well into the afternoon. Various points of the city, trying to get into their client’s target’s computer. Though their client didn’t give them much to go off of, it was something and Quincy at least knew what he was doing. Despite getting frustrated and wanting to jump into oncoming traffic every hour and a half or so, it was sort of productive.

All that mattered to Rose was the coffee she was drinking and the homework she was finishing. Though she completely missed that day of school, it was for the best not to mention it. Quincy seemed like the sort of guy who would’ve flipped and said she should’ve been in school that day. It was best to just leave it at that. The only downfall to not being in school that day was she would be without her laptop all weekend.

Fridays were her day to get out a bit earlier too so she could do just this, use coffee shops free wifi to upload her youtube videos. Now she spent her day drinking lots of coffee and doing her homework with social media breaks every so often.

It was around four or four thirty in the afternoon. Somehow they had managed to get uptown into the nicer district, close to where the upper crust people lived. It was a small coffee shop that happened to be below a paper shop. There was a dude with an acoustic guitar playing in the back of the shop that made Rose cringe externally and internally.

Either way, Quincy was getting a lot of work done and this seemed like it was going to be the ideal spot and hopefully the last. They had been at this all day and she could tell Quincy was getting annoyed. Though they had not said much, it was the amount of caffeine that man had been drinking all day and his frustrated habits were easy to pick up on. Especially the one where he put his head down on the table and groaned into his jacket sleeve. That was her favorite. Well that and when he’d lean all the way back in his chair and put his hat over his face for a minute or so. That was also comical.

Rose had looked up from her phone and saw a familiar face walk into the coffee shop. He didn’t see her right away, he was too fixated on the menu towards the side of the shop. When he walked passed her, she could see headphones in his ears. A teen with priorities.

The other young man ordered his coffee and waited for it to the side, now rocking one headphone. In one hand he held a guitar case, or in his case a bass from what she remembered about her friend. In the other he had his phone as he searched for a song. Once he settled on one, he pocketed it again and waited for his drink.

The barista called out for a orange hot cocoa and he grabbed the beverage and thanked the woman. He took a sip and that’s when Rose decided to offer a small wave to him. He smiled to her and stopped next to the table with her and Quincy.

All that mattered was that Quincy was oblivious to everything happening currently around him. Though it didn’t matter. He would try to roast her for her male friend but she’d shoot back about Melissa again.

“Hey.” The taller teen smiled down to Rose. “Didn’t see you in class today, everything okay?”

“Hey.” She returned the smile, though it was forced. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Just a bit hectic right now. Trying to get my shit in order.”

“Well, if you ever need a quiet place to do some studying or to run away for a bit, my place is always open to ya. My parents are usually away on business most long weekends so it’s always quiet and it gets a bit lonely sometimes. Wouldn’t mind to have a friend come over once in a while.”

“Thanks, really. I’ll have to keep that in mind at some point.”

“I’m actually late for band practice.” He laughed a bit and held up his bass case. “I’ll catch ya later, Ro.”

“See ya, Brad.” She waved to him as he walked out of the coffee shop.

She went back to her phone, completely oblivious that Quincy was staring at her. It took her a few seconds of him staring to finally look up. To be honest, she didn’t realize he knew that her friend had talked to her for a moment either.

“What?” She asked.

“You know that kid?” He asked.

“Yes? I go to school with him. He’s a bit upper crust but super down to earth.”

“Brad? Right? That’s his name?” Quincy asked.

Rose put her phone down to give him her undivided attention. “Yes. Okay, what is with these questions? Yes, his name is Brad. Yes, I know him from school. Yes, we are friends. No, I do not plan on dating him. What else do you want to know?”

He rolled his eyes. “Listen. That’s the son to our client’s target.”

“Daniel Slater?” She asked, remembering the name.

“Yes.” He shut his laptop and leaned back in the chair. “Wow, this is going to be a helluva lot easier than I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

He dug into his backpack for the flash drive. “This. If you can get what’s on this flash drive onto one of Daniel Slater’s computers, we’re golden. Mr. Sykes is going to be one happy man and he’s not the type of man you want to piss off.”

“Okay. So what are you then getting at?”

The flash drive made a small plastic clink when it hit the table. Quincy slid the device over to her. “You’re going to be the one who plants it.”

She plucked it off the table. “Me?”

“You know his son, and who literally just offered you to go over at any time. Who better? Charlie said you were apart of the gang anyway. Think you can manage it?”

She turned the flash drive over in her hand a few times before pocketing it in her hoodie. “I think I can manage it.”

“Attagirl.” Quincy smiled at her.

Something about hearing a form of validation from an adult made her smile a bit on the inside. She was apart of something. Okay, something a bit sketchy but it was something! Half of the other foster homes she’d been in were garbage and yet these hackers were willing to take her in with open arms. This was something she did not want to lose. They were all good people who just chose to do questionable things in their free time.

Quincy gathered his laptop and charger and shoved them back into his bag. “Let’s get outta here.”

She pocketed her phone next and stood up after him. “Fucking finally. I think I had enough caffeine to last me a week.”

“Or a day?” He laughed a bit.

“That too.” She smiled.

He nudged her. “Come on, there’s a pretty good pizza place up the block a bit.”

#oliver and company au #disney au #category: ttAU #category: time traveler #oc: rose #oc: q #writing post #drabble series #wip

[simplelinesunfashiond]

Highway to Hellsite

Because @abalonetea low-key encouraged me to finish an AU scene despite not knowing what it was, and @idreamonpaper and @drabbleitout actually encouraged this weirdness at one point, and I have no willpower when it comes to both spoiling and embarassing the hell out of Jackson Alistair Lewis. A short non-magical AU about blogging and your obvious crush on a celebrity going viral.

Jackson Alistair woke to the sound of his phone obsessively buzzing in his ear. He moved, stretched, felt something pop in his back and slowly lowered himself back onto the pillow, blinking at the ceiling for far longer than he supposed he really needed to. He had some things to consider, though nothing so much to worry about, he thought. He had survived the gala, uploaded a decent number of shots, and, overall, not completely flopped at his first press event. Good. It all faded out, a little, in comparison to the real reason he was even invited. Being the administrator of the first known DawnShadow fan page wasn’t much for a marketing resume, but damn if it wasn’t good for getting in close with DawnShadow’s marketing team when the band reformed and started catching on. So, maybe his interests hadn’t been one hundred percent professional.

The event certainly had been, at any rate. A fundraiser, a big deal. He hadn’t actually known much about the organization up front, just that it was run by the founder of a network of medical facilities. He knew who that man was, though. And he knew who that man’s second-in-command on his medical staff was. And if there was one thing that was bound to get Nathaniel Ettonridge out into the world, it was his crazy-genious daughter. Even if the band hadn’t been contracted to perform at the more public part of the event (which, thank whatever powers, they had), Nat would be sure to make an appearance. And what an appearance it had been, though the tailored coat was nothing compared to the guitar god on his arm. There had always been rumors, but this was…Well, whatever it was, it felt important. Maybe just because he'd spent so long looking at ancient pictures and wondering, but...maybe not that, really.

The phone buzzed again, and he finally bothered to look at it. A lot of new notifications, more honestly than he’d expected – in fact, suspiciously many. And a few messages from Sydney, who hadn’t dragged herself clear across the country just to watch him snap pictures at an event she wasn’t actually invited to. Understandable. The messages were about what he expected. How was the event, was it exciting meeting everyone, how did he end up getting on stage? And then, a little bit of a different one.

“Did you bring anyone back with you? ;)”

Of course not, and what sort of strange question was that? He asked her as much.

“I’m just teasing. But we’ve talked about this. You can tell me anything. I did figure it was probably a joke, though…” A joke? What was a joke? After a minute of him not answering, another alert snapped him back. “…” And then another. “You haven’t seen it yet?”

He flipped on instinct back to the notifications. A lot of new traffic, likes, reblogs, retweets, notes from all over the series of pages he’d been maintaining across their different platforms. And then, before all that, the ominous truth of the matter.

“Kim ‘at’ed me in something?” he asked, out loud, and then paused to consider the odd sensation of trying to say “@” out loud. What was more, it was a post from another blog, someone he had met the night before. He paused, thought about it before he even attempted to open it, and couldn’t recall anything that had occurred between him and Sarra being interesting enough to go viral. Finally, he went to her account, and stared for a long moment at the odd gradients that served as placeholders for what must have been a completely unreasonable amount of pictures. He glanced over his shoulder to his laptop, and wondered if it was worth another attempt to connect to the hotel’s terrible wifi. Finally, after far too long, the images began to materialize. He scrolled around a little, not looking, just moving the screen up and down, and wondered in an aggravatingly sincere confusion how someone else’s hellsite post had managed to send that much attention to him not just on said hellsite, but across the board.

He scrolled back to the top.

It had only one line of explanation. “The most interesting thing that happened all night.” And the first picture under that wasn’t one she had taken. It was a screenshot of one of his. And so were a few of the ones after that. And there were a few of her pictures, of him, usually of him taking pictures, of…Well, until he saw them all in one place, he hadn’t realized just how many pictures he had taken of the same person. The first large swath of reblogs were all Sarra, adding more pictures to the string.

People, at first. It was just a very striking image, one he couldn’t possibly pass up. The fact that Dr. Orion Lourandera’s other main celebrity contacts were royalty in the fashion industry, and his own siblings, was too good to be true. At first glance, the twins were almost indistinguishable from each other. Jackson wasn’t totally sure if the garments they were wearing would be considered gowns or coats, but the long gauzy material, all blue and green and teal with glints of gold, trailed to the floor like peacocks’ feathers. The sister was the one with her hair swept up and pinned, the one who never took her sunglasses off. The other, with short hair swept back and impractically high heels, was the brother. At some point, his outermost layer – apparently some sort of jacket – was discarded, to reveal that the rest of whatever sort of couture clothing item that was, was open down most of the back. Intricate scrolling tattoos of very small text ran from the base of his neck down his spine to the small of his back, and Jackson remembered wondering just how close one would have to get to actually be able to read it. He did not, on the other hand, remember just how many pictures he'd tried to get of it. Or how long he'd actually stared while wondering, though that was apparently long enough for Sarra to notice and snap a few pictures of Jackson frozen like a statue with his camera half forgotten as the rest of the guests moved around him. It was a decently long exposure, if the motion blurs on everyone else were anything to judge by.

He finally managed to scroll past the vast swath of his pictures of Anderson Lourandera, with its handful of pictures of himself, before the next section started. This one was all pictures of Jackson, posted by an instagram account he'd never heard of before. Something private maybe? The first one had managed to clearly catch the moment the doorman had IDed him, and how much taller everyone else around him was, and was simply captioned, “Whose baby is this??? Why is he here alone???” with a teary-eyed emoji and a random selection of hearts. The one after was Jackson, as well as a few other camera-wielders, and based on the small lock of blonde hair in the corner of the image, this was a picture that Anderson had discreetly taken over his own shoulder while leaning dramatically on the bar. “These media boys think I'm posing for them. They must never learn the truth. #too drunk for these heels #i will literally fall over #no srsly #someone #stop ogling and help me #dammit."

The captions weren't all exactly coherent, but there were…Well, there were a lot of pictures of Jackson. Including a very zoomed in one of him showing his ID to the bartender. His info had, thankfully, been blurred out, but based on the small excited-looking key smash, whatever had been seen was exciting. Oh, Jackson realized, thinking back to the first picture, the fact that this man had thought he was a child, my age I guess.

And then, there was one of him talking to Sarra, who was pointedly side-eyeing the camera. “Askfbsi I've been caught,” and then a very distraught little emoji.

Then, there were the concert shots. A couple of Jackson in the crowd, looking particularly giddy, and captions pointing it out. Then, a few posts with no pictures, just black, with very over-excited and unspecific captions. And finally, the part where he ended up on stage, himself.

Jackson still remembered the feeling of awe, like a coronation, when the strap of the PRS was lowered over his head, the feeling of the strings under his finger, the mother-of-pearl inlays glinting under the stage lights. Nix, with the same ancient red Fender, cluing him in on the set, testing his knowledge on a couple things. No problem. That's why Jackson was here – he was the guy who knew it all.

It was only screenshots but it was clearly a series of videos. When he got to tear into his favorite solo. The moment of shock he'd hoped nobody had noticed when Nathaniel hit that note in Firebird. Nathaniel daring Jackson to do the vocals for Twilight Angel. People cheered, good-natured but egging him on, until he agreed. Sarra had interjected in the next post to add the link to the full video, with a struck-through comment of “no but for real he was amazing go watch it.”

And, in glorious conclusion, a picture Sarra had taken herself, a panoramic view of the scene, of the over-dramatic rapturous look, head tossed back, laughing out loud, of Jackson killing the last solo in the outro of Visions of Midnight on one edge of the image, and, on the other side, Anderson Lourandera, gaze locked on the stage, skin tinted with a faint alcohol-induced blush. One shining with energy, and with the aid of stagelights, the other a vibrant beacon standing out of a sea of dark suits and satin and velvet winter dresses. It was, Jackson concluded, a very odd scene, and it suggested that people had shown up with the image of a more political event in their minds. That seemed like it should have been important, but he couldn't place why. Couldn't quite care. Found himself forgetting, failing to notice, a little more every time he looked back at the picture. He did manage to notice that the artistry of it put every one of his shots to shame.

A few other comments came up under that, a lot of people gushing about various aspects, and a few repeating the demand to know who this kid was. And then, the conclusion, which had been reblogged back to Sarra's page as well. A screenshot of a select few of the posts from Jackson's “house of light" tag, which had existed long before the gala but which now included a couple of last night's pictures, and a screenshot of part of the House of Light's official blog, including a couple of shots of Jackson walking out in a long-hemmed vintage velvet coat that, now that he thought about it, was actually from HoL. The tags underneath included the phrase “#if you see this #call us.” And that was where the “@” appeared. Kim's commentary read, “Admins for @visionsofdawnshadow and @houseoflight-courtofshadow need to quit being horny on main.”

Jackson stared at it for a long moment, then took a screenshot of the whole thing and, after another minute if hesitation, sent it to Sydney.

“Is this what you meant?” he asked.

“Don't freak out,” Sydney answered. “Besides, like I said, I was already pretty sure nothing happened…”

“Why?”

“Well, I know who you are so…I called? The west coast shop. Mostly talked to Eva. (Cuuute accents, by the way).”

Jackson's brain failed to formulate more than “…,” so that was what he sent her.

“It's no secret they work a lot with the band, so he's heading back east with them.”

…

“Aaand it wouldn't hurt to have an assistant/photographer/model/killer musician on board for that kind of project?”

. . .

“…We sort of figured…you might want the job. She thought maybe you could meet with them before you leave? If you don't want to I can totally call her back!”

Jackson switched back to the page of Sarra and Kim's pictures, stared at that panorama for a minute. Saved it. Looked again. Reblogged it to his own page, added a relevantly embarrassed-looking gif. Wrote back to Sydney, “Just tell me where to go.” Then, a second later, “Also, I love you.”

#tsp au #characters: jackson #not gonna lie #this is a weird one

[relaxandlaughatyourself]

So I started watching bbcan2 and got six episodes in so far. Had no idea a Kyle existed, I liked him tho, seemed like a good guy. Had no idea Ika was up for eviction the first week. Had no idea Heather was so blonde and squeaky. Had no idea Rachelle and Ika were girls. Had no idea those other two were up against Allison for the public vote, both seemed like good guys and to have a drag queen in the house would have been fantastic.

I also took some awesome screenshots but because I’m in China and my iPad is WiFi only and WiFi won’t let me on any of our sites, I can’t upload them for at least a week. Sad.

[xyliane]

it’s electrifying!

notes: ...I don’t even know, folks. this au is spiralling out of control. also lol what is editing and what is self-control. this is the most self-indulgent thing I’ve written in ages. I’ll write a masterpost or something for it eventually, but for now take some really silly (and several months in the future) sibling and killugon shenanigans. I wholeheartedly blame @ikarikari, this wouldn’t happen without you. thunderstruck au, killugon, alluka zoldyck, killua zoldyck, gon freecss. 1700 words.

It’s been hours that Killua’s been in this library, but he’s almost done with this damn report. For a professor with his own nationally-recognized lab and enough funding to pay both his grad student and the Zoldyck siblings for data collection, Wing has the worst organization in his server. Killua hates it. He hates trying to upload data, to download data, to find data that he put there. Zushi can only do so much trying to keep up with it. 

But this little library’s been great, the librarian not minding that he’s spent almost every hour of daylight on their wifi and occasionally cursing at the server gods. Killua’s not sure if there are gods of internet servers, but given the people he’s met in the last few months, he wouldn’t be surprised. But now it’s all collated, all the words are written, and it’s not Killua’s fault if it’s not well-written, he just needs to finish outlining the--

A blank black phone screen drops in front of his nose, held in a tight-knuckled fist. A little blue monster dangles from the edge of the case. It’s cute. But it’s not the report that needs to be finished tonight or Killua doesn’t get paid.

(That’s a lie. Wing wouldn’t keep Killua from getting paid. Or well, Zushi wouldn’t let Wing keep Killua from getting paid. But that just makes it more important. He owes Palm and Ikalgo too much to have another day without giving them something.)

“Fix my phone,” Alluka says, boredom and annoyance warring in her voice. 

“You’re the tech wiz, you fix it,” Killua says, and pushes it out of the way of the screen. 

She pushes back insistently. “It’s not broken! Gon and I were shopping all afternoon for Palm, and my battery ran out. You can charge it.”

That gets him to take his eyes off the phone-blocked report, staring up at his sister incredulously. She has a new headband that was probably not on Palm’s shopping list, but Killua approves. It matches the gloves she bought at the last town over. But that’s besides the point. “Your charger’s in the truck. Truck’s parked over by thrift store Gon thinks is owned by a ghoul.”

“It is owned by a ghoul, and I’m not going all the way there and back to charge my phone. Not when my best big brother is an electric dragon”

Killua nearly coughs up a lung in shock, and shoots a surreptitious look towards the front desk. The librarian’s not paying attention, humming away to whatever music’s been blasting out of her headphones for the last two hours. “I’m not a dragon!” he hisses.

“You’re cursed by one. So charge my phone.” She pushes the phone into his cheek, and the little blue charm smooshes into his skin.

“No!”

She pushes harder. “I saw you charging your laptop earlier, I know you can. Please, Brother?”

Killua manages to shove the phone away, and a little spark flies out of his fingers like static. “I can’t!” he says. “I ran out earlier.”

Alluka sighs, but drops her hand. “You were trying to make ball lightning again.”

Yes. Killua ignores how his cheeks burn. His sister has always been far, far too good at reading him. “I had to charge my laptop,” he lies. “And I’m not just going to stick my finger in an electric socket, I don’t know how to control it yet. I could knock out the power grid. Or get knocked out.”

She clearly doesn’t believe him, but also doesn’t question it, expression dejected. Killua counts it as a win. 

At least until her face perks up, and she turns to the front of the library so quickly the beads in her hair clack against each other. “Wait, Brother! Gon can help!”

“What’s that idiot going to do? Blow winds around until it generates static?” Killua asks, but Alluka’s already gone, vanished out the front door. The librarian raises her head at that, glancing from the front door to the desk Killua’s parked himself at on the other side of the stacks. 

She raises an eyebrow, rainbow-rimmed glasses flashing.

Killua shrugs.

She takes that as good enough, and gathers up an armful of newspapers to reshelve in one of the back rooms. Gon had been interested in the local history, or at least had been looking for any sign of his dad in the public records. But he’d just left a mess.

And the storm in question blows back in through the front door, dragged in by Killua’s sister. His hair’s still unnaturally windswept, green-black and darker than a pond on a moonless night, but his grin grows wide as he spots Killua. “You’re still here!” he says.

Killua rolls his eyes, but can’t help but smile. “Where else would I be?”

“What about the university?”

“That’s three hours away for those of us humans who can’t turn into winds and fly.”

“Oh. Right.” Gon plops down in the chair, making dust fly everywhere in the sudden breeze. “What did you need, Killua?”

“I don’t need anything,” he says. “Ask my sister.”

“Gon, you can charge Killua!” Alluka says brightly. “You did before, right? On the night of the storm?”

“That was an accident,”  Killua starts to say--an incredibly painful accident that had started with an argument and ended with Killua unconscious. But that’s before his hand is covered with one of Gon’s, warm and consuming like sunlight on pavement, completely derailing Killua’s train of thought.

Gon’s eyes gleam, just a hint of unnatural gold in the rich brown. “You want me to charge you, Killua?” he asks.

Killua blushes from his hairline all the way to his toes. “You idiot, is that how you’re putting it?”

“Well, yeah! How else would I ask?”

Before Killua can either explain in minute detail why that was the worst way of describing anything but especially in front of his sister, Alluka huffs. “Please, Brother? It’ll just take a minute.”

Killua looks between the two of them, scarily similar expressions of anticipation, and sighs. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and grabs onto Gon’s hand, anticipating the flow of current from palm to palm like they’ve done before.

Instead, Gon kisses him.

It’s not quite like being struck by lightning--Killua knows what that feels like far more intimately than he wishes he did. Being struck by lightning feels like being punched in the head, his whole body locking up and the smell of burning hair overwhelmed only by the stench of ozone. But Gon’s lips are soft and burning hot, chapped in odd places and moving with more confidence than Killua expects. It makes him run a hand up Gon’s arm, tracing the soft leather jacket and the sturdy muscles just beneath it as the hair on the back of his neck stands straight up. And there is an electric feeling, moving between their mouths as Killua traces Gon’s lip with his tongue, and Gon makes a noise like a gust of wind and a bird’s quiet laugh, and Killua loves that noise, loves how it makes his skin tingle in ways that have nothing to do with the current growing in his blood. It’s new, and it’s dangerous, and he can’t bring himself to care about the crackling ozone filling his ears and nose, only how Gon tastes like fog and dust and summer.

“Brother, my phone!”

Gon--damn him, damn Alluka, damn all cell phones ever--pulls back, the whites of his eyes shining with gold and the perpetual wind around him tugging his hair in every direction. As for Killua, he barely notices as Alluka presses her phone into the hand not holding onto Gon’s shoulder like a lifeline, ears ringing a little from the sudden change in air pressure. 

“Your hair’s all weird,” Gon says, and pokes at it. It lets out a little pop, like a fuse blowing. 

“You’re weird,” Killua says. “Why the fuck did you kiss me?”

Gon shrugs, the gold retreating out of his sclera until he looks almost normal enough to pass as a human. “Breath is wind, which is how this works. Unless you want me to call a storm for you? You told me not to do that inside anymore.”

“That is a really bad idea,” Alluka says. Now that Killua’s able to think about things other than Gon, he notices that her voice is fairly distant, pitched like it’s coming through her nose. She’s holding back something, and it’s probably going to split Killua’s eardrums later. 

He should probably have mentioned the...this. Of Gon. Not that it usually includes lightning. Or ever does. 

But Gon’s not done talking. “And I wanted to kiss you,” he says, and plants another one on Killua’s cheek. The static charge he leaves behind makes light flash in front of Killua’s eyes. 

So he pinches Gon’s ear, making the storm yelp. “Do you know how long my hair gets stuck like this?” he asks. “It takes forever just to stop looking like I stepped out of a bad science experiment.”

“It looks good!” Gon insists.

“It does not!”

Gon pouts. “I wouldn’t lie, Killua.”

Alluka’s phone buzzes, and she gives a little cheer as she tugs it out of Killua’s hand. “Thanks, Brother!” she says. “Also, the librarian is coming back.”

(As they’re leaving, Killua’s hands shoved as far into his jacket pockets to make sure neither he or Gon unconsciously grabs onto each other, the librarian gives him a wink, and hands over a hand-scrawled piece of paper. On one side is a list of libraries with Gon’s search terms cross-listed, and a few of them starred. On the other is a list of what looks like bars and restaurants, titled “for a good dinner for two guys, no questions asked.” She even drew a little winky face. Gon has the good grace to thank her while Killua’s skin burns with embarrassment.)

#hunter x hunter #hxh #hxh fic #hxh au #killugon #killua zoldyck #alluka zoldyck #gon freecss #why yes I did write half of this during lecture why do you ask #I'm a good TA #setting good examples for all my students with my impossible to read handwriting #also sorry it's absolutely not edited and I'm too braindead to care #thunderstruck #my writing

[sonderlivra]

Eruri Valentine’s Weekend 2k18 Collab with the lovely @autiacorart !!!

A late submission, but hopefully worth the wait! :) It was a blast working with such a talented artist! <3

Blackout Café - A Modern Eruri AU

Summary: Levi is a grumpy dork. Erwin is a sappy dork. Basically they’re both dorks. And they meet at a coffeeshop.

Warning: Swearing ahead, oops.

“Fucking shit,” Levi swears, hurrying down the street. A power cut. Who the fuck expects a power cut in this day and age?

He is still grumbling when he bursts into the coffeeshop, looking around a little wildly for the electric socket.

“Fuck,” he swears again. He had forgotten that this was one of the smaller, less pretentious coffeeshops. It was why he liked the place, but right now, he wishes he was somewhere else, anywhere else that has better aids for his dying laptop.

But there is just one table next to a socket and that happens to be occupied, and he doesn't know if he can make it to another coffeeshop in time. Fuming, he stomps over to the counter.

“I need to charge my laptop.”

“Oh we can charge it here for you sir-”

“I need to work.”

The employee pales. “Um, I'm sorry sir, but that table is the only one-”

“Yeah, I noticed,” he snaps. He considers stepping on the other side of the counter where he could work next to the socket. It sounds unappealing and embarrassing and Levi glances back at the table. The man sitting there is casually reading something, the electric socket empty.

Bastard isn't even using it.

Squaring himself, Levi approaches the table, his mouth filling up with several gruff phrases that have worked for him before. When he reaches the table, the blond man, who has his head bent down over an unmarked bound book, looks up -and Levi freezes.

Holy shit. Levi is suddenly at a loss for words. This guy is hot.

His bright blue eyes are wide with curiosity and he smiles a polite smile as he says, “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Levi manages to rasp and gestures at the electric socket next to the table. “I need that.”

The man glances at the wall and turns back to Levi, his smile widening. “Oh, by all means. Please, have a seat.”

Levi's brain short circuits again. What he meant was to ask the man to take another table, since there were quite a few empty ones around. But no. Mr. Handsome-Lawyer-Guy had to go and assume Levi wanted to share this table. Which he didn't, whether or not this man looked like an artist's rendition of fucking Apollo.

But his laptop​ beeps another “low battery” warning and Levi decides he doesn't care either way. With a grunt of gratitude, he plugs in his charger and slips into the chair opposite the man, resolutely keeping his eyes trained on the laptop screen.

With a deep breath and a mental command to fucking get a grip of himself, Levi pulls up the chat conversation and pings his client.

Sorry for the delay, Karl. I'm back.

The exchange goes on for longer than expected, with Levi having to upload and send a few of his drafts over the coffeeshop's slow WiFi. When he finally closes the conversation and leans back with a sigh, a low voice startles him by saying, “Busy day?”

Levi opens his eyes and blinks at the blond man: there is no mistaking that it was indeed him that spoke. His astonishingly blue eyes are still widened with interest, his firm mouth still has that polite, easygoing smile that -shit, the man has actual dimples. How the fuck is he even real?

“Uh, yeah.” Levi says, remembering that he was asked a question.

The man throws up a magnificent eyebrow. “Even on a Saturday?”

“Especially on a Saturday. Field day for freelancers.”

“Oh. I see.” He nods so understandingly Levi wonders if his earlier estimation was wrong, whether this man is not a lawyer but a shrink of some sort. Ew.

Again, the man's smile widens unexpectedly. “I'm Erwin,” he says, and offers Levi his hand. Levi takes it almost suspiciously. “Levi,” he mutters.

“An uncommon name,” the man says, eyes gleaming.

“As is yours,” Levi points out.

The man -Erwin -grins at that, showing a flash of neat, white teeth. “True.” He pauses, then continues, “By the way, are you staying? I'm going to go get myself another coffee.”

Levi hesitates. He really has no other plans, except for going back to the drawing board for Karl for the tiresome client. But he can spare a half hour, at the very least. Erwin is intriguing, and he would not mind getting to know him more. And maybe even get his phone number…

No. Levi is shocked at himself. He has never been this interested, this forward, to use Kenny's antiquated term, with anyone. His romantic track record is littered with casual flings and half-hearted attempts, and after Farlan, his record has been conspicuously empty for a long time. Is he really, finally getting out of that slump?

“Levi?” Erwin says softly, and he is brought crashing back to the present.

“Sorry.” He blinks and shakes his head. “I was trying to figure out my schedule. Yeah, I can stay for a bit.”

“Excellent.” The man beams at him and Levi feels another burst of indignance at his attractiveness. “What's your poison?”

Levi snorts. “I can get my own order.”

Erwin shakes his head. “I'm getting up anyway.”

Levi shrugs. “Oolong tea.”

Erwin’s smile falters.

“What?”

“You're ordering tea. At a coffeeshop.”

Levi raises his eyebrow. “So?”

Erwin recovers admirably and shakes his head. “Nothing. I should remember not to make assumptions too fast.”

“Meaning?”

Erwin laughs and Levi can't help but notice he looks a little flustered. “I was trying to guess what sort of coffee you'd drink,” he admits. “Sorry, it was presumptuous of me.”

Levi waves away the apology, interested. “So what do you think I drink?”

“Black.”

Levi snorts. “I drink it black when I do drink coffee so you're not half wrong.”

“Good to know. Well, I'll be back in a minute,” Erwin nods cheerfully and walks over to the counter. Levi quickly takes the opportunity to check out his appearance in the laptop screen, making sure his hair isn't too ruffled or that there isn't anything stuck between his teeth. When he is done with that, he sneaks glances at the counter over the top of his laptop. Erwin is massive: tall and powerfully built, he looks like he spends his free time pressing weights at the gym.

Damn.

Levi quickly switches to his phone and pretends to be browsing it when Erwin returns to the table. He places Levi's drink down with unnecessary grace before taking his earlier seat.

“Thanks,” Levi grunts, to which Erwin responds with another smile. “My pleasure.”

Ugh. Does he ever not smile?

They take a few sips of their drinks in silence, before Erwin thankfully breaks it. “So what sort of freelancing do you do, Levi?”

“I'm an architect.”

“Really?” Erwin looks inordinately interested. “Sounds glamorous.”

Levi can't help it, he lets out a bark of laughter. “Yeah, right. It basically involves drawing lines all day.”

“I'm sure there's more to it,” Erwin insists, leaning forward. “As far as I'm concerned, it's art.”

The statement endears Erwin to him, but he shakes his head. “There are some of us who would take offense at that. The drawing process is very precise and even scientific.”

Erwin waves his hand. “Of course, I understand that. But would calling it an art undermine its value?”

“In my eyes, no.” Levi admits. “But I draw for a hobby and maybe that makes me biased.”

“Did you draw that?” Erwin asks, his eyes gleaming. Levi looks down at his left arm, where most of his tattoo is peeking below the sleeve of his t-shirt. When Levi nods, Erwin hesitates and asks, “May I…?”

Levi can't help but feel a little self-conscious as he tugs up the sleeve. He's been asked this a dozen times before, so the request isn't exactly new. However, this is Erwin he's showing it to. Erwin, the real-life model, the hunk, the first man he has been genuinely interested in for years now. He remembers that this intense, insane pressure is why he hated dating to begin with.

Erwin’s eyes trace the rose curling down his arm, its vines twisting around a plain, sharp sword. It is filled with simple colours, the lines are basic, and the personal sentiment is evident only to him. He wonders what Erwin thinks of it.

“Stunning,” Erwin murmurs, and Levi hurriedly sips some tea to hide the heat in his cheeks.

“Thanks,” he mutters when he feels it is safe to show his face again. “It's my early work, though.”

“It's… absolutely perfect,” Erwin says, his voice still low.

That seems to break the spell, and Levi snorts. “What, really? ‘Perfection’ is a myth.”

“Perfection is subjective,” Erwin corrects him, that curious gleam still in his eyes. “Much like art.”

To that he has nothing to say. Meanwhile Erwin digs in his pockets and pulls out a surprisingly worn leather wallet. He plucks out a card and says, “Maybe this will substantiate my words. I'm an editor at a publishing house.” Levi takes the card, his heart thudding. “Maybe you've heard of us?”

Wings of Freedom Press. Levi has heard of them: an old company, going back decades, but not one of the big names. The title under the neat “Erwin Smith” simply says 'Editor’.

“I've heard of you,” Levi confirms. His chest is feeling more and more hollow with every passing second and the reason makes itself known with Erwin's next words.

“When I say 'perfect’ I mean it's exactly what I've had in mind for our next publication. We've been looking for an illustrator, and, at the risk of repeating myself, your art would be perfect for the book.”

A business proposition was all Erwin had in mind, nothing more. Levi feels like he could kick himself in the ass all the way home, the physical impossibility of it be damned.

“You just saw my tattoo. That's enough for you to make a decision?” He asks, stalling. Though the attraction is clearly one-sided, Levi feels resentful and badly wants to decline the offer. He only hesitates because this offer could be lucrative in the long run.

Just that, of course. No other reason.

“Art styles change over the years but remain, in essence, the same. I -let’s just say I have a good feeling about this.” Erwin says smoothly. “I can only say so much, but I urge you to consider it. I think you'll like what we can offer to you, and we would be thrilled to have you as a part of the team.”

“I already have a client.”

“Of course. If it doesn't take more than two months of your time to finish your contract with your current client, the offer is still open.”

Karl and his problematic specifications would be gone in two weeks at the most. That left him with little to no excuses for refusing Erwin.

“I understand that this is unconventional,” Erwin goes on, seemingly unaware of Levi's growing antipathy. “You can, of course, email me a portfolio of a few select works. We should be able to draw up a formal offer soon enough.”

Levi grits his teeth, still fingering the card. He wants to ask if he would have to work closely with Erwin but can't bring himself to say it. He doesn't know what he wants the answer to be, in any case.

“I'll think about it,” he manages finally. He doesn't want to make a choice now, when his emotions are all in a fucking mess, and regret it later.

Erwin suddenly seems to realise that he is sitting with a stranger in a coffeeshop. “Fair enough.” He swigs down the rest of his coffee and says, a little nervously, “I'm sorry if I came on too strong. I just -am very impressed by your skills and wouldn't want to pass up the opportunity to work with you.”

Stop. Just fucking stop. Levi wants to scream at the man, but he knows it is immature and unfair of him. Erwin wasn't flirting with him in the slightest, he sees that now. On the other hand, Erwin does seem genuinely impressed, and how can Levi blame him if he sees a business opportunity in that?

“Right.” Levi finds his teacup empty, and stands up. “Thanks for the tea.”

“Oh. You're welcome.” Surprised, Erwin stands up, too.

Levi hesitates, then offers him his hand. “Nice talking to you.”

Erwin’s face is almost unrecognisable, a stiff, polite mask. “And you.”

With a small, final nod, Levi gathers up his laptop and charger, and marches away. When he steps into the street, he stops for a moment, trying to remember if he's run out of cigarettes at home.

“Levi!” The coffeeshop's doors swing open behind him and Erwin strides out. “I forgot -is there any way I can contact you?”

Too surprised by Erwin's sudden reappearance, Levi nods. “Uh, yeah. Hang on.” He gropes in his pocket and finds his card case. Plucking one out, he hands it to Erwin, who squints at it as though it holds very important instructions. “And… this is your personal phone?”

Levi raises an eyebrow. “Yeah.”

“Then, would it be alright if I contacted you on this number? Outside of work?”

Levi stares at him for the full moment it takes him to realise what Erwin is implying. “Are you asking me out?” He asks him point-blank.

A now-familiar smile spreads on Erwin's face. “Yes, I am.”

Levi's heart is thudding erratically again, the hollowness from before replaced by so much warmth he feels like he could melt right there on Erwin's dress shoes. (And who the fuck wears dress shoes on a Saturday?)

“Wow,” he comments. “You hire people better than you ask them out.”

Erwin chuckles and Levi notices the slightly pink hue of his cheeks. Is Erwin Smith, the real-life model, the hunk, blushing? Well, damn.

“I'm a little rusty,” Erwin admits. “And a lot more used to hiring people.”

“Clearly.”

“So, is that a yes?”

Levi gives him a contemplative look, taking in the deep blue eyes, and the strong shoulders, and the trim waist. “It's a maybe,” he begins, and does not miss the disappointed flash in his eyes before finishing his sentence, “for the illustration gig. You can definitely buy me another drink.”

Erwin’s face lights up so quickly Levi nearly laughs. The man is like a fucking Labrador. “I'll text you, then.”

“Perfect.” Levi throws him a last smirk before walking away, fighting the urge to skip like a demented child, the expression on Erwin's face bringing an unnaturally sunny smile on his own.

Power cuts, Levi decides, are really fucking underrated.

A/N: My knowledge of architects and their work is very, very basic. Hopefully I haven’t misrepresented you guys!

Thanks again @autiacorart for so beautifully capturing the essence of my story in your art! And thank you all for reading!

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[beinglibertarian]

The Libertarian Argument for the Right to be Forgotten

Libertarians talk about our inherent rights such as self defense, property, free speech, and so on all the time. What about our right to our own data and online privacy?

In Europe, they have the General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR) which is a regulation that allows European Union citizens to find out and remove any and all data a company has on them.

I’ve been a staunch privacy advocate for many years as it’s a core principle of the free, Libre, and open source software movements.

I am that guy who goes through every application, analyzing what, and how, data is collected from the accounts and applications I use, and I almost always take extra steps to secure my privacy and security.

In fact, I have been well on the way to “de-Googling” myself for years, having deprecated my Gmail and Google services, to the point I only use Google Voice because the several numbers I have there have been well established in my circles, and I can’t port those phone numbers. But my Gmail is solely for Google Adsense, YouTube, and Voice.

I have long stopped using the actual Gmail and Drive components, in favor of building my own private email and cloud storage server.

My Facebook has been locked down severely, and, to be completely honest, if it wasn’t for my team at Being Libertarian being heavily reliant on Facebook, I would have killed my Facebook account long ago; all because Google and Facebook are two of the biggest violators of personal privacy and of my capability to own my personal data.

I have spent a good deal of time making sure my search results on Google, Bing, Yahoo, and Duck Duck Go have been really clean of most sensitive personal information, which has been really easy at times and at times hard, due to my name being extremely unique.

It’s well known that Facebook, Google, Microsoft, and many companies earn money by analyzing, gathering, and compiling information on you. Every email, search, upload, message, voice call, video call, video upload, etc. to Facebook, Google, and Microsoft is scrutinized to see how it can gain money from you.

While monetarily many of their services are free, your price is your privacy.

Even diving into Microsoft Windows you can see in Windows 10 that there are options to analyze what you are doing on your own computer, so they can target ads to you, and it’s because of the ways Microsoft invades privacy among many other reasons outlined in “Free(dom) Software: Why Your PC Should Have Liberty”. I use Linux as well as other free, Libre, and open source software in my everyday life.

Many internet service providers also do this by analyzing your internet traffic, and some have been caught injecting ads of their own while you are browsing.

So, with that all said, it’s not surprising there are people like me who spend a lot of time, effort, and some money to retain our data privacy.

I personally spend about $50 per month for my private email, contacts, and calendar (powered by mail-in-a-box), cloud storage (powered by Next Cloud), WordPress blog, and three VPN services to retain my privacy and security.

But I have at times been paying for third party services such as Abines DeleteMe to scour public databases to prune my private information, although they do offer a free DIY tutorial to remove your data.

In case you are wondering why I use three VPN services — each serves a different purpose:

1) VPN Unlimited which I have had for years, is a lifetime subscription to allow my devices to use Netflix and other streaming platforms whilst traveling or using public wifi to secure my devices and grant some extra privacy.

2) Private Internet Access which I pay yearly, is paid for in Bitcoin and focuses on security and privacy in general browsing. I use them especially when I am torrenting files or browsing the internet via Tor as an additional privacy and security step.

3) Private OpenVPN is a server I made so I have a static IP address no matter where I work from to know I have a guaranteed IP address to access all my and my clients’ servers successfully in case I lock myself out.

But there is a problem with a lot of VPNs too in terms of data privacy rights. A lot of them log and track your usage, also in an effort to make more money off of you. So you have to be careful of the VPN service you use, because the free VPN services, especially Onavo which is offered for free by Facebook, will give a false sense of privacy. I chose Private Internet Access because they open source as much as possible, and donate to many organizations whose jobs are to promote data privacy and the free, Libre, and open source software community.

Libertarians like to regularly talk about an inherent right to privacy, especially when on our own property. But we seem to fall rather silent when it’s a business, not the government, invading our privacy.

We willingly sign away our privacy and security to a business in exchange for “free stuff,” the very same way we make fun of liberals for wanting to do the same when Bernie Sanders talks about us getting free stuff.

But, because it’s a business, it’s totally okay, apparently, even though it’s well known and documented that U.S. and other governments will easily approach Google or other companies for data on specific people because that is a path of less resistance as I touched on in my prior article, “It’s Time to De-Google Yourself: Email”.

The fact is, for an Orwellian style of government, Google, Microsoft, and Facebook are an authoritarian wet dream for data collection.

Think about it. In the USA, not only are businesses free to collect any and all data on us on and offline, but there is no way for us to remove our data should we choose to in the future.

So, despite being observant of my data for a little over a decade all those companies still have, and in many cases, continue to collect my data without me being able to do anything about it; whereas, if I were in the EU, I could invoke the GDPR laws to get Microsoft, Google, Facebook, and more to remove my data from their systems.

One of the counter arguments I have heard is that you agree to use the company’s services and therefore shouldn’t have a right to complain as they can do as they please, and you can choose not to use the service. This is a fair argument, however, I should still retain the rights to my data, so should I opt to stop using a service, that my data is guaranteed to stop being used, or I can specify what data is allowed to be tracked.

For example, I have stopped using Gmail for receiving any emails. My account is purely for sending log emails from some servers, Google 2 Factor Authentication, Google Voice, and YouTube. Maybe I am okay with them getting my data and usage statistics for YouTube but want to keep my email, 2FA, and Voice services unable to be tracked and logged for security and possibly legal reasons.

This is an issue, as one thing I have regularly come across in my job of being IT systems consultant for small and medium businesses, is an inordinate number of doctors’ offices are using free Gmail accounts which is actually a violation of the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPAA). Due to the data collection tactics of Google, you have to sign up for G-Suite and sign a Business Associate Agreement (BAA) to make it HIPAA compliant.

But that also means private correspondence with your lawyer, accountant, family, and more is also available to advertisers or anyone willing to pay Google.

The same HIPAA issues come to light with really any free email provider, because those free providers more often than not are making their money back by scouring your emails for any valuable bits of your personal data to make money.

I believe, as a libertarian, we should have a right to our data, whether it is from the government or a business. I should have the ability to choose whether to disclose any or all information to any business, and should I end my use of a service, or choose for them not to have access to some data, be able to request for my data to be permanently deleted.

It also shouldn’t be a complicated process. A simple form or email submission is all we should require; not to go the routes I have gone where I have to constantly stay on top of what platforms have my data. But that still doesn’t help me in the case of Google, Microsoft, Facebook, Amazon, and others. This is why we should fight for GDPR in every country and embrace the right to be forgotten.

The post The Libertarian Argument for the Right to be Forgotten appeared first on Being Libertarian.

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[wonderfulmeaning]

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[lit--bitch]

On ‘The Moth Apocalypse’, by Joseph Turrent (2020)

(Disclosure: I don’t personally know Joseph Turrent. I do know Haverthorn/HVTN Press, which is run by Andrew Wells and Iris Colomb (I’m familiar with Andrew). They both seem to have an interest in interdisciplinary practice, and they do some really interesting things with form and language, kind of messing with the dimensions of how we receive language on the page, how we receive language as performance. I think those values are synonymous in the work HVTN publishes. It’s not about work that can be classified, rather the unclassified. It’s been a really beautiful thing to watch Haverthorn grow. I was published in the first issue of Haverthorn Magazine, that must’ve been about 5 years ago, maybe longer (I was a completely different writer back then, I was 17). Back then it was just a tiny collective of poems and fictional pieces. Now they’re a press, they’ve got multiple different platforms including Haverthorn Magazine, they also run Interruptions and Correspondences. Their identity is much more streamlined. Thematically I would say that the publications are varied, but I think they’re all united by a common interest in intertextuality, or multidisciplinary influences. I think it’s rare to find publishers which are so openly into the “uncategorised” in the UK. I think the UK is still publishing a lot of writing which yanks itself into a genre, like the industry is still bound by a lot of traditional canonical stuff... I think it is changing a bit, but it is refreshing and comforting to know that Haverthorn have been thinking and publishing this sort of stuff for a while.) 

This debut collection from Joseph Turrent is like a fever dream. The relentless doom of oncoming death in a cyclonic-tidal-wave-storm where God is a 58-year-old man and Elon Musk is singing baby shark. How do we continue to forge and define our self-identity when the end of everything is so near? When our inevitable mortality is met by storms we can’t weather? How do we drive that message home without flying off the handle? 

What I’m most flummoxed by is this text’s use of layering, and the multiplicity of that “layering”, textually, structurally... (something I’ll unpack in a while). It plays on ambiguity in words, it cracks open these weird, beautiful dualisms mirrored between reality and irreality, sort of echoing Charlotte Geater’s poems for my fbi agent except the relationship here is not a coexistence between I and the agent. Rather this is a relationship with the world, felt all over the whole world. It’s our binding relationship with the very public disintegration of our existence in a world which never fails to learn from its mistakes, from a species whose errors seem to forever *glitch*. It’s a huge headache, but it’s also crystal clear in its admonition to us, and yet it articulates the world’s end in a beautiful, complicated, mesmerising way (certain lines make me think of Crispin Best). And in its prescience, Joseph really underlines how much of this is already happening before it has happened, in analogies both profound and absurd. 

So again, I thought because of some of the interesting pop-culture references and crossovers with poems for my fbi agent I decided to talk to my mother about the complexities that this collection poses, and jostle with its meaning. I think we both felt really weird reading this swirl of a text (it’s literally swirling down the page), I likened it to feeling ‘car sick’ at times, so I’m gonna start with the way the poetry is structured because I think it’s the first layer to this collection, which you need to pick at before you can bridge all this amazing, convoluted imagery. 

For the sake of keeping the poetry’s structure intact, I’m going to screenshot sections from the review copy HVTN generously sent me. This way I’m not spending ten years typing it out carefully (which I usually do cos I’m normally quoting from ze printed matter), and I want people to see how Joseph works with form and shape. It’s not obvious from the first poem in the collection, ‘Moths’, what the structure is because it’s a short opening piece, but begins to imply some sort of outline, or perhaps a disintegration, where line breaks leave words hanging. I begun thinking about what moths are in this scene, their presence, when do they come awake? Part of the collection’s thematics takes it focus from “darkness”, literal and figurative, the darkness of day, the “grimdarkness” (as Joseph puts it in ‘one rain drop falls out the sky’) of a summer in February and these gruesome, seasonal abnormalities which are set to interrogate us and make us feel uncomfortable. (Let’s face it, it’s uncomfortable when there’s daffodils in January). Beginning with ‘Ending Scene’:

All the way through, Joseph’s poems zigzag and swirl down the page like this ^. I enjoy Joseph’s, I’m assuming intentional irony here, in beginning the collection at the end. He’s intimating the symmetry of our present-day predicament: living in the beginning of our world’s end. That first line propels us to our future: ‘it’s 2030, the wind is so strong it’s a geometrical pattern’. Now take a look at this extract again, look at it as a whole image. Joseph is playing out that image of a geometrical pattern through line breaks and alignment. It’s so deliberate, so exact. It feels engineered. And it’s this powerful wind, winding its way down and down the pages, which embodies a resemblance to a natural form, like the way you think of clouds travelling across a digitised map of the world on a weather channel. Half of this collection situates itself amongst ramifications of climate change, the erratic change in weather, the sky’s putrid colour, threatening and sick. We’re seeing a storm unwind in words. But when you take a look at the other references Joseph wields in his writing, you can begin to see that this visual structure intimates more subtle connotations. 

Remember how I said that the collection is exploring the errors of our species which forever seem to glitch on themselves? We keep repeating the same history which evidences our end? I think this is implied by the way the text swirls, and eats on itself. Joseph says at one point, ‘this glitch is hilarious’ (one rain drop falls out of the sky), opening us up to this denial, like “the apocalypse is happening, this is surreal” laughter, but it’s also kind of like, we’re losing our minds, we’re laughing because we’re bridging the insanity of everything dissolving before us, endlessly replaying itself, over and over. I’m kind of reminded by that scene in ‘The Midnight Gospel’ from Episode 6, ‘Vulture With Honour’, when Clancy and Captain Bryce (the guy that comes to fix Clancy’s simulator), tells him his list of rules when navigating these dangerous different coloured wobbles to get to Sparkle (a cow-like creature who makes green oil which is used to preserve and keep the lantern part of a simulator healthy I guess, hard to explain if you’ve not watched the series). Anyway so they come across this little weird man creature with a hoopla head holding onto a rocket or bomb-like thing, stuck inside purple wobble, which Captain Bryce explains: that’s the kind of wobble that locks you in time. And this little man stuck inside the purple wobble is glitching like:

And then Captain Bryce says: “it’s too late for this guy, his mind is pickled” because he’s been stuck in the same second forever. And I got to thinking about how, the more acutely aware we become as a species of how we’re repeating the same mistakes, facing the same consequences, extinguishing the same forest fires, over and over, the more riddled the mind becomes, and anguished I guess. So the poetry here isn’t just like a cyclonic pattern depicting a natural form; the strange, violent weather tearing up the planet’s astro turf and rainforests. It’s also a visual representation of history’s rhythm. This glitch, this error that remains eternally stuck, jolting on itself. It really gives weight to the series of images in this writing, which repeatedly hit you in the face, but it also compounds the repetition in the writing. In ‘this is the sadness’, (and pretty much all of the poems), Joseph keeps coming back to lines like ‘I can’t stop thinking about’ and ‘I’m writing a’ pegged by a series of repetitive motifs, butterflies, 58 year old men as God, airplanes, butterflies, horror show, airplanes, horrow movie’... That repetition is attached to this glitch-affected way of writing. It’s clever and unusual, and when I started reading the structure as a message in its own right, I was amazed by how things suddenly started to make sense in terms of the writing. I could see all this incredible dualism which Joseph plays with and writes about. 

So I went back and refreshed the first poem in this collection, ‘Moths’. 

I’m thinking of terms like ‘cloudz’, and what clouds are, how they move, what they mean in this day and age. The obvious dualism here is the physical clouds we see and study in the sky, their changeability as they move across throughout the day, carrying rain or snow, whatever. And then there’s this more enigmatic weird concept of ‘The Cloud’ in computing, which is a homonym in and of itself. You have Sky’s WiFi ‘The Cloud’, where anyone can make an account and sign into their WiFi and they have hotspots called ‘The Cloud’ all over the UK. You’ve got ‘cloud computing’ which is this method of data storage, normally created by a single provider. They manage the data and how it’s processed/stored/encrypted and users can upload or save information there. Anyone with an Apple product automatically gets an ‘iCloud’ account where their data is automatically backed by Apple’s cloud software. This means you never have to sync up your devices with wires or buy extra USB sticks/external hard drives to back up your data. You can just set a timer on your phone, link it to your iCloud account and it’ll automatically back up whenever you want. People think of this accumulation of data in one place, (without having to personally manage it) as being an “amorphous cloud”. I’m seeing this as a poem which introduces this element of denial about our surroundings. We’re pretending its normal and trying to squish out the reminder of these seasonal abnormalities. Even if it’s stripped across the sky, ‘black with insane swirls you could drown in’ (alluding to the writing on the page itself), our denial tells us to talk us away from the indefinite scream that it’s not okay. ‘Our cloudz are dying because of u’—the way Joseph intersperses Internet vernacular/text-speech/shorthand here introduces the Internet’s presence, and our tensions between our physical reality and our artificial one. We transcribe events into our phones. We see something, we talk about it in on an online platform. The way we transfer reality from a physical realm to a virtual realm is an exchange which happens so regularly and with such rigour that it’s an indented feature to 21st century society. Every time Boris Johnson makes an announcement in real-time, journalists flock to Twitter to unpack it in an online arena which stays up for the rest of time. The fact that language is swamped by Internet culture and adopts terms once pertaining to more physical objects or tangible sensations sensations, renders language more faceted and multiplicitous than ever before. Such ambiguousness in what we mean and how we mean it, contributes to this acute confusion and fear, which compounds contemporary culture. 

Other homonyms: 

I’m thinking of dark as in ‘dark mode’ and ‘dark’ as in ‘disturbing’. ‘I regret not running through Wheat’ I think is a reference to that Theresa May interview where she said the naughtiest thing she ever did was run through fields of wheat with her friends, (as opposed to increased austerity and fucking up Brexit + various other shit). 

‘accidentally deleting the human race’ makes a mockery of the way the world is ending, which is by no means, “an accident”. I also wonder about the dualism in ‘A tornado touched my heart & I’m crying’, is it that we’re seeing the destruction a tornado unleashes as a perturbance? Sometimes Joseph writes like the way emojis sound, does anyone get that? Sort of like a staccato, plain-text way of articulating emotion. Did an emoji tornado touch his emoji heart? 

Such an incredible line: ‘I love / thunderstorms because it sounds like God is choking on grapefruit’. I’m not even going to unpack that. I’m going to leave that one to simmer. But that’s not an example of an homonym here, in this section I was looking more at the part about ‘a million weird dead bugs’. There’s the bugs that come to eat us as we decompose. And then there’s “computer bugs”. Just a few examples where Joseph’s playing on words here. 

I think of these homonyms as alluding to our inability to discern between reality and virtuality. We’re unable to understand our reality as it is now, I mean if you discard the Internet and technology, we already struggle with deciphering between our own perception to another’s perception. What one perceives as being red, another might call pink, or orange, or green. The additional threat that Internet culture imposes is that, our language eventually becomes swamped by the technological vernacular of computers, of online-existence. And yet it’s inevitable, and it’s already happening. It’s interesting—Elon Musk said in 2016 about whether he thought humans were living inside a computer simulation— ‘The strongest argument for us probably being in a simulation I think is the following: 40 years ago we have Pong [the Ping Pong video game]—two rectangles and a dot. That’s where we were. Now 40 years later we have photorealistic, 3D simulations with millions of playing simulatenously and it’s getting better every year. And soon we’ll have virtual reality, we’ll have augmented reality. If you assume any rate of improvement at all, then the games will become indistinguishable from reality, just indistinguishable.’What Joseph’s showing here is the multiplicity and changeability of language, how technology burrows into its sinews, transforming terms we use to describe our tangible, physical realities into ones which you can hold in your hand and scroll down with your thumb. Language is the currency of culture which is being endowed to technology. But that’s not abnormal of language per se, I mean it’s symptomatic of how language and meaning evolve simultaneously, language’s multiplicity. Rather what Joseph is saying that it’s bridging a confusing gap, how can you tell between the tears streaming down your face and the ones streaming from your television? His poetry seems to breed flesh and wire together, forge them as inextricably bound entities of today. We can’t distinguish ourselves from our flesh to our wired online flesh. 

But although set it in the future, you can tell that this collection is entirely rooted in the now, even when it oscillates between different years in the near and distant future, from 2030, to 3042, to 2076. It reads like a series of tweets, but it appears like scan-lines coursing down the page, so Joseph’s really capturing a generational voice here, that “online” voice which is stripped and clipped, where it feels squeezed into 100-odd characters. The poetry is peppered with well-known, familiar references pertaining to our present-day. And I think year dates are an artifice in this collection. The world’s end is so resolutely close to us that we can taste it in images like Elon Musk singing baby shark, Lana del Rey as the saddest superhero, David Hasselhoff eating the white wine emoji... It’s laughable. It’s funny. It’s hard. I think part of the way I read into this mesh of pop-cultural references was down to its implied superficialism. Y’know, we sort of think of our extinction as being a distant probability, but we can’t think about it without losing our minds. We barely accept the inevitable truth of our own mortality, we just can’t come to terms with the reality that someday we will sip our last cup of coffee, hug a friend for the last time. And we won’t necessarily know it’s the last time, until it’s the last time. This fear is particularly prevalent in Western culture, so we’ve barricaded ourselves with our egos, and constructed this site which vows to distract us from that not-so-terrifying revelation, that we’re all going to die. Death is natural. But we think it’s so unnatural and upsetting, that we’ve invented celebrity culture, make-up tutorials, 100K followers, emoji reactions, opinion polls, status updates, likes, Facebook algorithms, botox and red shoes as part of a sequence to distract us from the eventuality of death, thinking that these things will sustain us. It’s all artificial, it’s all blue-light, it’s all moths ever gravitate towards. Joseph humours it, (I wonder if he’s jaded at times) with a sigh: 

‘There’s all sort of thunder & / lighting and it is Fantastic and important tv.’ Me and my mother both laughed when we read this, it’s more mockery of the kind of vapidity in contemporary culture. Just endlessly being like: ‘oh watch this, oh I’ll link you the video, this is so funny watch it, look at this, this is my fav clip’, it’s nauseating. And you get this nauseating feeling when you’re reading this collection as it continues, it begins to make less sense, it begins to glitch and unravel to the point where you don’t really understand what’s going on. It’s bombardment, and the struggle in making sense of what’s going on typifies the way the ‘I’ is struggling to hold onto sanity. And while the dystopia of The Moth Apocalypse makes for a terrifying read, it’s also met with such beauty, I don’t think I’ve ever read a more beautifying approach to apocalyptic writing. You can take deep pleasure in the way Joseph articulates natural disaster. From ‘one rain drop falls out of the sky’: ‘I went to see the cherry blossoms in the glowing forest / [...] / THE SKY IS PURPLE LET ME SLEEP / [...] it smells like strawberry / pop tarts outside’. This “glowing forest” alludes to a forest fire, the purple sky alludes to light pollution, making it hard to sleep. Strawberry pop tarts goes without saying really, probably one of the best examples of describing consumerist culture in a nutshell: pre-cooked, chugging in artificial colours and flavours. But when you read these sentences alone, you don’t get the impression that the world is dying awash in blood and fire, rather the violence is extinguished. It reads and feels more like a painting, this gradual description of shades and experiences. There’s something kind of Eva Figes-esque about his writing style, just the way he colours in scenes. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s glamorised, but rather, the apocalypse is beautified. 

I want to bring this review full circle and come back to the collection’s title: The Moth Apocalypse. By the end, I came to think of humanity, us as being the moths, here, roused by darkness and addicted to rectangular devices emanating blue-light. We frantically flap around its notification, its constant stream of information as the world around us is plunged into dark mode. The points where you’re thinking that the collection is relenting and giving up, are actually the most profound moments where it gets up. Joseph writes it best in ‘Everything Is Peachy’: ‘if you’re / looking for a sad and hopeful story / just sit / back and watch this rain.’ This collection begs us to be present, to consider and amend, and if nothing else, to laugh wildly as you don’t remedy it. It is an incredibly self-aware read, an invaluable perception of the “way things are heading”. The composition and structure of the poetry is masterful, art in its own right. The Moth Apocalypse is a promising and brave debut from Joseph Turrent.  

If this review’s piqued your interest, you can purchase The Moth Apocalypse from HVTN Press here but they have stopped postal orders for a while due to Covid-19, so you may have to hold on. In the mean time you can find more of Joseph here on Twitter. 

#themothapocalypse #hvtnpress #haverthorn #press #smallpresses #ukpoetry #debutcollection #2020 #release #litbitch #currentreads #review #books #josephturrent #poetry

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