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vampireapple · 2 years

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In Memoriam

Humans remember their dead. They remember their loved ones. They remember historical figures. They remember strangers. Death does not mean a human is forgotten.

. . .

Gerkun perked up as he scented the mess hall. The human crewmates were back! The three of them had taken leave and gone to earth for a human holiday. He made his way over to the table to eat with them.

“Hello, how was your trip?” he asked cheerfully.

“It was great,” Sam replied smiling.

“Long,” was Ron’s reply.

"It was nice to be home," Ethan said.

Gerkun noticed a new mark on Ethan’s arm. “Oh no, are you injured?”

Ethan looked at his arm. “Oh, no. I got a tattoo on leave.”

Gerkun had heard of humans marking themselves in such ways. He had never seen it in person. It looked like an image of an earth plant, vibrant colors and earth marking underneath.

“Why did you get this tattoo?”

“For my grandma, to honor her.”

“Ah. She must be very important on earth.”

Ethan laughed. “In the grand scheme of things? No. Unless you count winning first place in the Newcount County Fair Pie Contest for 47 years in a row as ‘very important’. I just miss her.”

Gerkun did not understand the reason for the tattoo, but he did understand being separated from clan. “Ah, yes. Distance is a hardship.”

Ethan blinked. “Um, yeah, it is. Didn’t mean to mislead you though. My grandma passed about four years ago. I got this to honor her memory.”

“Passed? Where did she go?”

“She died.”

Gerkun paused, trying to understand this new information. “So why remember her?”

Ethan jerked back. The other humans stared at Gerkun.

“Excuse me?”

“She is dead, therefore no longer important. Why-”

Gerkun cut off as Ethan yelled, stood, and tried to strike Gerkun with his chair. The only reason he did not make contact was because Ron and Sam both stopped him. Ethan continued to yell, even as he was held back.

“Don’t you ever (censored) talk about my grandma again you (censored) piece of (censored)! I will (censored) end you!”

Gerkun rapidly backed up, wanting to get away from the angry human. Ron was able to pull Ethan away and out of the mess hall.

Sam glared at Gerkun. “You’ve heard about human pack bonding, right? That doesn’t end when someone dies. Never insult a dead human, especially a family member.” She took a deep breath. “For your own safety, I suggest you avoid Ethan until… forever.”

Gerkun watched her go, stiff with fear. Yes, he would avoid Ethan. And any other human for the rest of his life.

. . .

The humans of the ship had what Kersurth thought of as ‘Human Bonding Time’. The humans called it ‘Weekly Chillout.’ Kersurth would often attend simply to listen to their stories. Humans told a lot of stories. Most were horrifying. Kersurth was addicted.

This week the humans had gathered the comfortable chairs around a table filled with snacks. They were waiting for one more person. Shortly after the unofficial start time Jessica walked into the room. She thunked a large glass bottle on the table.

“This week is the one-year anniversary of my aunt’s passing. To honor her memory, I want to tell family stories or legends. To make it extra special I am sharing my family’s moonshine with you creations.”

The five other humans made awed noises, looking at the glass bottle appreciatively. Jessica pulled out six very small glass cups, filled each other with the clear liquid from the large glass bottle and dispersed them amongst the rest of the humans. Once each human had a glass they raised the hand holding the glass, knocked them together, yelled “Cheers!” and drank the liquid in one swallow. Each human made various noises of satisfaction.

Kersurth had no idea why the humans were doing this, or what the liquid was. Humans had such strange customs.

“Thanks Jess,” Michael said. “Is this the stuff you’ve been bragging on?”

Jessica nodded. “Yeah. Secret family recipe starting from the days of Prohibition in the Appalachian Mountains, and perfected in the next few generations.”

Alanna refilled her glass and then tipped it in Jessica’s direction. “I, for one, truly apricate the bounty you have gifted us with. I was going to share the story of when the pigs got loose on the farm when my prissy aunt and cousins were visiting. But, in honor of this fine ‘shine, I’ll share the story of my great, great, great….”

Alanna paused and stared at her fingers. She used them to count as she spoke “my great, great, great, great, great grandpa.” She looked up and smiled at the rest of the group. “He was a bootlegger during Prohibition.”

Adam raised his little glass. “Here, here!”

Alana tapped her glass against his before continuing her story.

“My grandpa didn’t actually make the booze. He lived in Michigan at the time, and he was part of the team that got booze from Canada and took it to Chicago. He was on the second run. The cops were in on it, too. The ‘leggers would pay them, and in return the ‘leggers would only spend six months in jail, on rotation. So, on paper it looked like the cops were doing good work, which kept the Feds off their backs.”

Alanna added a few more stories, including the time her ancestor used his 8-year-old daughter as distraction by putting her on top of the booze on a donkey lead cart. The group was laughing by the time Alanna was done with her stories.

Kersurth had rarely seen them laugh so much. It was a little disturbing. He also understood very little of the story. He assumed he was missing a lot of historical and cultural context.

Justin smacked his glass down on the table and refilled for the fourth time. “Okay, in continuation of the alcohol and ancestors, I have a story about a great, great, something uncle of mine. He’s the reason its illegal to drive a tractor drunk in the state of Kansas.”

The following story Justin told had Michael and Alanna laughing so hard they were wheezing. Erica fell out of her chair and it took her a moment to collect herself enough to get off the floor.

Again, Kersurth did not understand the humans. They seemed to find the stories entertaining, but why bother to remember them? The ones they spoke of were long dead. Why bother to remember them?

Humans were weird.

. . .

Veertomic was very pleased to have been selected to study human social behavior. They were complex, and seemingly half the rules changed depending on the region. It was fascinating.

Today was a special day. Her sponsor, Daniel, was taking her to a memorial. She had seen memorials before, for soldiers fallen in battle, for great heroes, of people of historical significance, even cemeteries filled with small memorials to the dead humans. The great pyramids in Egypt were just elaborate tombs. For a species brimming with life they had a weird obsession with death.

Which made today so interesting. They were going to a memorial site where a ceremony was going to be held. The location was a small garden. A new plague had been erected, with a lot of names on it. A man stood and gave a small speech. A fire had happened at this location, one hundred years ago to the day. 107 people had lost their lives and 54 people were injured. They were dedicating a new plague. The man read the names of all 161 victims of the fire. Then there were 11 minutes of silence, one minute for every hour the fire burned. All in all it was a touching ceremony.

Veertomic had so many questions. She needed to be very… delicate in how she approached Daniel. He was even tempered but she found humans could be volatile over the topic of death.

“I would ask a few clarifying questions about today’s ceremony.”

Daniel raised his eyebrows. “Shoot.”

“You were not related too any of the deceased?”

“No, I’m not.”

“And you didn’t know them?”

“No, this happened waaay before I was born.”

“And you don’t know anyone who was related to any of the victims?”

“No.”

“Then… why attend?” Why are they important Veertomic does not ask, but that’s what she really wants to know.

Daniel looked somber. “Because they deserve to be remembered.”

“Why?” bursts out of her, and she cringes, hoping she didn’t make him mad.

Daniel doesn’t get mad. Instead his facial expression, body language, and tone convey ‘this is a very important human thing’ as he explained further. “Those 107 people died in a horrific was that should not happen to anyone. It was a tragedy that should be remembered. They had family, friends, hopes, dreams, ambitions. They lived and they should be remembered.”

. . .

AN: My Grandma passed in January 2020, my favorite uncle passed very unexpectedly in March 2022, and a friend passed from cancer in June 2022. My other story, Grief, delt with that. This story is more about remembering and honoring those who have passed.

The uncle from Kansas comment is from Tumblr user @patternsinnoise. Just Shower Thoughts posted about people being forgotten within three generations, and patternsinnoise replied "Tell that to my great, great uncle, who is the reason that it’s illegal to drive a tractor while drunk in the state of Kansas”.

The story about the pigs, and the bootlegger grandfather are based on actual stories from my family. My great grandma really was used a few times to throw off suspicions.

#earth is space australia #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #humans are weird #aliens #humans are deathworlders #pack bonding

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slasher-key · 1 year

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Stay With Me (Charlie Walker)

Pairing: Charlie Walker x Fem!! Reader

Warnings: The usual curse word here and there

This is a lil enemies to lover for you. I hope you enjoy thanks for reading ❤️❤️I really appreciate it.

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I never really liked Charlie Walker. When I first moved to Woodsboro he would tease and taunt me until I broke, all so he could impress his friends. He spread a rumor about how I gave it up to him at some party once, and everyone would call me these horrible names. That was my breaking point, that was the first time I stood up for myself for once, and the first time I ever punched someone in the face. Since that day we have been at each other’s throats.

Our hatred for each other was so bad I couldn’t even go to Cinema Club, and I fucking love movies. But I already have to see him in two of my classes and lunch, so why would I want to be around him after school as well. Kirby tried to convince me to come but I couldn’t stand it. So now I just go home and watch TV alone. Since my grandma is working at the hospital all the time. I’m home alone a lot.

I am sitting in my last class of the day impatiently waiting for the bell to ring. I zone out looking at the clock when I feel a tap on my arm. I already knew who it was because he does it every day. “You coming to Cinema Club today? you know it’s the anniversary.” He says “First off why are you talking to me like we are friends? And second why would I want to celebrate a bunch of teenagers getting murdered?” I reply, a disgusted look plastered on my face “You’re so fucking weird, you know that.” I continue, packing up my things and walking out of the room as the bell rings. But as you walk out of the room you can’t help but notice the slight frown on Charlie’s face.

On my way to the cemetery I pick up some flowers to put on my mom’s grave it is the anniversary of her death after all. My grandma was gonna come but she got called into work at the last minute so It’s just me. My mom was apart of the original Woodsboro murders. She was killed in our house alone, while my grandma took me to my doctors appointment I was only four when she died. She had me her freshman year after a ‘drunken mistake’ (as my grandma calls it) at her first high school party. She didn’t really know how to raise a child so my grandma did most of it for her, but I don’t love her any less. My grandma tells me lots of stories about her, and how she tried her best for me. I never knew my dad, so I would try to get my grandma to talk about him. But she wouldn’t let up, so after a while I gave up.

I made it to the cemetery, and found her grave. I sat and talked to her for a little, and cleaned up her grave as well. In the middle of my sentence I pause, as I hear someone walking toward me. I look back and it’s Sidney, I stand up quick and face her. We stand in silence for a while, just staring at each other. “You look just like her.” She says breaking the silence “Yeah I get that a lot.” I reply. I sit in the spot that I was in before, and she walks over and sits next to me. I met Sidney a couple time as a kid, her and my mom were friends all through high school until you know what. I didn’t see her much after my grandma moved us out of Woodsboro, she also moved as well, so it’s been a couple years.

“I just wish I got more time with her.” I whisper, my voice breaks, and I break down in Sid’s arms. “I know, it’s going to be okay.” She replies holding me tightly in her arms. Sid and I stay at the cemetery and just talk. Everything is going well with our conversation until I bring up my dad. “Hey Sid, do you know who my dad is? My grandma has never told me, and my mom doesn’t seem to have any pictures or anything of him or with him.” I ask, maybe this was the only way I could finally know about my dad, so I was going to try. “I don’t think that’s my place to tell you, but I will say they kept him away from you for a reason sweetheart.” she replies. After she answers she quickly changes the subject to something else. we talk for about another 15 minutes then go our separate ways. The whole drive home I can’t stop thinking about what Sid said about my dad.

I make it back to the house and walk up to the front door. “Hey y/n, wait.” I hear from across the street I look back to see Charlie getting out of his car, and start to jog towards me. “What do you want now, Charlie?” I ask, not in the mood for his shit at the moment. “I didn’t know she was your mom y/n I’m so sorry for today, Kirby told me after I told her what you said during our last class.” He says, and for once I actually believed him and wasn’t annoyed to be around him. “It’s fine Charlie, but how didn’t you know, we have the same last name? and don’t you know everything about these murders?” I ask “I mean yeah most of it, doesn’t everyone?” He asks “Nope, not me, my grandma kept me away from this town and my mom’s murder for as long as she could.” I reply “But, you could help me with learning about it. you wanna come in?” I ask. if Charlie was going to pity me for the rest of the week why not use it to my advantage.

“Okay so you’re grandma has never mentioned anything that can give you hints about your dad?” Charlie asks, trying to help me find out what happened to my mom and dad. “Nope she did everything in her will power to keep me away from knowing the truth, but I’m sick of her hiding things from me.” I reply “Do you guys have anything that could hold lot’s of old storage? You know an attic, a little room in the basement, a separate bedroom that no one uses, anything like that?” he asks “Yeah why?” I ask furrowing my eyebrows in confusion. “So we can see if she has any picture or anything that can give us some hints, duh idiot.” he replies “Oh fuck off, but yeah we have an attic.” I say “Have you ever been up there?” he asks “No, I didn’t know about it until recently, and I got to scared to go up there.” I reply “scaredy cat” he coughs out “Anyway, what the hell are we waiting for let’s do this fucker you want my help or not.”

We grab some flashlights from the closet and make our way up the ladder to the attic. “Well it isn’t as dusty and scary as I thought.” I saw shining my flash light around. There is a lot up here, but Charlie and I start to dig our way through. About an hour later Charlie finds a box with my mom’s name on it. We take it and go back to my room.

I am too nervous to open it, so I make Charlie do it for me. He starts to look through the box, most of it is picture of my mom with grandma, my mom and I, and her with her friends from school. Charlie keeps digging and finds a diary with my mom’s initials written on it. He flips through the diary, and abruptly stops, a large gasp escapes him, and he quickly closes the book. “Charlie what’s wrong?” I ask, he looks at me with sympathy in his eyes. “I don’t think you should be doing this y/n.” He says, he is frozen still. I snatch the book away and start to flip through the pages. I see his name ‘Stu Macher’ I froze, the book falls out of my hand. I don’t know what to do I don’t know what to think. My body goes weak all I can do is fall to the ground and cry. Charlie runs over to me and hugs me tightly. Whispering you’re okay, and it’s going to be okay, over and over again.

After a while of me crying in his arms. Charlie and I are sitting on my bed in silence. “It’s getting pretty late maybe you should go.” I say, my voice horse from all the crying “I’m not going anywhere, I’m staying at least until your grandma get’s home.” he says, moving my face so I can look at him. “Thanks for staying with me Charlie.” I say hugging him once again. Charlie stayed with me that whole night, even when I confronted my grandma about not telling me who my dad was.

Out of all the people I could’ve had there with me tonight, I never thought I would want it to be Charlie, but her I am cuddled up with him in sweet soothing silence.

Thank you for reading 💕💕💕 Love You All

#Scream 4 #Scream 4 oneshot #Scream 4 Fanfic #Scream 4 imagines #Scream fanfic #rory culkin #rory culkin x reader #rory culkin fanfic #Rory culkin imagine #rory culkin oneshot #Charlie Walker x reader #Charlie Walker #Charlie walker fanfic #Charlie walker imagines #charlie walker oneshot

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isabel3710 · 2 months

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I've dived headfirst back into my old Trolls hyper fixation with the release of the third movie. So I decided to write a little something for the idea of Branch being adopted by the Country Trolls.

I was inspired by some fan art by crunchy_coookies_ on insta and @rocksibblingsau's AU and a post they've made on this idea.

I would love to turn this into a full fledged fic one day but I'm already working on another trolls fanfic plus I got some (very loose) plans for another for when I'm done. But if I every have the time to write more I'll be sure to let you all know!

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A little gray trolling sat on the edge of a dusty road, a worn looking bag sitting beside him. Branch held his ankle with both hands, it throbbed with pain and he was struggling not to cry.

A few weeks ago Branch had decided to leave his tribe once and for all, he was tired of being bounced around from foster home to foster home. Full of people who either hated him or tried to turn him into something he wasn’t. So he packed a bag full of his prized possessions and any supplies he might need and snuck out in the middle of the night.

At first things were great! And then he left the forest and made it to this desert of a wasteland, Branch did okay at first. He was careful to ration his food and slept with a knife in his hand.

Then today Branch had gotten his foot caught in some kind of hole and now his ankle really hurt. He had tried to stand up and power through but couldn’t without pain getting to an overwhelming degree.

He sniffed and whipped at his eyes, Branch didn’t know what he was going to do. He was stuck here with a hurt leg and he had run out of food last night.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by some strange clip-clop sound. Branch reached into his bag and pulled out his little knife. He was alone out here and who knew how many things out in this strange land liked to eat trolls.

Dust had suddenly risen up into the air and got into Branch’s eyes, he tried to blink it away as the strange sound got closer and closer. When his vision had cleared he saw the figure that matched the clopping sound.

And….

It was a troll?

The troll looked like one he had never seen before, she had orange skin and red hair which did remind him of the trolls back home. But that was where the similarities ended, for she had four legs with hooves and a fluffy looking teal tail. Her clothes weren't neon or pastel colored or covered in glitter, but fairly plain looking; with a few dirt stains and patches.

The woman seemed to notice him too for she started to walk over to him, the clopping sound following her. “Hey sugar” she said, her voice sounded strange. Nothing like Branch had ever heard before. “Why’re you out here all alone?”

Branch sniffled and tried to scoot away on his bottom, dragging his injured leg along the ground. The hand holding his knife shook a bit.

“Hey, hey” the woman said, her voice gentle. “I’m not going ta’ hurt you.” She knelt in front of him “what happened ta’ your leg?”

Something about this woman felt calming, Branch hadn’t met anyone who made him feel this way since his Grandma died. “I tripped,” he said, tears running down his cheeks. “It hurts really bad.”

“I’m sure it does” the woman said “mind if I take a look?”

Branch hesitated before nodding, the woman carefully took his ankle in her hands. He winced a bit in pain but stayed still. The woman tutted softly “looks like you sprained it honey.”

“Oh…”

She pulled out a piece of dark green cloth and tied it around his ankle. “We'll have to put some ice on it.”

“I don’t have any ice,” Branch said.

“Not to worry,” she smiled at him, “town’s not too far from here.”

There was a town out here… “how?” He asked, “it hurts to walk.”

“Climb on my back” she said “and I’ll carry ya.”

“Won’t that hurt you?”

She chuckled “you’re sweet, sugar, but not to worry. I’ll be fine.” The women helped Branch sit on her back before slowly standing “hold on darlin’.”

Branch held his bag in one hand and to the women’s shirt with the other. And she began to walk, the clopping sound following them. It was then Branch realized he had no idea what this lady’s name was.

“Ms” he said “I’m sorry but… What’s your name?”

She chuckled “no need to apologize hon. I’m Ms Delta Dawn. What’s your name?”

“Branch.” He said “my name is Branch."

#fanfic #fanfiction #dreamworks trolls #trolls fanfic #trolls fandom #trolls branch #trolls delta dawn #what-if Branch was adopted by Country trolls #I wrote this during class #I Wanna Find A Home fic #country troll branch #trolls au

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seresinsbabe · 1 year

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Singing Again

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x fem!reader

Synopsis: Bob notices the first big change after you start fighting your depression.

Warnings: depression, mentions of suicide and passive suicidal ideation, therapy, treatment of depression, angst, fluff. basically if anything in the realm of depression is triggering for you don't read this.

I do not consent to having any of my work shared on any other platform. If you see any rendition of my works on another site know that it has been posted without my permission.

THIS BLOG AND ITS WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

Depression is depicted so differently in media. Growing up all the commercials depicted it as constant crying, the overwhelming need to end it all, and the cliches you now knew it not to be. And sure – maybe for some that’s exactly what it was. Not for you, though.

You can’t remember exactly when it started. Maybe it was when your grandma died so suddenly of cancer that hadn’t been found until it was too late. Or maybe it was when you watched your parents' marriage fall apart while you were trying to navigate high school. When you became the shoulder to cry for your mom at the ripe age of sixteen. For your entire life you had been pouring from an empty cup, making sure you were keeping everyone else together while you continued to crumble. Regardless of when it first happened it was here now.

Depression for you was not what it looked like as a kid. For you it was no appetite. Not eating even when you knew you had to. Foods you once drooled over made your stomach churn. How many nights had you spent driving around aimlessly in your town, crying to the songs that took you back to your childhood with a pack of cigarettes? Trying to ease the pain, let some of it out through tears and sobs down dark back roads.

Your friends had noticed how much the shadow had creeped over you. Your boyfriend, Bob, he’d noticed too. While he didn’t quite understand, he was there for you. When you brought up therapy he was supportive in a way you hadn’t expected him to be. For so long you had avoided it. Convincing yourself that if you got an official diagnosis, if you heard someone actually tell you that there was something wrong with you that everyone would leave.

Bob was nervous for you, he knew it wasn’t going to be easy. He knew there were things from your childhood you hadn’t told him about. Things he had never pressed you to tell him about. Honestly he was worried that as soon as you cracked open your chest, poured everything out and realized that it might hurt that you would stop going. And that you would spiral even deeper.

It was scary. God you were so scared that first session. Afraid that if you opened up too much that you would grant yourself a ticket for a seventy-two hour hold. It wasn’t that you wanted to do anything to yourself, you knew you never would. Or at least you didn’t think you ever would, but depression was a sneaky bitch. However you were passive about it. You didn’t exactly have an aversion to some horrific accident happening and taking you out. Some days that sounded better than others.

It wasn’t that you’d had a hard life. Other’s had certainly had it harder. You had a great group of friends, a good job, a loving partner. Everything you needed. It felt wrong to even consider yourself depressed. To even want to end it when there were other people that lacked even the basic needs for survival. But you did feel that way and you didn’t want to feel this way anymore.

To your surprise your therapist had told you that was common. In fact it was called Passive Suicidal Ideation. So you started on the path to getting better. Sessions two times a week that would hopefully eventually taper down and medication to fix the chemical imbalance in your brain.

Months went by and while you didn’t notice a huge difference, you noticed you were a bit better. It wasn’t until about month four that Bob noticed the biggest change in you.

He’d just woken up on the first day of his leave. The warm morning sun lighting up the bedroom, the smell of breakfast in the kitchen and…singing. His heart skipped a beat. It had been so long since he heard you singing. Actually it was when he realized you stopped that his concern for your mental state had really started to increase.

Throwing the covers off himself his feet carried him out to the kitchen. He wanted to find out if he was really hearing what he thought he was. Sure enough, he was. You stood in the kitchen, in nothing but one of his t-shirts that was big enough to be dress length on you, hair up in a bun as you sang and flitted around the kitchen.

In a few strides he was over to you and pulling you into his arms, breathing your scent in and squeezing you tightly against him.

“Oh, good morning to you too, Handsome.” You giggled, unsure of what caused such an intense good morning.

“You're singin’ again.” His voice sounded a bit weak, like he was crying. You pulled away, looking up at him to find that his eyes were watery. There were some streaks on his cheeks where a tear or two had escaped. “I-I didn’t think I’d ever hear it again.” He choked out, his tearful eyes boring into your own.

It didn’t take you long to realize what he meant by that and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in. Your lips formed a soft smile as your own eyes started watering. “Yeah Bobby, I’m singing again.” You let out another shaky breath. Not because you were sad, but because you were happy. You were getting better, you were coming back into yourself again.

Bob’s lips found yours and he squeezed you against him again. “I love you so fuckin’ much, darlin’.” He whispered when he pulled away.

“I love you too Bobby, I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

“Good. Wanna hear that voice every day, for the rest of my life. You got it?” With a soft giggle you nodded.

“Got it, Lieutenant.” You giggled harder at the groan he let out while you pried yourself out of his grasp. Breakfast was still cooking, you could celebrate later.

#bob floyd #robert bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd angst #robert floyd #robert floyd x reader #tgm angst #bob top gun

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skymaiden32 · 7 months

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Mind Over Matter

Read on AO3 here

Fandom: Thunderbirds

Tagging: @dragonoffantasyandreality @thundergeek59 @janetm74 @katblu42 @liseylou @amistrio @uniwolfcorn (Please ask if you would like to get alerts when I update or post new stories.)

Thundertober Day 13: Laboratory

Brains really needs to get out of his lab and eat something.

Continuity: TOS

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Meals on Tracy Island had two distinct flavourings. Either it was calm and collected, or it was complete chaos, depending on the moods of the household members. The Tracy family didn’t do things by halves either, so it was all or nothing. So when it had been nothing but family shenanigans and near food fights, courtesy of Gordon and Alan, for the past few days, it came as no surprise that a certain engineer had taken to barricading himself in his lab, and hadn’t come out for anything except to sleep. He’d even refused to have meals at all, even if it was in the lab.

Brains was quiet and reserved by nature, and had spent his childhood as an orphan and only child, so it was no surprise that the rowdiness typical of five brothers who’d grown up together would set him on edge. Even so, the engineer was usually quite good at making sure he took care of himself. The fact he wasn’t eating at all… It worried everyone.

Which was why Tin-Tin was currently standing outside the lab, holding a freshly prepared, red-hot plate of food, courtesy of Grandma Tracy. She gently rapped on the door, frowning when she didn’t hear anything from the other side. “Brains?” She asked, knocking on the door again. “I’ve got some dinner for you.”

This time, she did receive an answer. “N-No thanks, Tin-Tin. I’m not r-really that hungry.” Brains answered. “Besides, I’ve g-got far too much work to do…”

Tin-Tin rolled her eyes. That had been his excuse since he’d locked himself in there. She wouldn’t take it this time. “Oh, but Brains, you haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast yesterday. It will only take you about twenty minutes to eat this, and you can get straight back to work if that’s what you’re worried about. And you of all people should know what happens if you don’t…” She tried.

“I h-have eaten, Tin-Tin!” Brains replied, perhaps a little harsher than he’d intended. The door still wasn’t open.

“No you haven’t.” She stated simply. “You haven’t joined us, and Grandma Tracy and my father would know if you’d eaten straight from the fridge.” Silence hung in the air. “Please, Brains. We’re all worried about you…”

It took a few long moments for her to finally hear footsteps walk in the direction of the lab entrance. The door swung open, revealing the tired and gaunt face of International Rescue’s engineer. “Oh, Brains…” Tin-Tin covered her mouth with her hand, gasping. She had no idea he’d look this bad. “Why didn’t you…?”

“I couldn’t f-face them like this, Tin-Tin…” His statement caught her off guard. “N-Not after what happened…” Brains sighed, gently taking the plate from his friend and assistant.

The puzzle pieces clicked into place. “Brains, we thought this was about-”

“About Gordon a-and Alan’s behaviour at meals o-over the past few days?” Brains asked, a sad smile on his face. “It would n-never be about s-something like that. I-I love eating with e-everyone. It’s just…”

Tin-Tin’s mind flew back to that day four days ago. The boys had been using a piece of new equipment out in a forest fire. She didn’t know the full story; she’d never been able to wrestle it out of any of the Tracy’s. All she did know was that Gordon had almost died, and his brothers had been beside themselves with worry. The aquanaut was just coping the way he always did; by laughing and goofing off with his little brother. And now that he’d said it himself, Brains’ behaviour also made a lot more sense. As did his self-issued banishment to the lab. Whatever the fault in that equipment was, he was determined to fix it for good. And he was pushing himself away from the others out of guilt…

“It wasn’t your fault Brains.” She promised, cutting him off as he opened his mouth to argue. “It wasn’t. I don’t blame you, Gordon doesn’t blame you, and his family doesn’t blame you.” She smiled, gesturing to the plate of food. “Now eat up, get some sleep and shave a little bit. Mr Tracy wants to see you in the morning.”

Brains watched as his friend walked off back to her room, still stunned after the pep-talk he’d received. She was right of course. When it came to this sort of thing, she always was. He looked down at the food on his plate. Grandma Tracy had made his favourite. He smiled, closing the door once again and began to dig into his meal.

“Thank you…” He breathed out to no-one in particular. Yes, he was truly home. Despite being separated from them all, in that moment he truly felt like part of the team. A member of the family. And he’d never doubt their faith in him again.

#thunderfam #thunderbirds #thunderbirds 1965 #tin tin kyrano #brains thunderbirds #sky writes stuff #thundertober #thundertober 2023

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archive-of-note · 2 years

Text

Fresh Sourdough and Old Stories.

(I’m not good at this fic naming thing don’t at me)

Pero Tovar x GN! Reader

Rating: Teen, only because reader gets a lil thirsty.

Warning: Food

Notes: @absurdthirst wrote this earlier today, I read it, this happened, then I took a nap.

Fun fact: I only know two things about my great grandad. One, he was from China, and two, when he met my great grandmother he said to her something along the lines of “you’re very fat.” Which from him was a complement. It got lost in cultural translation and her girlfriends threatens to kick his head in.

Writer Wednesday Week 25, @writer-wednesday

Your great grandmother told you the story.

You were young, probably four or five, when she turned off PBS and sat you down with all the solemn seriousness of some great tragedy.

Then she told you a story.

Pero Tovar, a mercenary— you had to ask what that meant— from Spain— you had to ask where that was— helped defeat nameless monsters at the Great Wall.

“The one in China?”

“Yes, sweetheart, that one.”

Something happened to him there, something beyond reason, a miracle or a curse— you asked how a miracle could be a curse— it has kept him alive these near thousand years— you still couldn’t count that high— and no one knows except for your family.

“Why only us?”

She booped your nose, “Because we were the only ones who noticed.”

When you got older, you learned that great grandad was the one who kept the story, but he told grandma before he left for war.

Everyone says he died on the battlefield, even though there were pictures of him back home after it was over.

You didn’t understand what that meant until later, and your heart still sometimes hurts for the man you never met.

For some reason the story stayed with you, even after only hearing it once. It lead to a somewhat obsessive phase with time traveling romances and history, your mother even joking that she didn’t just have you a bit late, but apparently centuries late.

You tried to slow down your rereads of Outlander after that.

Life happened, it stalled, you grew into a person via fits and starts, slowly chipping away at an AA until you suddenly had it but still had no clue what to do with it.

The bakery was supposed to be a pit stop, which insured that it would be anything but.

Grouchy four AM wake ups turned into tolerable ones, turned into excited ones. Your boss said you ran through the kitchen like a hurricane, but one that at least had the decency to pick up after itself.

You’d laugh and only slightly choke on the flour in the air.

Breads became muffins, then tarts, then pies, and occasionally even cakes. All of them simply presented but delicious nonetheless.

And time went on.

“I’m giving you first dibs.”

“First dibs on what?”

Wild berries with a lemon drizzle, one of your more extravagant offerings, but with summer coming to a close, that burst of sweetness with a subtle hit of zest was what people wanted. Something to hold onto that summer feeling as the season came to an end.

“The shop.”

Only several years worth of practice and learned reflex is what kept those tarts alive.

But only just.

“What?”

“You’re basically running the place yourself, if you want it, it’s yours.”

You place the tray on one of the cooling racks and swat at your apron, movements nothing more then an anxious fidget.

“But I don’t know anything about the business end.”

He laughs.

“I’m not leaving yet, just getting my ducks in a row, so I can teach you.”

Relief, still tinged with nerves but relief nonetheless.

He says you should’ve gone into business, with how fast the numbers and names stay with you, and maybe you’ll try for that one day. But for now, it’s just learning things and transferring others, making digital spreadsheets to give the poor hand kept ledger a break. Learning stock codes and company quirks that justify them still being used opposed to something closer or cheaper.

“And I don’t care what Jonathan says, the man is nearly old as I am, he damn well knows not to fuck with me.”

You choke on your laughter, it’s probably the first time you’ve ever heard the man swear at someone opposed to some temperamental machinery.

He laughs along as well.

“I’m sure you’ve got a handle on it, especially with the computer doing the sheets.”

“It can’t replace you.”

“Damn right it can’t!”

You hug him, he’s no longer your boss and that feels weird, but oddly enough not wrong.

You might actually be settling into this.

“Remember, anything gets weird or goes wrong, I’m just a phone call away. I won’t leave you hanging.”

“Yeah, I still might call though, just to check if you’re still kicking.”

“Worrywart, I’m not dead yet.”

“And you better keep it that way.”

He laughs, he leaves, and by noon that day, you get an email that informs you the deed of ownership has been transferred and the place really is yours now.

It’s scary.

It’s exciting.

And time goes on.

Some things change, you renovate so there are more windows, thus more natural light, you hire some new hands, to keep the back moving, and while it hurts you just a bit, you finally replace Ol’ Big Bertha. The oven screeches in protest and the guy who installs the new one is surprised that she was still standing. And after he gets a small burn, that surprise moves to the store.

“Bit longer, who knows what’d've happened, really,” he wipes his brow, “probably shoulda been replaced a good twenty years ago.”

“Probably closer to forty.”

He makes a face, “I was hoping to be polite.”

You wave a hand as you give him a tip, “Politeness in regards to safety never kept anyone alive, so please, use this as a cautionary tale,” you elbow him in the side in what was probably too casual a gesture, “might even get more sales out of it to boot.”

He gives an awkward chuckle, before walking himself out.

And time goes on.

He’s handsome, that’s the first thing you notice. Dark hair with a slight curl, olive skin, a prominent nose, he turns to look at something at the far side of the display, and his profile is striking, something classical that should be cut from marble.

“May I help you?”

Nothing.

You speak up, “Sir, may I help you?”

He hums, but you don’t think it has to do with responding to what you said.

“Sir!”

Still nothing.

Is he hard of hearing? It’s been ages since you practiced ASL, and even then, does he know it?

“May I help you?”

He finally looks to you, and maybe it’s the heat of the store, but the way his eyes widen tells you otherwise, his cheeks have a bit of a flush.

That doesn’t distract you from the scar that shows he almost lost his left eye.

Suddenly you’re reminded of the story your grandmother told you.

A constant scowl, a ceaseless appetite, a scared Spaniard that has walked the world for nearly a millennia.

“I-“

There’s a lit, you can’t identify it yet but your gut is telling you Spanish.

“I followed my nose.”

It is, and at no point did your grandmother say he was handsome, let alone that he was cute.

You can’t hold back your laugh.

He shuffles, shifting his weight as he shoves his hands in his pockets. And of course those jeans are damn near painted on his legs.

“That’s good.”

You look around the store, empty except for him. So if he isn’t who you think he is (possible) you won’t have any witnesses to your flight of fancy.

“That’s what I wanted. For people to be drawn in by the smell of fresh bread.”

Now you’re nervous, and your tongue feels thick and awkward in your mouth.

He looks to your face, but quickly moves his gaze down to your hands, and you can’t help but roll your fingers, feeling as if he’s looking for a ring or something similar to the sort.

He swallows, “I want something. The best you’ve got.”

You hum, thinking it over what you have, and the sort of man he seems to be.

The shelf behind you is under heating lights, that double as spot lights keeping every loaf warm and making each of them look good.

Something traditional, little to no processing, old fashioned.

But maybe a bit of a surprise as well.

Your eyes zero in on one of your experiments, oats and whet germ, more for texture than for flavor, but also a hint of pepper, nothing all that strong, but it adds a bit of a zing that you very much enjoy.

It’s an entire loaf, but one of the smaller ones, it was only an experiment after all.

You squeeze it as you pick it up, smelling the bread and being reminded of the cinnamon that you dusted the raw dough with as an afterthought, maybe you should pick another one.

But he did say the best you’ve got.

Your eyes flutter open, you didn’t even realize you’d closed them, and you catch a glimpse of his face. His mouth is open in something like awe, one hand raised but stalled in front of his chest, eyes a bit glazed over.

You blink again and he clears his throat.

You grab a plate, then figure if he’s who you’re gut is telling you he is, that he’ll want something else as well.

So you grab a tray, a crock and a pot, thinking of suggesting the broccoli and cheese cream soup, if he’s so inclined.

You push the tray his way, and he finally scrambles for his wallet, fumbling ever so slightly as he all but shoves his card your way.

P. Tovar

You shake your head, and his confusion turns into shock.

“For you, Pero Tovar, there is no charge.”

You can’t help your small smile, “Eat, enjoy, and remember.”

#writer wednesday #pero tovar #pero tovar x reader #the great wall fanfiction #archive-of-note #fic of fic

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the-coping-dragon · 1 year

Text

So curious about my brain. Why does it function in this manner?

I can’t decide anything. I can barely type right now because it’s so hard to ignore the urgent cry, “Wait, what word should we use? Wait! That didn’t sound right. You’re doing it weirdly. It’s wrong. Wait wait wait. What’s the best word to use?”

It’s hard to use words. I am afraid to be unclear, or to convey a message I didn’t want to convey, or to speak nonsense. What if I am not understood? What if I am mistakenly understood in a way I didn’t intend? What if I am understood, and the understanding is vile and putrid?

-begin simulation. Study later to determine status.

I am afraid to get dressed. What do I wear? Which shirts fit me right now? My body fluctuates weight and shape (i think that’s normal? I don’t know) and so I keep a selection of clothes that can fit a variety of my potential forms. My hips are getting slender with HRT—do these pants still fit? What about the pants I can only wear after a long term illness has caused me to loose significant weight? Will I fit into those?

What if I pick a shirt, and it seems okay, but halfway through the day I realize it’s too tight and grabby? I should make it a habit to lift my arms up and check if it will go up and expose my belly. I like my belly. Should I even care if it gets exposed? People on purpose do that. Crop tops. But doing something on purpose is often acceptable in regards to things that are unacceptable if done accidentally. What if I’m seen as lazy? Do I even care? Why do I care, if I do?

Socks. I open the drawer and they might as well be some pack of hissing creatures. They’re bad to touch. Some have little extra fabric for cuteness. The extra fabric hurts. Or just bothers me. The bothering is often worse than the hurting. Is there a tiny little ball of lint inside that will make me feel panicky when I notice it? Is there a hair that will wrap around my toes? Is there a hole? Careful to put them on inside-out. That puts all the extra fabric outside. The pretty design is against my skin, neat and trimmed and smooth and not itchy or painful.

Bra. Bra. God I am always scared of not finding it. I have to wear it to work. Any customer who has breasts and no bra is scathingly mocked the second they leave. I can wear no bra, if I wear a hoodie over my shirt, and tuck my shirt into my pants to hold my breasts somewhat still.

No bra means hoodie. Hoodie means hot. I can’t handle being hot. I get hot so easily. 70 degrees with Niagara Falls streaming out of my hair. Soak it up with a paper towel and the paper towel is completely soggy. Drips down my temples, drips down my neck, drips down my back. Hair weighed down by my sweat, like I just got out of a rainstorm.

Underwear. Easy. Thank goodness I have about 20 pairs of the same version of the same brand of underwear. I’d rather wear boxer briefs or boy shorts because I look hot as fuck in them. But the silky fabric is my choice. Silly, no extra fabric to bunch up around the legs. Minimal. Feminine. In any color, feminine. Black, blue, maroon, still feminine. Snug and familiar. Haven’t bought underwear since my grandma took me shopping. She died 5 or 6 years ago. Some are from about 6 or 7 years ago. Some are from the only other time I’ve ever bought underwear, 12 or 13 years ago.

My socks are all from the same brand, same store, same purchase. A mall that doesn’t exist anymore. I grabbed a pack. Two. Three. Four. Oh my god, giddy with unrestrained greed, four packs of socks, perfect for me, because I have to wear matching socks and now I have dozens of matching pairs.

I can’t get more socks. Many are set aside as scrap fabric because of holes. I can’t get more. They wouldn’t match. Even if I could purchase the same version of the same brand, they’d be new and not worn out and not stretched out. Like a hand towel that used to match the others except you forgot about it and all the others are pale from behind washed and now there’s one shining pristine one that doesn’t match.

I don’t need my towels to match, thank god. The towel cabinet hardly has any towels that match. Just a couple. Most are just whatever ended up with me. A couple soft gray ones—maybe from my grandpa, when he died and everyone tried to get enough of his stuff to fill the void he left. A couple purple ones my mom brought. A beach towel from at least 8 years ago. A towel that always stinks just a little and could be as old as I am. A gigantic one that I never use because it’s annoying to wash. One has a fox hood and was labeled for kids, but I’m small and my hair is short so it is enough for me.

Sometimes I just dry off with larger hand towels even. Also a collage of interwoven lives. Who originally bought this one? Me? An ex? My wife? Her mom? My mom? Was it a Christmas gift from someone? Did we accidentally take one from someone’s house? Two or three are absolutely 10-20 years old. Ragged and frayed, the longer strands tied together with love and tenderness. Some are from 12 years ago when my mom impulse bought towels for the first time in my life and they weren’t very good and didn’t really absorb water. She and I both have some, like a family burden we bear, from that time everyone was gone and it was just her and me and we didn’t know how to buy towels so we just got some from a slightly upscale dollar store (yknow, not just a Family Dollar, but one of the slighter larger chain stores that even carry cheap furniture). One has a fox on it because I like foxes so it was given to me. One has beaches on it because my mom likes beaches and it was given to her but it doesn’t work very good so she gave it to me.

Getting ready is so stressful. Find socks. Find bra. Find shirt. Pants. Everything buried underneath a mountain of scarves, from that one time I was at a thrift store and the scarves were like 25 cents and I’d always wanted some scarves so I indulged and bought 10 or so for me and my wife to share. Blankets I can’t get rid of because they were comfort items once. Giant pillow comfort item, torn and leaking stuffing but I can’t get rid of it. Maybe there’s some secret pants under it that will fit me. That happens a lot. Years pass and I forget about a pair of pants or a shirt and then—there it is, slightly out of view underneath something, all this time.

I can’t decide what to do first even. Use the bathroom? But, I should start coffee so it’s brewing while I use the bathroom. Especially because my cat and I have a scheduled Brush The Cat event that occurs immediately after I use the bathroom first thing in the morning and first thing after work and last thing at night. She has so much fucking fur lol. She needs it brushed and she only lets me brush it at those times.

Coffee then bathroom then brush cat. Then? Eat? Coffee done yet? No? Can’t eat without coffee. Clothes? No, can’t get dressed until after eating and brushing teeth (to prevent food/coffee/toothpaste getting on my clothes, which simply occurs with the regularity of a cosmic event, so I must respect it and build my life around it). I can get socks though. Bra. I can find my pants and shirt and set them aside.

Almost time to leave. Oh I didn’t eat or get coffee or medicine. I got distracted while looking for my pants because I found a shirt that I’ve never seen before and I can’t fathom how it crossed the threshold into my house. Did I even find my clothes?

Quickly eat and meds and chug coffee and throw on pants and shirt and—ah, forgot socks, go get socks, don’t let pants touch anything because I only wash them once or twice a week because they’re the only pair that fit and I can’t afford to damage them in the wash because then I will have to pretend I didn’t notice and wear them to work anyways because it takes me at least a year and a half to work up the courage to buy new pants.

Almost late for work. Not quite. Traffic was okay. Sit in the car and stare at the clock. Not allowed to clock in early. No overtime allowed. Well, I don’t want to clock in at all. I want to go home and take off my Work Clothes and bra and socks and go back to bed. It’s time to clock in. I clock in a little late because I don’t want to clock in at all. The manager scolds me for clocking in before I put up my items in my locker. If I have stuff to put up, I need to come in a few minutes early and do it before my shift starts. I feel emotional pain as I hurry through the tasks—put this drink in my locker, put that one in the fridge, did I put up my keys yet? Did I write my name on my drink in the fridge? Did I put up my phone yet? Did I put up my keys? Did I leave my pen in my locker or my register?

I’m late getting to my register because I can’t decide how to count my till. I like to stack the quarters in fours, to count each stack as a dollar. It’s much harder to do it with dimes. They’re so small and thin and easy to bump over, even if stacked as 50 cents. Nickels are too big to line up in rows of four stacks, but too small to line up as three stacks per row without leaving a gap that bothers me. I count them one at a time and then have to count them again because I count wrong. I try to count the pennies as they fall from my hand and I guess the exact number based on what it rounds to. I try to write the date on the paperwork but I can’t find my phone. I find it in my locker.

I can’t decide if I should disinfect my register or sweep first. Maybe get more sacks. Did I bring down a pen? Did I lock it in my register accidentally? That’s fine—I’ll wait until someone pays with cash to get it. Unless I forgot it in my locker. If I did, I’ll need to find one to borrow. Should I get an extra just in case? Should I clean my register first? Should I sweep? What size of bags do I even need?

Should I have the hand sanitizer sitting on the left or right? Should I put my pen down flat or lean it against the register so I can see it easier? I didn’t get bags yet. I didn’t sweep. I’ll kick the lint and dust and tiny trash out of my area like a cat kicking litter. Now there’s nothing to do. I pick a piece of skin off my finger before I realize what I’m doing. A little bit of skin is sticking up from it. I’ll cut it off later with fingernail clippers. I should put some hand sanitizer on it. I’ll tear it off neatly real quick. It leaves another tiny piece of skin sticking up. I’ll get it this time. This time. Where are my fingernail clippers? I had some to keep at work, but I haven’t seen them in a while. Days? Weeks? Months? I absentmindedly tear skin off another finger. I sanitize it and then try to gently tear off the extra without pulling up any more.

Stop that. Stop. Hands on the counter. Palms flat and facing down. No, thats weird. Rest them on their sides, palms facing each other. No, that’s weird too. Clasp your hands together. Perfect. Nice and professional. Get a little more sanitizer, your finger is bleeding. Blood is a biohazard. I don’t have time to get a bandaid, but I should try to keep the blood in a localized place. I’ll wipe it on my other palm, and then sanitize my hands again and that’ll make it safer. I’m not sick so it should be fine. I mean, I could be sick. Pathogens often are dormant because it can be easier to spread if your host doesn’t know they’re sick. I’ll wipe my hands on my….shirt? Will the sanitize stain? Pants. Well, they might stain too. Jacket? No, that’s kinda dirty. So are my pants actually. My tummy? I don’t want hand germs on my tummy.

I go get a paper towel and set it on my counter and use so much sanitizer it drips onto the paper towel, and then I use the paper towel as a towel to wipe my hands clean. Okay.

My cuticle is a little jagged from picking at it the other day. There’s a piece that I could take off. I don’t like the feeling of it snagging on fabric. And knowing it’s there is very bothersome. I can rub it gently to see if it would come off easily. Maybe if I rub a little harder. I can scrape it a little with my fingernail to make it detach maybe. I can try to cut it with my nail. Or maybe my pen. A paper clip might be sharp enough.

No, stop, hands on the counter. Clasped. There. Just stand still and wait for a customer.

I experiment with a few different locations for my hand sanitizer. They’re all kinda awkward. None are perfect. I try them again and again and still they’re not perfect. I wonder if I should keep it somewhere else nearby. Maybe if I move this, it’ll fit here… No. And now that cord is in my way because I bumped it. Does the cord fit anywhere easily? The extra could go down here, but what if I forget it’s there? The extra could wrap around here, but it looks kinda silly and then I have to unwrap it if I need to move anything. It would fit there perfectly, except it just won’t stay for some reason. I’ll tuck it there and it’ll stay. It’ll stay this time. Maybe another try. Okay. Good enough.

I need a distraction. I already have a finger bleeding and this cord awkwardly stuffed over there. I have been out of the house for one hour and I will not be back in my house for another eight hours at least, potentially nine hours, probably eight and a half or so. If I’m doing math right. Am I? I can use the number keys on my register to help me count. One, two, three… Three makes noon… So four is one… Did I do five already? Wait, do I count when I say five, or when five is finished? Which way have I been doing it?

That gunk between the six and seven key are still there. I shouldn’t clean it. I’ll accidentally press a button and then forget to delete it and then ring up something wrong. I’ll clean it and then remember to delete it. I need a proper tool. Maybe a paperclip would work. Or my pen? Is my pen slender enough? …No. Maybe a folded bit of receipt paper. I’m not going to waste receipt paper though. I’ll wait until a customer leaves their receipt and then use that.

Wait for customer. Stop picking at finger skin. Fingers feel like they’re claustrophobic and need to move or they’ll scream with my mouth. I let them drum on the counter because no one is close enough to hear. Right? No one is close. No one is close. Okay, maybe a little quieter in case someone sneaks up on me. Maybe I’ll do it silently. Silently is not enough stimulation. Maybe I’ll do some psychical therapy. Stretch thumb. Stretch thumb. Stretch thumb. My hands are a little dirty from something. I’ll sanitize them. I’ll get some extra on the spot where I was bleeding. Okay, stretch the next finger. Or I could do my other thumb. Which is best? Which will help me remember? I could write it down. I’m not supposed to write things though. I’m supposed to look at the isles to make sure everything is okay and no one needs help. I can do that while stretching my thumb.

I’ll do this finger, and then this one, and then this one, and—wait, I forgot to also stretch them with my arm rotated the other way. Which way was I stretching them even? Okay, I can do both on each finger and then move on. Wait. I could also be stretching them in this third way, and then this fourth way. I’ll never get done though. It’s better to stretch all my fingers a little, than only ever do half thoroughly and neglect the other half. I’m always doing that. I should start with my other hand and just do one stretch, and then come back and do another once the first set are done.

What time is it? Is this clock one of the clocks that is right? Or is this the clock that is 2 minutes slow? That clock over there is always 14 minutes slow, and based on that clock, my clock must be… What is 10:23 minus 14? Or I could add 2 to 10:23 so it’s 10:25, and then subtract 14, which is 10:11, which means… Well, I guess it’s around 10:20. I don’t need the actual time.

Which finger was I on? Maybe I should do my arms first. I could also be stretching my heels and ankles. My knees really need it but I don’t like to do that stretch at work because I have to touch my pants, and my pants feel dirty. I guess my hands are already dirty. I can stretch and then sanitize them. Stretching my left one.

Do I have the ability to stand still and do nothing? I’ll sanitize my hands and try it. Clasp my hands? Flat on the counter? Is one more “standing still and doing nothing” than the other? I’ll try both. Clasped feels more nothing than palms down. Now what do I do? I should find something to do. I could clean my keyboard… No, Im waiting on a customer to leave their receipt. I could do my stretches. That’s not “standing still and doing nothing” though. I can look at the isles. We’re still out of that one. Oh, that spot is empty but I see there’s more over there, misplaced. That’s not good. They’ll bring down more if they think the spot is empty. I can’t go move it though. I’m not allowed to leave my register.

I wish I could ask someone else to do it, but I don’t want to boss anyone around. They won’t like me if I’m telling them to do more work. Even if they aren’t working right now. I see both of them standing back there talking. I guess they could be talking about work. Mmmm no, I think I hear them talking about sports. I never stand around and talk about sports. That’s so lazy. How can they even do that, when that spot is empty and we’re going to overfill it because someone will bring down more before realizing there’s already some here, just out of place? How does that not bother them?

I wish it didn’t bother me. I’ll try not to be bothered. It’s fine. It’s okay. See? Nothing is causing harm. Well, except that they’ll overfill it, and then that’ll mean some gets put in the place where extra stuff goes, which means someone will have to remember to check there before bringing more down when it starts to look empty again. They always forget to check. I see some extra stuff right there that they forgot to check. I can walk that way when I go to break and fix that one thing. But it’ll still overfill the extra spots too. That’s more work for everyone. It’ll get overlooked, and then just keep growing as an issue until someone is digging to the very back and trying to figure out why there are four extra cases of this one thing in the extra spot spot when the shelf has been empty for weeks because we won’t order any more because the system won’t notify us that we’re out because we aren’t out, we have four cases, they’re just all forgotten in the extra spot spot, so the shelf looks empty for weeks and then the item looses its spot and then it all has to be reorganized to make room for it again.

And you KNOW who that task will fall to. The people who work hard are the ones who’ll notice it. If those guys talking about sports just fixed it now, it would save so much work for other people later. I could mention it casually to them. I could say, “Is that a new product over there? I’ve never seen it.” And they’ll realize that it isn’t new, it’s just misplaced. Is that mean? Manipulative? Is there a way I could say it nicer? Or more innocently? Maybe if I’m just honest. I can say “Hey there’s some stuff over there, it needs to go over there instead.” But that’s bossy. But it’s honest. It’s less manipulative. But I don’t want to annoy people.

Maybe I’ll say, “Do we have any in stock? I thought I saw some,” and they’ll realize it’s over there. No, they’d just bring more down. I can’t even ask them because they’re across the store.

I accidentally picked another piece of skin off. I sanitize it, and then try to take off the extra and make it bleed. I sanitize it again and clasp my hands and look at the isles like I’m supposed to. The isles that need work. The isles that have staff here to work on them. The isles that have staff that are talking about sports. Oh, wait, they’re working now. On other stuff. Now I can’t ask. They’re already busy. Why did I not ask when they weren’t busy? I should have just said something. Now it’s too late.

Just find something else to think about! Do your stretches. What did you do already? Did you do your whole left hand? Did you do just the first stretch, or the first two? Or the last two? Or was that yesterday? Did I do my right hand today? I always do my right hand and then forget to do my left. Did that happen today? Did I try to do my left first? Did I do the whole left?

I have got to figure out how to stand here and do nothing. How does everyone else do it? What do they think about? I asked the other day, “What are you thinking about” to a cashier who was standing still and doing nothing. She said “Nothing… Well, food. I’m hungry.”

Oh! I should think about food. I’m too scared to cook. But if I think about it enough, maybe I’ll get more familiar with it and not be afraid! What should I think about? What step? Should I think about chopping ingredients? But I really want to make this specific thing, and it doesn’t even involve chopping. Measuring stuff out? Should I think about using the green measuring cups from my grandpa, or should I use the black ones that don’t have sentimental value? I might find cooking more pleasant if I use the green ones. But if they break, I’d never cook again. I can use the black ones. What was I measuring?

Baking soda? Do I have that, or would I need to buy that? I have either baking soda or baking powder, but I don’t know which. Do I still have flour? I know I need another can of that one ingredient. I don’t even know the full recipe. It stresses me out to think about all the ingredients I might need that I don’t even know about. There’s already too many! Salt? Sugar? I’ll just focus on baking…soda? Powder?

Do I wash my hands first? Should I stand by the microwave? Over the sink? Over the trash? I could stand over the stove, and then if I spill any, I could add vinegar and clean the stove. Well, if it’s baking…soda. Or powder. I forget which one cleans stoves. Where did that knowledge even come from? Is that some fake knowledge I got from a sitcom or is that real knowledge?

I can stand by the trash can. Does it come in a box or a can or a bag? Baking soda is in a box right? What about baking powder? How do I get it from the box to the measuring cup? I don’t think the measuring spoon fits in the box. I could pour it out, but what if it’s clumpy and doesn’t come out right away and so I shake it and then the clumps crumble and I pour way too much into the measuring cup and all over the trash can?

Maybe I should buy extra, in case I spill the first box into the trash can. Or I could do it over some paper towels. If I spill, I could just fold the towels up like a funnel and dump it back in the box. A real funnel would help a lot. It would help with getting the powder in the spoon too. And with making chocolate milk. Do they have funnels at the grocery store? They have pots and pans and gloves and whisks. They probably have funnels. But I’ve been wanting a funnel for months—years? If they had funnels, surely I’d have seen one while shopping and remembered to grab it. Maybe they don’t have funnels. Where else could I get one? Probably a bigger store. I could go to Walmart but I hate Walmart. I could try a dollar store, but do they have funnels? I can’t look it up. My phone thinks I’m in another state and so it doesn’t actually tell me if a store near me has an item. Plus the websites aren’t even accurate these days. I know my store isn’t accurate. I wonder if we ever found that case that our system claimed we had, but it wasn’t located. I still think that’s because that other case was mistaken for the first case. But I don’t have access to those papers so I can’t know for sure. I could check the system and see if it ever got adjusted.

No, stop thinking about doing extra work! Think about cooking. What have I already thought about? Nothing? I didn’t think about anything. What do I even think about? Picking out a knife? Or a bowl? Stirring stuff? With a spoon or a spatula? Whisk? Fork? I don’t know what to use. Sometimes it doesn’t matter, but it might matter. I could make two batches, and stir one with a spoon and one with a whisk. Then I’d need two bowls. I could use that bowl for mixing, too. I don’t know if I could make two batches at once though. What if I added the baking soda to one, and forgot the other? I could make a list to check things off. I could do that now even. I’d start with baking… Soda or powder?

Okay, well, I can think about another part of cooking. Putting stuff on a pan. Wait—a pan? A cookie sheet? A skillet? Do I need to put butter on it to keep stuff from sticking?

Oh, wait, I could use an aluminum muffin tin, the disposable kind. Of course I’ll try to reuse it, but at least I won’t ruin one of my good pans if I mess up.

Oh shit a customer. He’s going to need the big bag. Oh fuck I forgot to get bags. What if he doesn’t want a bag though? Or two small bags? Should I ask? Should I say hi first? Is it cash or card? If it’s card I can grab a bag while the machine distracts him, but if it’s cash then I’ll need all the time I can get to count the money. Hi? Cash or card? Big bag? One bag? Two small bags? Carry it out like that? I should greet them first. Hi? Hello? How are you? Find everything alright? Is this all for you today? Oh my god they’re at the counter I have to say something. Wait, it’s still before noon!

“Good morning!”

Okay so I do talk quiet, and also I forgot to speak up, so maybe he didn’t hear. Or he’s ignoring me. Is he being rude? I don’t care if he is. Maybe he just doesn’t feel the need to reply. I kinda wish it was normal to not speak during social interactions. I won’t say anything else because I don’t want to pressure him to speak if he doesn’t want to. Unless he didn’t hear me—then I should say something or else I’m being rude. Okay his total is $54.74… I should say that, and my script about cash or card…

Ugh, I always mix up my numbers though. Come on, say them right! Say fifty…four… seventy…four…. Wait, is that right? No, It’s fifty four, seventy four. I think I almost said fifty seven forty seven. Forty… wait. Fifty four…

“You’re total will show at the top when the green light shows.”

Okay, good save. Wait cash or card. Oh, he’s grabbing cash. Okay, I can’t get a bag, but—oh now he put a card in the machine. I can go grab a bag. From… Oh. There are no big bags.

And he pressed the wrong button… Should I tell him or wait for him to realize? They get grumpy when I tell them sometimes. I could say “Will you try again?” I can’t blame it on the machine because the managers say it makes us look bad. I don’t want to tell him it’s his fault. Then again, someone has to. Why should he suffer in ignorance, for my sake? It’ll be awkward to tell him but then he’ll get it right next time.

…Mmmmmh, I don’t want him mad at me. He might wait for me to leave and stalk me home. I could pretend like I don’t know he did it wrong. But not blame it on the machine. I could pretend it’s my fault, but it’s not my fault, and he might get mad anyways. Mmh. It’s not my fault and I can’t lie about that. It would annoy me. I couldn’t get the words out if I tried.

“If you…” Oh, he’s trying again. Okay! It worked! Wait. Now he’s pressing buttons. The transaction is over. Why is he—is he trying to write his signature with his finger? “You d…” Okay he stopped. Okay.

“Here’s your receipt.” Now for my Super Script. “Do you need a bag?” Yes. Men don’t like to admit they need anything. Normally I say, “Would you like a bag?” But I phrase it this way to increase the chances of him not wanting a bag. Will it work? He’s thinking. I can see he doesn’t want to admit he needs a bag. But I can also see him thinking “It looks trashy to carry something without a bag.” He’s got a fancy watch and a new-looking shirt. He might be too fancy to carry it without a bag. Damn bougie people and their social roles. But he’s also an independent guy. Probably doesn’t believe in lotion or straws. He won’t want a bag.

He speaks: “That’ll be alright.”

… What will be alright? Having a bag? Not having a bag? I asked if he needed one, and he said it’ll be alright. What does that mean?

Oh god now we are just staring at each other. I hate asking what they mean. What am I gonna say? Did you want a bag? That makes me sound stupid! I could give him a bag, but if he specifically said he didn’t want one, then it would be weird to give him a bag. Especially because I have to give him two smaller bags for his items, because we are out of big bags.

Maybe if I make eye contact he’ll be nicer and won’t think I’m stupid. Okay. Eye contact. Okay that is one solid second which is my limit but he is going steady.

“Have a good day…” I mumble so maybe he’ll just go away. He takes his items and leaves. Was he upset? Did he want a bag? Does he think I’m too stupid to know what he said? What did he even mean? Did he want one or not? Was he clear, and I’m the one who is confused? Would anyone be able to understand that? Surely normal people can solve that issue. Otherwise I’d hear other cashiers having the same problem all day. Maybe I should phrase it differently. No—no, that’s my Super Script. I can edit the phrasing. It’s just worth the risk I suppose.

I picked a layer of skin off my thumb absentmindedly. It’s not bleeding, but it burns. I put some sanitizer on it. He left his receipt and I pinch it and throw it away, trying not to get my sanitized hands on the potentially dirty receipt too much.

Just stand here and do nothing. Maybe smile. I wish our machines weren’t confusing. I think if I re-painted the arrow, it would help. Half the customers don’t even know where to put their card. Does this machine have an arrow anymore, or is it one of the machines where it’s been worn off? Oh shit, now I bumped that wire and it’s in my way. If I had a rubber band I could probably make it easier to tuck away. Do I have one? Sometimes I find one up here. Under this? No. Under this? No. Under this? …Is this a penny? This is the dirtiest penny I’ve ever seen. Is this a real penny? It feels really light. I will just leave it. I don’t want to even touch it. Maybe I should put it on another register so I don’t bump it. But I’d have to touch it to do that. I could scoop it up with a receipt, but I don’t have an extra. I’m not getting that one out of the trash. The trash cans are dirty. I’ll just…leave the penny under there.

I sanitize my hands because I touched near the penny, which means someone else probably touched the penny and then touched near the penny thus getting the area around it dirty.

Pennies are copper, right? That’s kinda resistant to bacteria. But that penny is beyond the powers of a copper coating. I’ll use a little more sanitizer on my bleeding fingers to make sure they’re clean.

-End Simulation.

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freebooter4ever · 1 year

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Hmmm memories. Grandma would love my tree.

I printed out a photo and mailed it to her in a christmas card but its not the same.

I was sitting in my chair and thinking about how i really should have a second one because it's extremely silly to have only one seat. Eventually i will expand my circle of friends, eventually im gonna want to invite people over who will not willingly sit at the bar for the whole time, i need a second seat.

But it also got me thinking about Grandma in ohio and her set up with two armchairs right next to each other in front of the TV.

When I was tiny, like really really little, like less than 4 feet tall little, I was terrified of the dark/sleeping alone. My one grandma (callyerdogsoff) helped out by recording a cassette tape of her reading my favorite books: "Sarah's Lion" and one about a ballerina. Every night I would play those on repeat over and over again until eventually I fell asleep and it would run to the end of the tape and then turn off.

My other grandparent's - the italian ones - solved this problem more directly. They would shove this ratty textured 70's lounge chair thing up against the end of their four poster bed and let me sleep there. The lounge chair had very boxy three sides and was flat and with the extra edge formed by the bed, essentially made a very large crib.

Now this was the house my dad and his three siblings went through high school in, so there were perfectly decent bunk beds in the boys old room I could have slept in one of those. But because I'd get scared grandma and grandpa always let me stay at the foot of their bed and fall asleep to grandpa's snoring.

Anyway, in october this year, the night before I took the flight back to LA, even though I knew I had to wake up at 3am, I snuck downstairs, through the farmhouse, and over to Grandma's little cottage, careful not to wake my aunt and uncle.

I knew grandma would be reading because of the number of times in the months after grandpa's death when I'd have to go take the book out of her hands and turn the light off after she'd finally fall asleep. And sure enough, she was in bed reading, and I crawled in on grandpa's side next to her, just to spend a little bit more time with her. And we were talking, and laughing about how both of us have queen sized beds now and neither of us use the whole thing - we have our 'side' and don't like to cross it. Grandma because from age 19 on she always had grandpa beside her. And me because im just used to having a twin bed, lol.

Grandma asked me if I wanted to sleep there next to her, and I declined because I knew I had to get up at an ungodly hour of the morning and I really didn't want to wake everybody on the farm. But also because it felt a little weird taking grandpa's spot instead of being at the foot of the bed.

And then she confessed something that just absolutely broke my heart. She said that sometimes when it's just her alone, in her chair in front of the TV, with the empty chair sitting next to her, she pretends like grandpa's sitting there and she's talking to him.

I have a lot of regrets about everything that happened after grandpa's death - i dont think we should have moved grandma from seattle that suddenly and quickly. She lost her entire support network and community AND her husband of over 65 years all in one go. And my aunt complains that now she won't socialize with anyone outside the family.

Grandma and grandpa had their first date when they were 14 and 17. And my bitter mother used to tell me that the only reason they stayed together was because they were of a 'different generation' and they secretly hate each other just like my mom hates my dad. But it wasn't true. My grandparents were in love up until the day he died - even when dying in the hospital while he was slightly delirious on pain meds grandpa was jorking about him and grandma 'necking'. And whenever the three of us went to the museum of flight during my visits back home from the burgh, grandpa and I would wander into the exhibits to look at the history. And grandma would sit in the main atrium to people watch and socialize. And grandpa would always make sure we checked in on her regularly because - as he put it - if he left her sitting there alone too long the old men would start flocking.

Anyway, I was just sitting there in my drawing chair tonight thinking about how I didn't even have a second chair let alone someone to imagine in it. And it also got me thinking about how much grandma would love my christmas tree.

#Journal shit

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speedysarah1 · 2 months

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i am just so lost. i am so sad and depressed and i dont want to do anything. when i try everything is blocked. i feel so empty and so alone and so done with the world. i want to live a different life. i no longer desire this one. but what can I do?

i halfway hoped the simulation would end when taylor won the superbowl. i know that sounds crazy but it's just such a fairy tale that i thought it might sheer us into another plane of existence.

that's a lie. i knew we wouldn't be. i was just hoping for an end.

with my genes, i'm going to live to 90 at least, 100 more likely. i am 30 now and already so tired. i listen to my sweet grandma accept that she's at the end of the road, and how she's ready to cross the threshold whenever the lord is ready for her. i find myself wishing that he would be ready for me too.

i don't believe in god anymore. not the way i did when i was a kid raised to go to church and after school bible study and baptisms and all that. i remember getting tested over memorizing prayers. my dad and i prayed every night together, practising so i could perform for the priest and be okayed to take my first communion. the priest had my dad grade me, and i said those four prayers perfectly. my dad didn't given me top marks though, because my legs had been swaying.

feels like i'm always graded on an unknown scale. this morning my partner asked why it took me an hour post workout to make it upstairs. i said i had a protein shake. he marveled at hour a protein shake could take an hour. i cried in the shower as i spent the requisite twenty minutes to brush out my knotted curls. was i not allowed to take the morning slowly? what had i done wrong other than let depression color my morning with molasses, slowing my movements, procrastinating the problems of the day?

i have another meeting in twenty. i don't want to go to it. i haven't done the work i would have wanted for it and when trying my kernel died, whatever that means. and then i have therapy, when i have to recount the fight of the week and pretend like i don't want to be sucked up by a black hole, or gently crushed by the earth herself. i want to run away and never come back, only i have nowhere to run to. just a house filled with fights and dogs and lives that aren't mine but are my responsibility.

i am so tired

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pennzance · 6 months

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Ghostbusters: Port Huron (Episode 26)

Episode 26: The Cavalry

November 3rd, 1998

Preparation report by Amber

Mr. Kaye has gotten in touch and asked me to rally everyone. And he meant EVERYONE. We have a few visiting faces from Detroit and Flint, like Lydia, Dabonovich, Microwave, and Remy, as well as a big name in our business: Dr. Ray Stantz.

Jeremy has been pestering the poor man all day, but to his credit Dr. Stantz has been gracious and excitedly talking with everyone. He’s an interesting man who truly loves all things supernatural, and I can see how a concept like the Ghostbusters would have been born out of his almost youthful energy.

He doesn’t waste time, either. He came in a rental car after landing at Detroit Metro and I don’t think he’s slept in the last twenty-four hours? He was excited to meet us and get a look at Bryan’s research as well as Jeremy’s tech shed. He said our reports have been reviewed by the home office a few times and I was expecting him to chide our professionalism, but instead he talked about them like a good book he’s been reading. I’ll take the compliment, I guess.

While Eric and Jason are out chasing a lead and Jeremy works on some device I don’t really understand the reason for, Dr. Stantz and Bryan have been doing the loudest form of book-reading research I have ever seen. He brought some books Bryan had apparently only ever heard about and the two of them legitimately geeked out over something called Tobin’s Spirit Guide.

I, in the meantime, have been making sure there’s someplace everyone can sleep. And that they eat food. I was even able to steal some time to spend with Remy, just the two of us. We’ve been seeing each other socially when the workload allows since Eloise. I really like him.

Near dusk, I got a call from Mr. Kaye to come pick him up from Flint. I asked why the crayon eater couldn’t drop him off, and he just told me to come get him, no explanation. Okay, fine. I drove quick, and inside of the hour, he was climbing into my Taurus.

“Thank you, Amber,” he said. He looked tired. And dirty.

“Are you okay, sir?” I asked. “What happened?”

He motioned to the road, and we started to move again. He took a deep breath before he spoke. “My… wife. She passed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.” I had read Bryan’s research. His wife had passed years ago.

He must have heard suspicion in my voice. “She died, of course, some time ago but she wasn’t… gone. I only just found out.”

“She was a ghost?”

He nodded. There was a tremendous pain in his expression. “I’m sorry, sir,” I tried. “That must… I mean, I can’t imagine-“

“You recently captured your own grandmother, didn’t you?” he asked me suddenly. I wasn’t ready for it. The Taurus swerved a little.

“Um, yes sir. Before Halloween.”

“Did… how are you doing? With that?”

I’d never seen him like this before. Mr. Kaye was a Professional, with a capital P. This was different. He was nearly human. “Well, sir, to be honest I’m fine. My grandma lived a long life, and she passed peacefully in her sleep.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Oh, god, no,” I laughed. “She was a mean old bitch. She hated that I joined the Air Force. She was certain I wouldn’t be able to amount to more than being some rich dentist’s housewife.”

“Hmph. And look at you now,” he said. He was smiling.

“Plus, she threw a cast iron pan at me when I recognized her. Putting her in a trap was satisfying, actually.” I hadn’t admitted that out loud yet, but it felt good to say. “What about your wife?”

I didn’t look at him. I could hear the rawness in his voice. “I didn’t have to put her in a trap. She… she moved on. After seeing me.” He took a shaky breath, I could tell he was trying not to sob. “I didn’t get a chance to tell her how much I miss her.”

“She knew sir.”

“You think so?”

“Yes sir.”

Another ragged, pained breath. And then a deeper, smoother more controlled one. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem, sir.” We were back on the highway home by now, a sign for Port Huron looming in the distance. “Dr. Stantz is back at the office.”

“Excellent. His expertise should be indispensable.” Back to being a Professional again. Like he’d bottled up all of that hurt from just a minute ago.

“I hope it’s enough. Bryan says we’re, to borrow his phrase, ‘in pretty deep shit.’”

“He’s not wrong.” The silence now was uncomfortable. Eventually he said “So what do you do when you’re in deep shit, Amber?”

I smiled. “Call in the cavalry and ask them to bring some shovels, sir.”

We arrived back at the office in time for Bryan and Dr. Stantz to give us the rundown on what we were up against. I’m not going to pretend I understand all of it, but here’s the long and short of it: Something called Ithaqua is trying to manifest in downtown Port Huron, and we all might be the only chance the world has to stop it. So, you know. No pressure.

#pennzance writes #ghostbusters #ghostbusters port huron

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asakurahaos · 9 months

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tw animal death, tw pet death

long vent/rant bc i need to sort my thoughts.

right. so, my family has a house in the village my grandpas from and we go there whenever we have time. and whenever we go there, our neigbours' cats flock to our yard.

two years ago one of the cats had kittens - and out of all of them only one survived. (theyre all outdoor/barn cats; no one even thinks of having a cat as a pet, or in the house at all, and dont really care for them)

well, that one came over to our yard for the past two years and he would be tangled in our legs before we could even get out of the car.

last week, my grandma and i stayed in the village while my parents went back to the city. hes there, bothering us for pets and food constantly, and other cats are laying about, relaxed. everything is fine until thursday morning.

i woke up and my grandma immediately mock complained about him not eating like usual (he always ate a lot) and said that the lazy ass wandered off to sleep like usually. he ate, bothered us, slept, ate, we bothered him, he slept... you get it. we didnt think anything was wrong at first.

then i found vomit on our porch. we thought it was one of the other cats - she ate a lot that morning, and shes the one who hunts most mice, so with the amount of vomit and a mouse in it, we figured it was her. but she seemed fine, and he didnt show up at noon, evening, night. he was always ready to eat, so him not showing up for an entire day was worrying.

then he didnt show up the next day either, and one of our neighbours came over to tell us another neighbour passed away, and while he was there he wondered where the cat was because he was unused to the cat not bothering him while he was there. grandma explained his not eating + vomiting + disappearance and the neighbour told us people use poison for mice and that the cat mustve eaten a poisoned mouse and got poisoned himself.

i tried to comfort myself: hes a young cat, decently sized, well fed. healthy. the mouse he threw up was nearly whole (if youre squeamish look away - the head and body were separated, but it seemed like he gulped down the entire thing in one bite, which wouldnt even surprise me if he did, and didnt look like it even started dissolving. it was like he swallowed it and threw it back up almost immediately). so, because of its state and him throwing up what seemed like everything he ate, i thought. maybe hes fine. maybe he didnt get poisoned. it shouldnt be possible when the mouse was nearly intact and he threw up everything... right?

and we waited and waited and expected to see him waiting for us either on our doorstep or in the shed where we feed him, like he did every morning since he was a kitten.

we returned home today (sunday afternoon) and were still hoping he will be there, tripping us up on friday afternoon, when we go back to the village. at this point, its been four whole days, and hes never been gone even half as long, but were hoping.

my grandma took it really hard, and its making me worry. i feel like mom is trying not to think about him, and im stuck between 'hes fine, hell return', completely ignoring the situation, and remembering him every time i start laughing or feeling positive and becoming sad, and crying over him and every other kitty weve lost, and all the kittens were inevitably going to lose soon.

on the other hand - a young cat(f) came to our yard for the first time yesterday, and another cat(m) we thought was dead showed up after months of not being there. hes so skinny its heartbreaking to look at (last we saw him, he was hurt pretty badly, which, along with his long absence, is why we thought he died). seeing him was bittersweet, since we love him too, and hes alive but hes so skinny + the timing of his return.

if hes dead i wish that it was quick. and im sorry that he was alone. if hes not, then im bringing him back home, fuck my allergies and apartment-cat trauma. the thought of never getting to bother him again or carry him like a baby and him never bothering us again.... i want him back

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generalcloudhopper · 11 months

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Tw: discussion of pretty gnarly mental health crisis I went through but there is a good ending.

On March 1st of 2019 my grandfather died. The next day while I was sitting in the car with one of my family matters while they were running across town making funeral arrangements the running up that hill cover by Meg Myers came on the radio. It was one of the first songs I heard after he died. Something about it just stuck with me and when I got to my grandma's house that day I went to a quiet room I played that song and I cried my eyes out. After the death of my my grandfather four other people in my family died that year one death happens in a way that traumatized me incredibly bad that I still hear flashbacks from that night and ended up with me developing OCD. This also led to a downward mental health spiral that went on for years. From 2019 to 2022 everything that could go wrong in my life did, I cannot even begin to go into all the things that happened. In mid 2019 I started self harming. In late 2020 I tried to stop but I relapsed and it made everything 10 times worse. My body was covered in red bloody irritated marks all the time. On my arms, on my legs, on my stomach, everywhere. During this time I had quite a few therapists one which gave me absolutely terrible advice and refuse to diagnose me with depression because he didn't like labels. I tried to kill myself multiple times. When I was finally put on anxiety medication I was tired all the time and numb to the world when they were trying to figure out what to do with my depression and a last-ditch effort they doubled my already high dose of anxiety medication which led to me having a mental breakdown which lasted for over 2 weeks. I heard whispering all the time, I would have screaming crying fits that would last for hours and absolutely terrible psychosomatic pain all over my body. Thankfully I went to a school therapist who actually got me diagnosed and got me sent to a psychologist to get put on proper medications. I sobbed when he had to leave my school because he was the best therapist I ever had. At this point it was mid 2022 and I had been on my medication for not even a week, it took 2 weeks to a month to finally get fully into my system and work. I was trying to be clean cuz that's what the psychologist told me to do and I was clean for a few days and I didn't think it would last until I walked into my parents bedroom one night. They were watching stranger things a show I had never gotten into in the past. I knew of the characters and the storyline from what friends had told me but I had never fully watched the show. It was the Dear Billy episode and right at the beginning of the famous Max Vecna possession scene. That entire scene is meant to represent overcoming trauma and realizing you want to live and go on. Max looked just like me at the time, long red hair blue eyes. I cannot tell you the feeling I got when I heard Running Up That Hill start playing. It was like someone had been inside my head and wrote down this message specifically for me with that song with the girl who looked just like me. Tear silently ran down my face in the dark room my parents were watching it in as I stood in the doorway and when the scene was done I ran out of the room I played running up that hill in my headphones and I cried my eyes out to that song for the second time in my life. That was the nail in the coffin to finally make me stop self-harming. A month later I watch the entire show with my mother and it was the first piece of media in the first TV show I had actually sat down and watched in years. I can't believe a stranger things episode is what finally help break a three year long depression episode but it did and I believe that states the power Media can have on us. Today I am a year clean and plan to stay clean for the rest of my life.

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smokeybrandcompositions · 1 year

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Good Sheep

I am not a religious person at all. I find all of that sh*t, every single one, to be semantics. Like, you’re arguing over some made up, imaginary friend, used to either extort you into obedience through fear or absolve you of every sin you’ll ever commit because your messiah died for you. Religion is literally the ignorant alternative to understanding. When you don’t understand something, when the observational knowledge isn’t there, you have to fill the gaps with something and that something usually takes the form of gods. It’s like being afraid of the dark when you’re a kid. You’re not afraid of the dark, you’re afraid of what’s in the dark because you don’t know. Once you understand that there is nothing hiding in your closet or under your bed or in the shadows of your room at bedtime, you’re no longer afraid of the dark. You garnered understanding through observation. That’s literally science. That’s the basis for all things. Observation and understanding. Religion, in all forms, hampers that. It ascribes the natural world to something supernatural, something unknowable. It keeps us in the dark, which is why i am skeptical of all religion just on principal. It’s okay not to understand things. Now that i have been clear about my absolute skepticism, i want to get into Christianity, specifically.

I come from a Baptists family. I’m black and my family has strong ties to the Bible Belt so of course i am. As i understand it, my ma’s family came up from Texas, Alabama, and Oklahoma while my Pop’s kin came up through Louisiana and Florida. My family unit, themselves, weren’t openly religious but my extended family were, very much so. We had a church. My cousins were Deacons and Pastors and Ushers and whatever else. I started Sunday School when i was four years old. Church for my family, when i was a kid, lasted hours and was held on multiple days. That’s not including the volunteer expectation. Church for a lot of, probably most of, black people is a whole ass part-time job. I t was in this environment of indoctrination that i spent a good portion of my halcyon days. The fear of hell and the love of Jesus was pounded into me every Sunday for half the goddamn day. I’d get up at six in the morning, be at church by seven, and wouldn’t make it home until two, three, four, or sometimes five in the evening. Sh*t was absurd but, as a kid who was maybe two or three years outside of being an actual toddler, that was normal. It took my grandma dying and my prayers for her salvation going unanswered for me to actually scrutinized what i was being taught from the Good Book. Imagine my utter shock when, the more i looked into sh*t about Christianity, the more my faith waned.

I remember learning about the Crusades and the Inquisition for the first time. Whole ass atrocities committed in the name of God. I learned abut Manifest Destiny, the doctrine white settlers used to cull native peoples across the US as they marched west for resources. I was appalled when i learned how Christianity was used to pacify my African ancestors as they were enslaved, relegated to abused beast of burden and violated chattel, their humanity stripped from them under the promise of a heavenly afterlife. Heaven is promised for those who are good slaves, those who obey their masters. Yes, you are going to whipped. Yes, you are going to be raped. Yes, you family will be shattered, your children stolen, and your men buck-broken, but take it all in stride because there is no brutality in heaven. But you can’t get through those Pearly Gates if you rebel and kill your oppressors. You go to hell for that, where the hell you’re living now will continue for eternity. That sh*t chaffed the f*ck out of me. That sh*t made me realize how perverted the Scriptures had become. It made me realize that, something written two millennia ago, can be perverted so disgustingly as to justify wholesale crimes against humanity. That didn’t sound like Jesus to me. That didn’t sound like the warm love God was supposed to so benevolently bestow upon us, his children. That sounded like some sh*t a man who knows he’s doing wrong, chose to dismiss by attributing his own sins to those of the sacrificial lamb. That sh*t sounded like the justification brutal, disingenuous men in power use to manipulate the masses. So imagine my surprise when i learned about the Council of Nicaea.

That thing i just said? About disingenuous men in power? Yeah, that’s the Council of Nicaea. Back in the year 325, a bunch of Christian Bishops got together with the Roman Emperor Constantine , and decided what was to be canon. See, up to this point, Christianity was just a bunch of separate cults and tribes, each with their own Bible and beliefs. This Council, under the purview of Constantine (Who wanted to unite his massive empire under one banner), decided which Gospels would go into THE Christian Bible. Constantine did this to shore up his borders and quell revolts because, just like those plantation owners who would come hundreds of years later, you don’t get into heaven if you’re not a docile sheep. And if you question the Word, you also go to hell. Even thought the Word is now lost to time because a disingenuous men in power, decided what the Word was going to be. Constantine the Great, in an effort to control his people, to herd his chattel, used Christianity as that divine yoke. He is the reason the Bible you worship from, is the way it is. How can that thing possibly be the unfiltered word of God, if it was edited by a man? A man who had designs on retaining power in perpetuity? A man who effectively used his ambition to manipulate those at the head of the infant Christian Church, into allowing him to shape their entire religion in his own image on the promise of power. A Roman Emperor chose what Books made it into your Bible, strictly to consolidate his power, and your Church went along with it because they became the State Church.

So what happened to all those other Books and Bibles? They didn’t just go away, right? No, they exists and often tell a very different story to the one you know. The DaVinci Code, a fictional book written by Dan Brown and, eventually turned into a pretty okay film starring Tom Hanks, was based on a few of these apocryphal texts. There are some by brand new Apostles who went unrecognized by the Church because their Gospels were too off-brand. There are alternatives to know canon Gospels like Secret Mark or Apocryphal Psalms. The Book of Enoch is arguable the most famous, outside of the Dead Seas Scrolls, and paints a very different picture of Eternity. It addresses incongruities like what happens to all those people who died before Christ was crucified or what of Hell at the end of days. Enoch answers that. More infamous books include the Gospel of Judas and the Gospel of Mary of Magdalena, both turning the understanding of Jesus absolutely on it’s head. In Judas, Jesus makes light of his Apostles as they worship the wrong god, the evil god, and that they will not listen to the true Word. He gave Judas, and Mary, the secret Wisdom; That there were, in fact, two Gods; The Demiurge and Yaldabaoth. Judas never betrayed Jesus. In fact, he was charged with doing what he did to Jesus BY Jesus. His was the greatest sacrifice as he is painted as the closest to the Holy, outside of Mary. And then there’s Mary’s book. Thee one that redirects everything from a masculine perspective to that of a feminine one. Mary wasn’t a whore but a, heiress from the port city of Magdalene and Jesus’ lawful wife, mother of his children, and prime confidant. Like Judas, she was given secret Wisdom not privy to the other followers and that relationship was perverted once he died. There are a lot of stories like that but the one which really stands out to me is the Book of Barnabas.

Barnabas’ Gospel re-frames the entirety of the Christian belief system. It asserts that Jesus was not divine, that he was simply a prophet and not the Son of God. It basically blows the core tenet of the New Testament out of the goddamn water and goes on to say that he, Jesus, prophesied the coming of Mohammad and that their beliefs were far more similar than they were different. They both preached a very similar message, one of love and understanding. Barnabas went on to say that Jesus was never crucified, that it was Judas on that cross. No, Jesus dies as a man, surrounded by his wife and family. That’s right, Jesus f*cked! And had kids. According to Barnabas, the lost Apostle. I wonder why this Gospel was left out of Constantine’s Propaganda Bible? If the linchpin of your eternal tool of bondage is the fact that your Messiah is the Son of God, Divine in every aspect, born of immaculate conception and killed to absolve all your sins, was just a dude who saw sh*t and f*cked his wife, you’d want to bury that sh*t, too. Guess what? it didn’t stay buried. In fact, the world’s oldest Christian bible, dating back to between fifteen hundred and two thousands years, long before the Council of Nicaea, INCLUDES the Gospel of Barnabas! Once upon a time, before Constantine manipulated the entire Christian religion into becoming the most insidious tool of oppression, ever, Barnabas was considered canon. Not today, mind you. They literal have this Bible on display in a Turkish museum right now and the official word from the Catholic Church, the denomination who partnered with Constantine for that power grab way back when, basically said it doesn’t count and moved on. They do that a lot. Because they have an entire city-state unto themselves. Because that gilded deal with Constantine has paid dividends long after he, and his empire, has fallen.

Let me say that again with my whole ass chest: The oldest Bible known to man, dated back to potentially the actual death of Christ, basically sh*ts on the entire Christian ideology by fundamentally undoing the core belief that Jesus was divine, that he lived as a man and dies as one, too, exists and the Vatican is just like, "Nah. Fake news." This sh*t is wild and the reason why i don't subscribe to all this religious skulduggery

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smokeybrand · 1 year

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Good Sheep

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mouthfulloftoothpasterry · 3 years

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Hooked

Summary: Harry and Y/n meet again. This time spending more time together and getting to know each other.

warnings/ disclaimers: Swearing, mentions of death, mentions of childbirth.

Harry was out searching for a book. He had left Loralie with his mother for the day since he had some errands to run and it would be a busy day. He had finished all of his books and he was on the search for another, maybe even some extra ones for his classroom. He had stopped by his favorite coffee shop and ordered his favorite black coffee to start his day of errands, then he went to the market to get everything for dinner tonight- he thought he might as well get it out of the way since he hates grocery shopping.

Now he’s on the way to a bookstore, he didn’t want to order it on Amazon or just go to a big chain store so he did a quick google search and found a small book store a block down the road from the coffee shop he had gone to. He wanted to find the book burning in water, drowning in flame- his sister had recommended it to him and now he was itching to read it.

He made his way to the bookstore, it looked like a homey place just from the outside of the store. It was a rust colored brick with two sconces on either side of the top of the book shop, a rather tall building- possibly a flat at the top. Harry looks at the cacti peeking through the windows, little flower stickers to decorate.

Harry walks into the book shop, opening the door making the golden bell at the top of the door frame sound off. As soon as Harry steps in he notes the warm scent, it smells like the owner had been baking cookies. “Hello!�� He hears a cheerful voice sing while he steps toward the poetry aisle in search of the book. “Is there anything I could help you with today?” He hears the voice again making him turn his head. To his surprise it’s Y/n, he’s been thinking about her. “Oh, hi.” He says bashfully, smiling and stepping over to the cashier counter she was behind.

Y/n smiles, continuing to add price tags on the back of her new shipment of books. She had started her little business officially a bit after she had gotten pregnant with Milo. Milo’s dad had left her after she broke the news to him, they were in their early twenty’s (Y/n being twenty one and him being twenty two) so it was understandable that he didn’t want children yet but the way he dealt with the situation was just dramatic and too much on Y/n. So she put everything into her little book shop, she took out a loan and bought this place, starting planning and putting her all into it, it wasn’t easy but it was worth it.

“Hi Harry.” She says, adding a book to the stack. Harry blushes at her tone again, she’s hard to read. “Um… do you happen to have burning in water, drowning in flame?” He asks, whirling around her display of different styles and colors of bookmarks. He is a twenty six year old man, why is acting like one of his students who thinks he’s handsome? Y/n laughs, nodding while she pulls her mug up to her lips- Harry thinks it’s hot chocolate (and he’s right). “It’s in poetry, first aisle, third shelf, second row.” She says, impressing Harry in how she has memorized every single spot of her book store.

Harry gives her a tight nod, walking over to the poetry section and looking for the book. “Is this your place?” Harry asks, making conversation while the rest of the store is dead silent.

“Yeah, me and Milo live in the flat upstairs.” Y/n admits. Harry’s ears perk up, she didn’t say anything about a partner. He walks back to the counter placing his book down, not handing it over to her yet. “When did you open this place?” He questions, looking around the shop. He sees some crystals, some candles- that both look up for sale and also her personal ones. It’s cute.

“After I got pregnant with Milo. Right after Xavier left me.” She says, leaving Harry wondering. “Xavier is…?” Y/n sighs, rolling her eyes a bit. It’s only their second time meeting and she’s already giving him her sob story. “He’s what would be Milo's father.” She says, picking at her bare nails. She doesn’t consider Xavier Milo's father, he’s never been there for him so he’s not a father. Harry’s lips form a tight line, “um, Loralies mum died… so… we’ve all got baggage.” He laughs, trying to cut the tension.

Loralies mum had died, she died during childbirth. She already had a particularly painful and rough pregnancy with Lora and that was just extremely unexpected, Harry just thanks his stars everyday that his little one is safe with him. “That’s awful, Harry. I‘m sorry.” Harry smiles at her, “it’s okay. I’ve got my Lora so I’m okay.” Y/n nods, smiling and grabbing the book from between his fingers. “She’s a sweet girl.” She compliments.

Harry nods, feeling a little cocky over how well he has raised his daughter. “Is this all for you?” She asks, pulling out a small brown bag with the logo and name on it- they are cute. “Yes please.” Harry politely says, making her laugh under her breath. “If this is your first time here? You get a free bookmark with every book you purchase if it is.” She says, nodding over to the bookmarks. Harry nods, looking through the bookmarks and picking a random Fleetwood Mac one- cute, he thinks. Y/n adds the bookmark to the bag, setting it infront of him. “13.22” she says, Harry fishing his wallet out.

“Are you doing a lot today?” He asks, motioning down to all the books stacked around her while he hands her a ten and four singles. She shrugs, “the usual.” Y/n says, handing him back his change. Harry thinks for a second, pausing his response making Y/n a little nervous. “I could help?” Harry offers, setting his coffee on the table. Y/n gives him a questionable look, sharpening one of her eyes at him. “You want to put tags on books and reorganize with me?” She asks, making Harry laugh. He nods, putting a bookmark back in its place “see, I’m already helping.” He says cheekily.

Y/n smiles, shaking her head. “I guess you can help.” She says.

Soon enough they are sat on the brown carpet, mountains of books around them. Y/n has a blanket wrapped around her and Harry has his legs stretched out. Y/n is tagging books while Harry is setting by the book shelf closest to them organizing. “I swear they put something in the water fountain at that school, the kids are always running and screaming around my classroom while I’m trying to talk about how Van Gogh cut off his own ear.” Harry says, making Y/n loudly giggle, thinking about how Milo probably gives him a horrible time on Wednesdays.

“You like working where Loralie is?” She asks, Harry of course nodding. Loralie is his baby, he loves knowing she’s just up the stairs- especially if she were to get sick or hurt he would be right there to take care of her. “Yeah, I wish I could always be with Milo but one of us has to make the money.” She jokes which makes Harry laugh.

“She always comes waddling into my classroom screaming for me- which disrupts the class but I don’t care.” He shrugs, his mind going back to Loralie. “Oh shit, I’ve got to pick her u-“

“Hi! How are you, baby!” Y/n cheers, Milo running toward her then crashing into her in a hug. Y/n’s friend Mikaela had babysat Milo for the day while Y/n tried to get as much work done as she could. Usually on the weekends (like today) Milo will be in the store with her… which tends to distract her. “Um, I’ve got to go but we should do this again? Maybe… over dinner?” Harry asks, Y/n’s face lighting up.

“Are you asking me on a date?” She teases, Harry blushing and nodding. Y/n laughs, slipping her phone from her pocket, “take my number and we can schedule that date you’re begging me for.” She teases.

Harry gets her number, thanking her for the book and letting him stay before he slips out. Now he’s got to get back to Loralie. But he’s got a date!

Later that night when Harry and Loralie are practicing her memorizing her ABCs his phone beeps. He ignores his at first, just expecting it to be a stupid text from his friend Mitch, but once he looks down he sees Y/n’s contact name. “Keep going, bug.” Harry says, grabbing his phone from the carpet while they set on the floor of the living room, unlocking his phone.

Hii, im free next Friday :) let me know if that works with your schedule!

Harry laughs at her cute little smiley faces, trying to think up a response that doesn’t make him sound a thousand years older than her. The tip of his tongue sticks out while he types back his response, his eyebrows knitted in concentration.

Hello! Friday works, how about 5:30? I can pick you up.

He lays his phone back down and helps Loralie with her letters, pulling her onto his lap. “D is for Daddy!” She cheers, making Harry smile, chuckling and kissing her round cheeks while she squeals. Harry hears his phone ding, grabbing it and reading the response, thanking god she answered. He thought his heart would explode out of his chest. It was beating so hard.

That sounds good ☺️ see you then!

Harry got her to say yes, but now he has to deal with the anxiety of actually going on the date. What should he wear, where should they go? Should he be opening the door and pulling out her chair or is that not in-in dating anymore? He hasn’t dated since Loralies mum and his baby is two years old now, it’s been quite a long time since he dipped his toe into trying to charm a woman. He just hopes he’s still got it.

****************************

The day is here. Loralie is with her grandma so Harry can get ready for the date. He’s been panicking and running all around his little house. He showered and smothered himself in lotion and his best cologne- he wanted to smell nice for her. He was adding leave in conditioner to his hair (which he hardly remembers to do) to make it more silky and the curls look a bit prettier than they usually do- he doesn’t know much about hair, he just does what his sister tells him what his hairdresser tells him he should do.

He planned out an outfit, a pair of tan dress pants with a white tank top and a cardigan over it. He had thought over the outfit a bit too much, was it too casual for the date? Was the cardigan too much? He decided against his thoughts and layers some pearls on, sliding his rings on that were in a jewelry dish, placed in there before his shower. He takes a look in the mirror, readjust his cardigan before he gives himself a little nod. He feels good about this.

He makes his way over to Y/n flat, walking up the metal steps to her flat and knocking on the door. When she opens the door he notices just how amazing her home smells, just like her book shop. He needs to remember to ask her where she gets her candles. “Hi,” Harry smiles, looking his date up and down. She was dressed nicely. It was a sage green dress with spaghetti straps, it stopped a couple inches above her knee. Harry thought it was cute.

She paired it with gold jewelry and a black cross body bag. Dirty white vans to go along with it that added a child-like feel to the outfit. Harry thought that was cute too.

“Hi,” she smiles, glancing behind her. “You look nice.” Harry says, suddenly feeling hot. Y/n laughs under her breath, thanking him. “You look nice as well.” Harry smiles bashfully, looking down at his feet. “Thank you”

Y/n says her goodbyes to Milo, hugging and kissing him before thanking her friend again for watching him. It’s the same one from last week, Mikaela. They get into Harry’s car, a bit of awkward silent before Y/n breaks it, Harry stopping the tapping of his fingers along to the low radio once her voice interrupts it. “So, where are we going?” She asks, smoothing her dress out against her thighs.

Harry laughs, he’s not prepared for dates and for some reason he hadn’t thought about the most important part. “I’ll eat anywhere to be honest.” Y/n admits, looking through her window at all the different places.

Harry was looking around in a panic and he finally pulled something out of his ass that sounded good, especially on his teacher salary. “Olive Garden?” Harry says, trying to say it confidently but it definitely comes out as more of a question. Y/n’s eyes light up, she’s in the mood for bottomless salad and breadsticks. “That sounds heavenly.” And Harry is happy to hear that.

They walk into the busy restaurant, instantly getting escorted to a table. Harry is happy they didn’t have to wait- that would have just been embarrassing since he threw this together last minute. They sat in the booth, sliding in and getting comfortable. “So, how’s the bookstore?” Harry asks, pulling apart his breadstick. Y/n knocks her shoe with his under the table, she thinks it’s cute how bashfully he can get when just asking a simple question. “It’s good. How are your little art students?” Harry playfully rolls his eyes at her choice of words.

“It’s good. They are doing self portraits.” Y/n laughs, her eyes widening.

“How’s that going?” Harry laughs, shaking his head. “They look like shittier versions of Picasso’s paintings.” Y/n dramatically gasps through her laughs, “aren’t you supposed to worship the ground that man walks on? Why would you say that?” Harry rolls his eyes once again, chuckling at her. “I’m just behind honest!”

Their date goes on the same, they order their food, giggling while they eat and even getting into a little food fight with the leftover breadsticks. (They weren't being humble, they asked for another basket) They finished their food, “That was fun.” Y/n admits smiling. Harry nods, taking the check and opening his wallet. “Here,” y/n holds out her card, Harry shaking his head. “I’ll pay.” Harry shrugs her off, handing his card tucked in the black check book the waiter had brought over back to him before she can further protest.

Y/n scoffs, throwing another breadstick at him that he tried to catch but it’s too greasy. “Hey! I thought we had a truce?!” Harry questions her. She shakes her head, apparently swearing off the truce. Harry shrugs, thanking the waiter when he brings his card back along with their mints. “You better sleep with one eye open then.” Harry says, standing up and waiting for her. She laughs, standing up and pulling her bag over her shoulder. “I have a three year old, I basically sleep with them both open. You’re nothin’.” She says, Harry nodding his head in agreement. He knows just how she feels.

They drive back to her flat, Harry of course walking her to her door. “I had so much fun tonight.” Harry says, looking down before he looks up at Y/n. She smiles, blushing. She hasn’t dated since Xavier and she admired that to Harry tonight, they both admitted that they haven’t dated since their children’s parents so they felt a lot comfortable knowing they were both rusty.

“Me too, you’re a really sweet guy, Harry.” She says. She needs to remember to thank her forgetful little Milo for leaving his folder in Harry’s classroom. “Thanks for agreeing to go out with me. I was pretty nervous.” Harry admits a bit sheepishly. Harry is a bit giddy on the inside about them hitting it off so well, they were having the best conversation and at times they were getting extremely loud, probably annoying the people around them, but they didn’t care, they had fun. “Yeah, I was nervous as hell but I haven’t had this much fun in a while. Thanks for tonight.” Y/n smiles, leaning in for a kiss.

Harry’s eyes widen, but he still kisses her back. He hasn’t kissed anyone in so long he thought he had forgot how to for a second. His hands come up to cup her jaw, moving his lips with hers. “I’ll see you soon. Have a good night.” Y/n smiles, opening her door with red cheeks. Harry nods, a little flabbergasted. “Have a good night.” He says, trudging down her steps.

And now he’s hooked on her.

Tag list: @romionefp @iaalien @hopeyoustaythenight @evanjh

If you liked this please reblog and please tell me what you thought of it ☺️ thank you for reading!! I hope you all like the series so far I’m writing part three right now so it should come out soon ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

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