#whose dog has never seen inside the dishwasher

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #224

“i don’t miss you, i miss the misery.”

What’s a hobby you would like to try out? Digital art. What sort of a kiss do you count as the first kiss? A mutual effort to kiss. Like, you both purse your lips. What time is too early for you? 5:00 A.M. is generally when if I wake up, I'll go back to bed. Have you ever won a raffle? If so, what’ve you won? Yes, actually. I very faintly remember winning something up in New York at a bowling alley as a family when I was little. Idr what we won. What’s the most useless thing you have vast knowledge on? Probably Silent Hill lol, if we're talking about truly useless. Video game lore and such knowledge isn't exactly truly useful. Is there anything you feel you’re better at than anybody else? No. What’s the biggest insect you’ve ever seen? Uhhh probably some kind of beetle. How about the biggest spider? A bird-eating tarantula when I was at the reptile convention with Sara. When’s the last time you played Pac-Man? WOW, it's been years. I've only ever played it on my childhood GameBoy. What is your favorite winter Olympic sport? I guess ice skating is pretty, but I don't care about sports. You Internet dies; what do you do for the next little while? Ummm this is when I feel like a caveman lmao. Probably... play Nintendogs on my DS. I hate hate hate how reliant I am on technology. What was the last test you completely failed? Recently on my first math test of this year. I bombed it, but at least I wasn't alone I guess. Oh look, it’s snowing outside! Do you get excited? Hell yes. Is your room covered in posters, or pretty bare? My walls are coooooverrrrrred. What sport do you completely fail at? I went to a volleyball summer camp thing in school years upon years ago and that shit HURT. I don't think I stayed the whole duration of it. Do you ever question life and existence? Not really anymore. Why does it really even matter why we're here, just make the most of it. Admit it, we all love brand named clothes. What’s your favorite? I genuinely don't care about brand names. Would you ever risk having a house party when you’re parents are gone? Hell no. What are you plans for the future? Achieve a stable career, learn to drive and have my own car, buy my own home, move in with the person I love, have lots of pets, and most importantly just be happy and content. Is your cell phone on vibrate? It pretty much always is. Is your dishwasher full? We don't have a dishwasher; we have to wash by hand. What are your thoughts on Avenged Sevenfold? I don't know many of their songs, but they're fine, from what I've heard. Have you ever played tennis? No, I don't have that coordination. Have you ever played fetch with a dog? I think so. Have you ever pet a stingray? No. Who is the last baby you held? Colleen's son forever ago because she needed me to. Would you ever consider being a cannibal? Wow no. Do you have any scars from an animal? Possibly, idk. I have a lot of small scars. How have you been sleeping? Awful. I've pretty damn consistently been having screaming fits (I mean, actually shrieking) at night where I attack my bed from nightmares. I actually recently hurt my hand from it. I want to go to the doctor about it, it's really worrying me. Are you adopted? No. Do you like scrapbooking? I'm not really a crafts person, no. Do you collect anything valuable? No. How many house phones do you have? Zero. We only use cellphones. Do you know anyone with an eating disorder? I don't believe so, thankfully. What was the last thing you killed? I at least tried crushing a flea. Mom used some kind of spray on the dogs outside, but it resulted in them just hopping off them inside too, apparently. Whose number did you last get? I have no idea. Have you ever thought about stepping in front of a car? I mean, I've had like those passive thoughts; you know, like when you're up somewhere high and your brain tells you to jump. But never seriously. Have you ever lied down in the middle of the street? Don't give me The Notebook flashbacks pls sobs. Anyway, ha ha, yes, only because my sister wanted a picture of us huddled together when Misty was here? Everyone loves that picture though so thanks for taking it Jason, lol. Do you listen to explicit music? Some songs, sure. Have you ever used someone for money? I could never live with myself doing that. Do you own colored eyeliner? No, just black. When was the last time that you had a pet that died? Some time last year when we got two sick rats in a row. Have you ever tried peanut butter and bananas together? Yeah, pb&banana sandwiches are pretty good. Do you have any mental disorders? *opens notes* Chronic depression, crippling social anxiety, severe generalized anxiety, bipolarity II, AvPD, PTSD, and OCD W O W ! ! ! ! ! Have you ever had to live with a friend? Yes, when we got evicted in '17. Do you believe everything happens for a reason? Hell no. Why does the little kid have leukemia? So God can scare you into faith to save the child he cursed with the disease? Why did my sick kitten get run over when I was a kid? Why was my sister almost raped as a teen? I could go on forever about this. Life gets a lot more bearable once you just accept the shit isn't fair and has no rhyme or reason. You just have to live with it. Do you believe in sex before marriage? I believe in sex once you feel truly in love with someone. Just be safe with it. Do you know anyone who married their high school sweetheart? Two, off the top of my head. Have you ever known anyone who died at war? I don''t think so. Who was the last person to hug you? My niece of nephew, I'm sure. Who is your favorite female celebrity? ... Wowie, why are like, all the ones I'm seriously invested in males. I suppose maybe Eugenia Cooney? Her recovery and development is like so fucking beautiful and I am 99.99% there isn't a sweeter person in existence. Were you nervous on your first day of high school? A little bit, of course. Three words to describe your best friend: Loyal, honest, and supportive as all fuck. Are you literally afraid of anyone? Yes. Who did you last take a picture with? My dad, I think? Literally forever ago? Who was the last person to comfort you? Sara. Who was the last person to unsurprisingly disappoint you? Mom. If she says "yeah we'll do (whatever)," don't hold her to it, ever. If you answer a question wrong in class, does it embarrass you? YEAH. What’s your favorite Lady Gaga song? "Bad Romance" is the shit. I also really like the "Love Game" remix with Marilyn Manson in it. Would you date someone who smokes? No sir. Would you date someone who was addicted to drugs? Why or why not? That's an even bigger "no sir." Would you date the same sex? Why or why not? Well yeah, 'cuz I'm bisexual. What’s your biggest turn off? Physically, bad hygiene. Personality-wise, being full of yourself and overly-confident is such a turn-off. What’s your biggest turn on, physically? Do. Not. Touch. My. Boobs. Where would you go on a first date? Me personally, I think a safe bet is the movies. The first date is always so nerve-wracking, so a movie takes away some of the pressure to talk as much as you can. HOWEVER, I think it's very important to have bonding/getting to know each other time, so I think having a meal together is a nice addition. Most hurtful relationship? The ending of mine and Jason's. Ever regretted breaking up with someone? No. Have you ever dated someone more than once? No. Do you miss any of your exes? I mean, I miss Jason as a friend, though I know it's probably for the better we no longer associate with one another. What’s your biggest turn on, NOT physically? Romance. Act respectful, like you truly love and want me as a partner. Obviously see me as your equal. What is the sweetest thing someone you dated did for you? Probably Sara actually listening and not getting jealous or annoyed by me talking about my occasional bad PTSD days. Last time you got flowers? A random day Tyler came over when we were dating in early '17. Are you ready to get into a serious relationship right now? I'm in one now. Do you like cuddling? If I romantically like you, I am a total cuddlebug. Do you regret dating anyone? Why or why not? Idk. I wanna say Tyler, but I mean, it tested my ability to say "fuck no I'm not dealing with (whatever trait)." Most important lesson you have learned from dating? DO!!! NOT!!!!! EVER!!!!!! RELY!!!!! ON A PERSON!!!!!! TO BE!!!!!!!! YOUR SOLE SOURCE!!!!!!!!!!! OF HAPPINESS!!!!!!!!!!! What does it take to get you on a date? I mean, ask? Be clear that you're interested in me? Are you happier single or in a relationship? In a relationship. I just feel like there's some sort of validation I'm an interesting and/or fun person. Favorite ex? This is a... weird question. I mean, Girt is the only one I remain in contact with and adore as a friend, but I was VERY easily most in love with Jason. How important are looks? I really can't say I care much. I mean yes, it's harder to be sexually attracted to someone you don't find visually pleasing, but I've dated people I wasn't physically attracted to before, and looks didn't hold me back from dating them or being romantically attracted to them. How do you know when you are in love? Oh, you know. I can't really explain it, you just like... know. If someone cheated on you, would you take them back if you really loved them? NO SIR-EE. Have you ever been ashamed of anyone you were dating? No. Favorite memories with an ex? I don't want to ponder this for my PTSD's sake. I have a novel of "favorite" memories with him. Would you name a child of yours after you? Ugh, no. I honestly hate that. Like... it seems so egotistical, and why would you WANT to?? Like... that's your name. I just don't get it, at all. Obsessions? Markiplier is ACTUALLY the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit, & I love lots of other YouTubers (no others really to the point of obsession tho, I'd say.... well, maybe Game Grumps), m e e r k a t s, the Silent Hill series, uhhhhh maybe that's it as far as real obsession goes. Perhaps Shadow of the Colossus with how many times I've played and beaten the thing. Addictions? I'm perfectly aware and regretful of just how reliant I am on technology. I turn into a caveman without it. I'm proooobably addicted to soda, fuckin' rip. Do you speak another language? Not anymore. I want to take German again, though, to refresh my memory and further improve, but I only really plan to if I have serious plans to visit Germany. Do you have a webpage? I have a Wix for my photography that I spent eons on jc. Do you live in the moment? Honestly, I don't feel so, most of the time at least. I'm always worrying and thinking about the future. Do you consider yourself tolerant of others? I'm, for the most part, extremely tolerant, though I can't decide if it's a good or bad thing that I'm becoming less so with time. Like ex., now, I seriously don't think I could be your friend if you don't support gay rights. There's just some shit I see as so ridiculous that I don't want to associate with you and give you my tolerance of your bullshit, hateful opinion. Do you ever pretend to be someone else just to look cool? I'm 23 years old. What are your #1 priorities in life? My happiness, my health, Sara, my pets. Is there anything you fear or hate about yourself? Yeah. Certain types or urges in different situations, my religious anger and spite, my absolutely malice for my sister's horrid dog that for whatever fucking reason lives with us and not her... that kinda stuff. I think mostly just things relating to anger. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? Hey anxiety, could you like?????????????? fuck off???????????????? Do you think you are emotionally strong? I will fucking NOT associate with your ass if you think I'm not after all the shit I've been through. Period. Not up for debate. What is your first name? *intro to B. Spears' "Gimme More" plays in the distance* Who was the first person you spoke to in person today? My mother. What was your first pet? The family cat Chance. If you mean like, actually mine, either Squeak the guinea pig or Shadow the Chinese water dragon. What was your first job? A GameStop sales clerk. How long was your first relationship? In my puppy-dog love middle school experience, maybe like, a couple of months? My first real one was three and half years. Who was the first person to break your heart? If you mean in any form, not just romantically, my dad when he abandoned us. Romantically, Jason. First person to give you flowers or candy on Valentine’s day? Other than my loved ones, Aaron, my 7th grade bf. First band you obsessed about? Truly obsessed with, Ozzy Osbourne. I loved Green Day as a kid, but it wasn't an obsession. First place you lived? Along the coastal plain/Piedmont border in North Carolina. First alcoholic beverage? Mike's Hard Lemonade. gud shit. First place someone took you on a date? I think Aaron and I went on a group date to the rollerskating rink first? That was a great day. Can you do a backflip? I'd break my neck, homie. Are you listening to anything right now? I'm binging Mother Mother. "Letter" is on right now. What do you do when you can’t fall asleep? Do exactly what you shouldn't do and get on the laptop, lmao. What’s the biggest lie you’ve told someone? There's something I told Jason in my first letter to him after the breakup that I honestly... don't know if it was a lie or not. I was so goddamn hurt that I'd say almost anything. I don't want to talk about it, though. Have you ever been hit on by someone of the same sex? She's my girlfriend of two years, I'd hope she woulda by now, lmao. Have you ever been engaged and broke it off? Nope. Have you ever found pictures on your camera you don’t remember taking? I don't think so. Has anyone ever drawn a picture of you? I don't believe so. WAIT. Tyler drew a picture of me and him, I think? At least she had my common outfit. Have you ever dated a redhead? No. Where is your favorite place to go when you want to be alone? I'm always in my room alone, so like- Do you have any nieces or nephews? Boy, a lot. Do any of your friends have children? Yes. Is there anything you’re craving right now? I've honestly been a horny POS for forever now. What caused the last argument you had? My sister's mother-in-law being a homophobic piece of garbage. What was the last movie you watched? Good question. It's been a long time. Where were you the last time you kissed someone? The airport. Where was your last paycheck from? The day I worked at the dollar store for two hours and got $9 lmao. What was the last school you received a degree from? My high school. What did the last key you used go to? My house. Don’t tell me lies, so is the last person you texted attractive? She's gorgeous. Have you ever thought about getting your tongue pierced? I have snake eyes now, which I got done twice, because the first time, it was pierced too far back, so the swelling of my tongue literally started to swallow/heal over the bar. :') But it was worth it; it was by far the most painful piercing (the second time actually made me nauseous), but it's my favorite. What’s the background on your phone? My lock screen is fanart of Darkiplier & the simple picture impregnated me; my home screen is Sara and me. Are you a parent? To pets. :') How are things between you and the person you are with? Great. Who was the last person you had a conversation with on the phone? Idk, my mom, probably. If you have a birthmark, where and what color? Yeah, exterior of my right arm. It's a slightly darker brown that the rest of my skin. When was the last time you felt nauseous? A while back. List three things that make you feel nauseous. THE SOUND OF VOMITING, even preparing to attempt to pick up pet shit, and uhhhh, how am I blanking. I guess certain smells? Idk. Do your parents support your dreams? Yes. List three of your favorite types of YouTube videos to watch. Comedy ones between friends, let's plays, and Mark's character ones are a unique and Supreme brand of video. What is your favorite park? Idk, I haven't been to many. Do you get fireflies where you live? Yep. What is the name of your YouTube channel, if you have one? 0zzkat (it's a zero). Do you wear the same shirt and shorts multiple times before washing? Only pj pants. If I actually go out in clothes, no, I change. What is your favorite store at the mall? Hot Topiiiiiic. Has a medication ever given you nightmares? Yes. I can't remember which it was, though. And I suppose one I'm on now might be causing them? Would you rather be surrounded by maple trees, fir trees, or palm trees? MAPLE!!!!!!!!!! How many different states have you lived in? Only one. What’s your favorite thing to do on a hot day? Swiiiiiim. Do you know anyone who’s allergic to bees? I don't think so. What does your favorite bikini look like? Sweetheart, nobody wants to see me in a bikini. What is your favorite thing to do at the beach? Swim. Do you think you are attractive? Nope. Who have you hugged in the past month? Mom, probably, and I actually think that's it. Are you good at recovering from injuries? Uh, I mean, I guess? Do you have more piercings or tattoos? They're tied at six, actually. Last bad news you heard? Some guy recently tried to break into Nicole's friend's house while she was home alone, but she scared him off with a shotgun through the window. I'm still not fucking over it. Last good news you heard? I got a 94 on the final test for the book we read in Writing. What was the last thing you posted on a Instagram? I only ever post photography on both of mine, so some picture. Do you prefer to live alone or live in a family? I wouldn't know; I never lived alone. What states have you visited, that you remember? New York, Florida, Virginia, South Carolina, and I recall Ohio VERY faintly. Oh yeah, and Tennessee, but that's a vague memory as well. OH, HOW DID I FORGET ILLINOIS?????????? What countries have you visited? I've never left North America. What are five careers you’ve considered? In chronological order, some that I've considered are paleontologist, vet, movie designer, game designer, and photographer. What do you wish your hair looked like? I really wanna dye it silver rn. Do you still feel anything for the first person you fell in love with? I still care for him, yeah. I guess I'm in a way still protective of him, too, as I saw very clearly when a tornado landed in his general area this summer, and I felt like a total mama bear that desperately wanted to know if he was okay. I know in my gut I'd probably knock a bitch out if he was seriously hurt. I know, the absolute apex of irony. Who was the last person you called? Mom. Do you take pictures on your phone? Very rarely. My camera SUCKS. How old were you the first time you encountered God? Oh, brother. Have you ever hallucinated? In middle school when I was coming off of a medication, I saw moving shadows. Do you struggle to get by? I'm not the one who cares for myself financially; I still live "under" my mother, but oh yeah, we struggle alright. Who is the best looking male celebrity, in your opinion? ggggggggggggggggggIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLLLLLLLL looking at him forces me into ovulation lmao y'all done know who it is. Do you use Snapchat? No. Do you know anyone who’s colorblind? Jason's brother was colorblind to I believe red and green. I know it was two colors. What is your favorite time of day to run? Run???????????????? If I run, bitch you best be running too. What’s a show you remember the very first episode of? Meerkat Manor and That '70s Show are quite clear. I'm sure there are others, I just don't care to think too long about this. Do you hate sleeping in? If I need it, not really, but generally, I don't want to sleep past ~10:30. How late do you consider too late to sleep in? 12:00. What is something of yours that is falling apart? Ha ha ha, the very first thing that came to mind was our poor shed door. Hurricanes have legit torn most of the white paint off of it to where it hangs in strips. It looks so bad; I've told my mom so many times to just tear them off, but she thinks it would look worse that way. When was the last time you saw your crush? February. Sobs loudly. When was your due date, and when were you born? I was due January 20-something, but was born on February 5th, but only because my mom was induced. Do you want to have kids? NO. What website do you usually check first when you get online? KM, just to ensure it's not on fire.

#survey #questions #quiz #random #bored

[fsouth-park-is-imaginative]

THE ANGELS ARE WATCHING CHAPTER 5: DULCE ET DECORUM EST, PER ASPERA AD ASTRA

These are the men whose minds the dead have ravished,

Memory fingers in their hair of murders.

-Wilfred Owen

It was too dark. The evening had a component to it that it didn’t have before. It was as if the very air itself was calling out to me. Take her, it said, take her.

And I know that what I’m going to do is wrong. I know that she deserves better than a life by my side, but I want her. I want her in ways I’ve never wanted anything else. My own selfish desires override my love for her, because I love someone and I will not let them go. The refusal of my mind, the vehement longing, it calls to me faster and stronger than the part of me that values rationalization. I want her, I want to marry her, I want to be happy with her.

I ran through the street with the fervor of a man possessed. The rain hit my head but I barely felt it. The air felt damp and hot, my clothes and hair pressed against my skin. The night was like the inside of a dogs mouth, or a dishwasher. I will either be cleansed or devoured tonight.

The street lamps guided me as I flew through the dark. The night time erased idle details, and I saw only what I wanted to see. The moon was overhead, but not seen. I was not guided by the stars above or the ground below me. I was controlled by the weightlessness on my shoulders. My heart became the sole cause of my actions, and the blood that pumped it flew to other parts of my body, spreading the feeling of utter obsession throughout my frame. I had a  beloved, and nothing could stop my love.

And suddenly, I had to stop. Because there in the street lamp light, glowing purple and yellow from shady store neon signs, was Alice. And she was the most perfect creature in existence, for the sheer fact that she was mine.

…. end chapter part four.

————————————————

Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander, Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.

-mental cases, Wilfred Owen

She looked tired. That’s to be expected, after all. The chemicals she drank are now mixing themselves with her brain. She will soon become comatose, helpless to my hand and at mercy of her mind. Her eyelids droop, she sways. I reach out with strong arms and catch her, my long sleeves impeding skin contact. She nestled into me like a cat presses its face onto the legs of an owner. I hold her, feeling her life in my arms. It conjured the same feeling of holding a kitten, so weak and helpless. So cute, so cute. My arms felt weak and I felt the need I have come accustomed to when holding the helpless, pathetic creatures that make my heart beat fast. Little furry creatures aren’t safe around me. Alice is not safe with me. But I carry her anyway, back to the elevator in my building, not too far away.

Six feet up is when she starts to stir. I furrow my brow in a critical manner. She’s not supposed to wake for several hours. But when she moves a little she pushes her face into my chest. My heart started beating irregular, and I realized not for the first time that I had the most precious thing of all in my arms: a human life.

When we get into my apartment, she’s back to unconsciousness. Steady breathing, beating heart, no words. I wonder what she’ll have to say about this when she wakes up. Perhaps she’ll wax poetic, or discard all pretenses? Multitudinous murders she will witness, all of myself. I’ll make her remember, I know I will. She will see my body broken on the sidewalk when she closes her eyes, she will feel my blood underneath her fingertips. And with her hands red with permanent spots, she will think herself free of me yet under the burden of her own heavy heart. I am not delusional, I know that she will think of me as her jailor. She will cry and curse me and throw everything off my walls, she will hurt me. And she will want me dead. And when I die, she will feel relief. She will think that she has finally left behind the horrible nightmare I have put her into. But the morning will come and she will see me again, coming down the long stairs of the basement. I will give her a rose and something sweet, perhaps a cookie. A cookie for the good girl who could not escape her chains in time to see me permanently dead. And then she will cry, and she will have nowhere else to go but into my arms, for she has cried into her own too many times for it to mean anything. And I will hold her, and whisper my love to her. And I will tell her my own selfish desires, and apologize for how my emotions override my morals. And she will not forgive me, for grudges and trauma last longer than anything that would keep her here with me, be it life or death: my own, or hers.

I press a kiss to her forehead, most likely that last one I will do without her screaming at me to get away. But I kissed her, and she did not die. My kisses do nothing to harm her, they are just flesh and saliva and those things do no harm with my newborn baby body, free of disease.

Je vais mourir d’amour

End part five of chapter.

——————————————

#END CHAPTER #the angels are watching #I've got some part of the next chapter written #kenny mccormick #south park #my writing #fanfiction #yandere #kidnapping #alice #feel free to ask if you need any clarification on a reference or something cryptic I did #because most of everything I do is totally incoherent and I'm trying my best to make it as straightforward as possible

[hiyo-silver]

Bill Denbrough Grows up - Rainy Day

Summary: Bill and Georgie spend a rainy day playing together.

Chap 1 + AO3 + My Masterlist

Taglist: @fuckboykaspbrak @thesquidliesthuman @starboystan @rachi0964 @shewasthewind @beepbeep-losers @bigbilliamdenbro @jalenrose1122 @sleepygaybrough @itandstrangerthingsfanfic @boopboopbichie @peachywyatt

At the age of nine years old, Bill Denbrough loves rainy days. He lives for the gray and the stormy and the flashes of light. Real life jump scares like in the movies he loves to watch.

Whenever he wakes up to the plinks of water dropping against his window his blood courses with adrenaline. Today in particular, he awoke early to a powerful boom of thunder, almost too dramatic for it's own good.

He peels the covers from over his legs, kicking them out of the tangled mess that his comforter has become. He presses himself up against the window, his hot breath leaving a soggy spot of fog on the glass as he keeps his eyes trained on the refreshing droplets of water falling to the ground.

He turns on his heel to pull the door open from the crack it was into being fully open. He bounds down the stairs to the kitchen, seeing his mother in front of the toaster with a minty apron around her waist.

"Hi Mom!" He smiles, slipping into the chair easily, kicking his bare legs back and forth. He pulls down his sleep shirt, a college shirt that had been his dad's when he was young.

She smiles slightly at him, just a bit tiredly as she never seems to sleep when she needs to, taking care of her three year old and nine year old, and her husband. Mr. Denbrough is probably the hardest to please.

Bill walked in on them wrestling once, though Richie would tell him a different story about what he'd seen. In his head it makes perfect sense, they didn't have uniforms so they didn't wear anything that could constrict them.

She puts a plate in front of him wordlessly, two slightly burnt toaster waffles stacked atop each other. The syrup is on the table and she gestures to it as her phone rings, work.

Bill takes the syrup in his hand, popping open the red plastic top and pouring the viscous liquid over his breakfast. He closes it and notices that even despite his care in handling it, his hands are sticky and covered in syrup.

He just shrugs to himself, nine year old boys never seem to mind if they're sticky or gross. He takes his fork, picking up the entire circle of waffle and taking bites of it off the fork as if it's a waffle kebob. His mom notices as she hangs up, sighing deeply.

"Did I raise you in a barn?" She asks, grabbing a butter knife and the fork from Bill's hand, going about cutting the waffles into squares, "And how'd you get this so sticky? God, what am I going to do with you?" She asks herself, walking to the sink to clean her hands, wiping them frustratedly on her apron.

"It w-wasn't my fault! The b-bottle was st-st-sticky already," Bill says defensively, picking up a square of waffle with his fork just a bit too aggressively before shoving it in his mouth and deciding to stay quiet when he sees his mom's expression. The call must have been bad because now she's in a mood.

He eats silently for a few minutes before a family footstep pattern approaches the tile floor. Small chubby legs maneuver to his spot, Georgie smiling at Bill from across the table. "'Morning," the boy says happily, looking to his mother for his breakfast.

Bill smiles softly to Georgie in response, still feeling a lot bad about being scolded, it happens enough that he should be used to it but he's not. His mother smiles warmly at the young boy, the mood of the room lifted by the sunshiney blonde boy's presence.

Bill is thankful for his brother, innocent enough to always put his parents in a good mood. And himself too, Georgie is just good.

Bill finishes his waffles, standiy carefully to pick up the plate, bringing it to the sink. He kicks the plastic blue stool closer to the sink so he can stand on it and rinse his dishes, the water runs over the mess in a way he finds therapeutic. He just likes water. It comforts him.

He scrubs it gently with the sponge, suds squeezing out of the small yellow object that just hadn't been washed out completely last time. He finishes rinsing the plate and fork, ready for the dishwasher now.

He leaves them to soak in the sink with the others, seeing Georgie nearly done with his own breakfast, "Mom, can Georgie and i-i-i-i-i go play outside? Please?" He begs, putting on his best puppy dog eyed expression to add to the show, though with Georgie involved he'll probably get a positive response.

His mother nods absently as his father comes into the room, her arms lacing around his waist. Bill's immediate reaction is always a sour expression, seeing his parents intimate will always be awkward.

He turns away as their lips lock together to face Georgie. "Wash y-your hands, booger, we're g-gonna play in the rain," he grins happily, skipping off to the living room and to the hall closet to pull on the rubbery yellow raincoat to protect him from the weather he loves so much.

His eyes scan the dark closet for the boots that match, purchased in a set from the shop a couple blocks away. Georgie's set is somewhere in the closet as well, though his in the color blue to avoid confusion of whose is whose.

He pulls on the coat, moving his arms around awkwardly to hear the awful plasticy sound it makes whenever he moves, he has a love-hate relationship with this coat. He puts his socked feet in the shoes, only in his buttoned coat and his sleep shirt and shoes, but he doesn't mind.

Though he knows his mother will, so he pulls the hood over his messy ginger bed head, shuffling upstairs, the sound of the plastic against plastic following him all the way to his room where he takes off the boots to pull on some sweatpants before yanking the boots back on.

He stomps his way back downstairs now that he's decent, finding Georgie at the bottom of the stairs donning his own coat and boots. He approaches his younger brother, "Your c-coat's unbuttoned, l-l-l-let me help," he smiles softly, getting on his knee to snap the clasps up to Georgie's chin, "All ready."

Georgie smiles at him, nodding happily. Bill takes Georgie's small hand in his own, unlocking and pushing open the heavy door for the two of them. The porch's overhang keeps them from getting wet for a bit, the cool air biting their noses and cheeks despite it only being early fall.

Bill races ahead of the small boy, knowing he's much younger and can't compete but he doesn't really care, just wanting to be in the water sooner. He stands in the middle of the driveway and spins in a circle, his face to the sky and his mouth wide open to catch the droplets on his tongue like snowflakes.

Georgie eventually catches up, scuffing the heel of his boot in a puddle to send mucky water spraying up Bill's legs up to his waist. "You a-hole!" Bill shouts while giggling, doing it back but more carefully, knowing Georgie is much shorter than himself.

They take turns splashing at each other, winding up absolutely drenched in the muddy water of their dirt driveway. Georgie's giggles pierce the mostly quiet scene in a way that brings Bill comfort.

He loves making his brother smile. He's always filled with pride when Georgie calls him his best friend, he can't help but love feeling so high and mighty on Georgie's list.

He's broken from his thoughts when Georgie pushes him to the ground and he splashes into the water, both of them laughing maniacally about it. Little boys. Entertained by the simplest of things.

Bill stands, water seeping down his pants and dripping down into his gollashes. He gives Georgie a bright smile, showing off his missing teeth on the sides.

Georgie smiles back, frowning a bit as Bill shivers. "Wanna go back inside, Billy?" He asks worriedly, his eyebrows creasing though it looks odd on such a young child.

"Nah, I'm g-good," Bill promises, kicking another wave of water in Georgie's direction for good measure.

"No, I'm tired, let's go back inside?" Georgie suggests, really just not wanting his brother to catch his death in this weather but he knows he wouldn't let the two of them go inside just for himself.

Bill nods, agreeing only because Georgie said he is tired. He puts a hand on Georgie's shoulder to lead him back to the porch and back into the house, having left the door unlocked so they could get back in without searching for the spare key.

They enter the house, just slightly warmer than the outside. It's early autumn so they have already stopped using the heating. "G-go put on some dr-dry clothes," Bill tells the younger one, already going to the stairs to go upstairs and change.

Georgie trudges off to his room, smiling softly to himself about getting Bill to do what he wants, he's slowly been getting better at it over the years of being his younger brother.

Bill changes into some pajamas to keep warm. He pulls on the fuzzy socks slide around the wood floors and down the stairs. He finds Georgie in a Star Wars onesie on the living room couch.

"Wanna watch a movie, Billy?" He asks, patting the free spot next to himself. Bill smiles slightly and nods, going to the movie shelf, picking up one of their favorites.

He puts the vhs into the player, grabbing the remote to deal with the startup screen. He presses play, the beginning theme of The Labyrinth starting up.

He sits on the couch next to Georgie, putting an arm around his small frame, "If you're t-tired you should t-t-take a nap," he suggests, getting settled to sleep himself.

Georgie nods, sighing slightly to himself and snuggling into Bill's side before drifting off, maybe he'd actually been tired after all.

#it stephen king #it stephen king fanfic #it fanfic #it book #it novel #it movie #it movie 2017 #it 2017 #it 2019 #it1990 #my fics #bill denbrough #it bill #it bill denbrough #it georgie #it georgie denbrough #george denbrough

[puckish-saint]

can i request hanzo, mccree and gabe whose s/o died in a mission that went terribly awry and having to come home and tell their kid that their mama/papa wont be going home? its ok if u do this another time since angst day is over for now ;;u;

Warning: Discussed/referenced character death

Hanzo

He’s been standing in front of thedoor to the children’s bedroom for minutes, staring at the brightyellow sunflowers. A few paper petals are coming loose. He’s beenmeaning to fix them for ages. After the next mission, he always said,after the next and the next. He’s never gotten around to it and nowhe watches as one petal yields under its own weight and flutters tothe floor. He watches it fall, mind empty when before it was racing.How does he explain that you won’t be coming home when he himselfcan barely grasp it?

One moment you were there, the nextthere was only comm static. A whole life of possibilities, wiped outin an instant. He curls his fist around the dog tags in his pocket,Overwatch issued, but engraved with his name and that of your twochildren on the back.

How does he find the courage to knockon that door and tell them what he doesn’t want to accept?

For better or worse the decision istaken from him. The door opens and his eldest stands in front of him,two empty glasses in her hand.

“Papa?” she asks, flails as if shewants to hug him but doesn’t know what to do with the glasses. “Wethought you would be away until tomorrow. Chiyo! Put that game asideand come here!”

Hanzo hears scrambling, some annoyedmix of Japanese and English that stops abruptly when his youngestdaughter appears in front of him, pushing her sister aside andhugging him at waist height without regard for formality. He trieshis best to return the hug, pats her on the head and wishes it wasyou instead of him standing here. You would know what to say, younever had a problem hugging your own children as he does, still acting like his own distant father when he doesn’t mean to.

“What’s wrong?”

He can’t look them in the eye, turnsaway and digs his fingers into the dog tags, as if you would comeback the moment he broke the cursed things in half.

“Asahi. Chiyo. I need to talk toyou.” he says and he knows that Chiyo fears she’s in trouble andthat Asahi’s silence means she has worked it out already.

“No.” she says, begs him to tellher she’s wrong, that him standing here alone doesn’t meananything, that they really are just in trouble over some small prankthey pulled while their parents were gone.

“Our work is dangerous.” he says.“There’s always a risk, I-”“Papa, no. This isn’thappening.”“We told you there might come a day when one orboth of us -”“Can’t you even look me in the eye?”“You’reold enough to understand-”“I’m not even sixteen. Papa,please look at me and tell me this isn’t happening.”“Theteam and I did everything in our power, there was nothing-”“Lookat me!”Chiyo flinches, eyes wide and fearful as her usuallyso calm sister screams at her father. She looks between them and whenthe tension won’t dissipate, when Hanzo stares at his daughter likeshe slapped him and Asahi breathes hard to control her anger, shestarts to cry.

They both are torn out of their ownshock, Hanzo falls to his knees to pull Chiyo into his arms and Asahifollows, curls up at her father’s side like she hasn’t done inyears and cries and cries more when she feels her father’sshoulders shake. She’s never seen him cry before and that’s whenit hits home, that you really are gone and that Hanzo’s distantlove is all they have left.

McCree

He remembers the day his Pa died as hewatches his own son play in the yard with Ana and Fareeha, who don’tyet know what happened.

He would have been no older than Caseyis now, barely twelve and acting older, missing his parents when theyare gone but not following their every move anymore when they’reback. That’s what gives him a little time to think and the thinkinghe does leads him straight back to that day the police officerknocked at their door.

His Ma had been washing the dishes, byhand because she didn’t trust omnic help and the dishwasher hadbroken down again. Jesse hears the gurgling of water like he’snever left that kitchen, like he’s still sitting on the worn rug,doing his homework for what he’s fairly sure was the last time inhis life.

Then the doorbell, his mother askinghim to answer it. Back in those days they didn’t yet have to fearthe bailiff so Jesse went and answered the door and found a policeofficer standing in front of him, her hat under her arm. He remembersher face fell when she saw him and that he thought it was because shethought he was ugliest kid she’d ever seen.

The police officer had asked if hismother was home and so Jesse went back to the kitchen and got hismother, telling her the police wanted to talk to her. Heremembers, clear as day, the way her smile turned to stone. She senthim to his room but didn’t check to see if he would go and so Jessesat on the top of the stairs and hear the police officer say “I’msorry, ma’am, I’m afraid your husband has been involved in anaccident. He died en route to the hospital.”

She said a lot more, but that’s allJesse remembers. I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m afraid. Thosewords have haunted his nightmares going on a quarter decade now.Sometimes he’s the ma’am, sometimes he’s the thing that followsafter ‘I’m afraid’. When he first killed for Deadlock, hebecame the police officer and he was the one saying ‘I’m sorry,ma’am, I’m afraid’.

Those aren’t the words he ever wantedhis son to hear. I’m sorry, Casey, I’m afraid. Just thethought turns his stomach inside out. But there’s no choice, noalternative. However he phrases it, in the end it will all come downto the same thing.

He carries his hat under his arm as hewalks into the inner yard of Gibraltar base, formerly several squarefeet of unused grass and dirt, now a passable football field andplayground. Casey spots him when he’s only a few feet away, shoutsat him to wait because he has to get another goal against Fareeha.Jesse waits, with his hat under his arm, and those words on histongue.

I’m sorry, I wish I could havedone something. I wish it had been me.

Casey, your parents love you butthey had to do their job and now only one came home to you.

I’m afraid. I barely know howto be a dad, I don’t know how I’m going to raise you by myself.

His son jogs up to him, sweat makinghis curly hair cling to his forehead.

“Did you bring me anything?” heasks with the comfortable selfishness that only children can have.Jesse shakes his head, tries his hand at a reassuring smile.

“Casey, there’s somethin’ I gottatell you.” he says and watches once again a smile turn to stone. Hecan count the number of times he used his son’s full name in aconversation with him on one hand. He prays that it won’t becomehis I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m afraid. He prays for a lot ofthings, mostly for you to come home after all, to swoop out of somehidden corner and spare him what he’s about to do.

While Angela approaches Fareeha and Anato tell them the news, Jesse sits down in the grass waits until hisson has settled down next to him and tells him that he just lost halfof his family.

You died a hero, he says, and that yousaved a lot of folks doing it. He tells Casey, who’s trying to puton a brave face, that it’s okay to cry. And his son retorts that ifit’s okay then why isn’t he, Jesse, crying, and it’s like youspoke through your son at this very moment, so Jesse does the onlysensible thing and cries. Cries like his Ma cried when the policeofficer left, cries like he did on the flight back home, criesbecause as long as he cries his son will know it’s alright togrieve.

Gabriel Reyes

“I don’t need any fucking medicalcare.”

On any other day shoving a gun intoJack’s face would have gotten him court-martialed. Today Jack backsoff and apologises. He lets him go, orders the medical team to takecare of the other injured and not to bother Gabriel.

He’s walking through the base withoutfeeling the steps he takes. Past the med wing, through the offices,into the elevator. He paces up and down the three feet because if hestops, he’ll break.

The elevator comes to a halt, secondhighest floor, the senior officers apartments. He wipes his thumbclean on his uniform, leans forward for the retina scan. Theapartment lies in darkness and utter, unfamiliar silence. You wouldhave turned on the music the moment the door opened, a softbackground noise to a late-night coffee before bed. He tries to dothe same, but it feels wrong, the sound tinny, a mockery of thewarmth it used to bring. He turns it off again, finds his way throughthe dark living room and into the hallway. The light in the bathroomis on but it’s empty. Gabriel isn’t surprised. The day he’llcome home to all the lights shut off, he’ll know his daughter tohave grown out of her fear of monsters. She’ll have grown up and hefears that day almost as much as he feared this one.

Her bedroom door is ajar, letting injust a little bit light from the bathroom. Enough to illuminate herbed, the blanket on the floor, the pillow at her feet. A stuffedanimal serves as a makeshift replacement and he spends severalminutes trying to figure out in the twilight if it’s Prince Jessethe dog or General Ana the many times repaired hawk.

Your daughter wasn’t the one to comeup with the names. It was you and Gabriel who, during supposedparent-child bonding time got a little too into making up stories forall the plushies. Eventually you looked up to find several hours hadpassed and the child who was supposed to play with Prince Jesse andGeneral Ana had taken off with a book instead.

She shifts in her sleep, pulls Gabrielout of the memory as he watches her slowly wake.

“Papi?” she asks and turns on thelight on her bedside table. He blinks against the sudden light and sodoes she. Then her whole face lights up and she holds up her arms inan unspoken bid to be picked up. Gabriel follows the order dutifullyas if nothing was out of the ordinary and picks up his little girl,hugs her tight and asks what she’s been doing since he was gone.

As they lie down in bed, Gabriel havingto twist and turn a bit until he fits, she tells hims about the funshe got up to with Jesse, who babysat for most of the time, and thathe let her have coke instead of lemonade one time but she’ssupposed to keep it secret.

In turn he listens, pets her hair anddoesn’t say a word about you.

He knows he has to, that he can’tkeep this a secret, but no matter how much he pushes himself, hecan’t get the words out. Not when his daughter is falling asleep inhis arms, curled into his hoodie and still talking. She’s notmaking sense anymore, and eventually she has drifted off completely,assuming that you are working late and will be there when she wakesup in the morning.

He turns off the light, covers themboth with the blanket and thinks, for a few moments, that you reallyare just held up with work. In an hour or two he might wake to youcoming home, tip-toeing into your daughter’s room, knowing this iswhere you will find him, asleep with one leg out of the bed and therest slowly but surely following as your daughter demands every inchof space available.

But the spell breaks, reality returnsand Gabriel knows that tomorrow he will have to tell his littleprincess that you’re not at work but dead. Killed in the line ofduty, to save hundreds of children the pain your daughter will haveto suffer.

He swallows, covers his mouth so hewon’t wake her with his pitiful sobs.

#overwatch imagines #mccree #reaper #hanzo #reader insert #character death #Anonymous

[andya-j]

The woman is a mound of dirt and rags pushing a squeaky shopping cart; a lump that moves steadily, slowly forward, as if dragged by an invisible tide. Her long, greasy hair hides her face but Ramon feels her staring at him. He looks ahead. The best thing to do with the homeless mob littering Vancouver is to ignore it. Give them a buck and the beggars cling to you like barnacles. “Have you seen my children?” the woman asks. Her voice, sandpaper against his ears, makes him shiver. His heart jolts as though someone has pricked it with a needle. He keeps on walking, but much faster now. It isn’t until he is shoving the milk inside the fridge that he realizes why the woman’s words have upset him: she reminds him of the Llorona. He hasn’t thought about her in years, not since he was a child living in Potrero. Everyone in town had a story about the Llorona. The most common tale was that she drowned her children in the river and afterwards roamed the town, searching for them at night; her pitiful cries are a warning and an omen. Camilo, Ramon’s great-uncle, swore on his mother’s grave that he met this ghost while riding home one night. It was the rainy season, when the rivers overflow and Camilo was forced to take a secondary, unfamiliar road. He spotted a woman in white bending over some nopales at the side of a lonely path. Her face was covered with the spines of the prickly pears she had savagely bitten. She turned around and smiled. Blood dripped from her open mouth and stained her white shift. This was the kind of story the locals whispered around Potrero. It was utter nonsense, especially coming from the lips of a chronic alcoholic like Camilo, but it was explosive stuff for an eight-year old boy who stayed up late to watch black-and-white horror flicks on the battered TV set. However, to think about the Llorona there in the middle of the city between the SkyTrain tracks and a pawn shop is ridiculous. Ramon never packed ghost stories in his suitcase, and Potrero and the Llorona are very far away. • • • • He sees the homeless woman sitting beneath a narrow ledge, shielding herself from the rain. She weeps and hugs a plastic bag as though it were a newborn. “Have you seen my children?” she asks when he rushes by, clutching his umbrella. Nearby a man sleeps in front of an abandoned store, an ugly old dog curled next to him. The downtown homeless peek at Ramon from the shadows as he steps over old cigarette butts. They say this is an up and coming neighborhood but each day he spots a new beggar wielding an empty paper cup at his face. It is disgraceful. This is the very reason why he left Mexico. He escaped the stinking misery of his childhood and the tiny bedroom with the black-and-white TV set he had to share with his cousins. Behind his house there were prickly pears and emptiness. No roads, and no buildings. Just a barren nothing swallowed by the purple horizon. It was easy to believe that the Llorona roamed there. But not in Vancouver which is new and shiny, foaming with lattes and tiny condos. • • • • The dogs are howling. They scare him. Wild, stray animals that roam the back of the house at nights. His uncle told him the dogs howled when they saw the Llorona. Ramon runs to the girls’ room and sneaks into his mother’s bed, terrified of the noise and his mother has to hold him in her arms until he falls asleep. But when he wakes up Ramon is in his apartment and it is only one dog, the neighbor’s Doberman, barking. He rolls to the centre of the bed, staring at the ceiling. • • • • Ramon spots the woman a week later, her arms wrapped around her knees. “My children,” she asks, with her cloud of dirty hair obscuring her face. “Where are my children?” Nauseating in her madness, a disgusting sight growing like a canker sore and invading his streets. Just like the other homeless littering the area: the man in front of the drugstore that always asks him for spare change even though Ramon never gives him any, or the gnarled man beneath a familiar blanket, eternally sleeping in the shade of the burger joint. The city is heading to the gutter. Sure, it looks pretty from afar with its tall glass buildings and its mountains, but below there is a depressing stew of junkies and panhandlers that mars the view. It reminds him of Potrero and the bedroom with the leaky ceiling. He stared at that small yellow leak which grew to become an obscene, dark patch above his bed until one day he grabbed his things and headed north. He felt like repeating his youthful impulsiveness, gathering his belongings in a duffel bag and leaving the grey skies of Vancouver. But he had the condo which would fetch a killing one day if he was patient, his job, and all the other anchors that a man pushing forty can accumulate. A few years before, maybe. Now it seemed like a colossal waste of time. Ramon tries to comfort himself with the thought that one day when he retires he will move to a tropical island of pristine white beaches and blue-green seas where the wrecks of humanity can never wash ashore. • • • • He’s gone to buy groceries and there she is, picking cans out of the garbage in the alley behind the supermarket. Llorona. He used to send a postcard to his mother every year when he was younger, newly arrived in the States. He couldn’t send any money because dishwashing didn’t leave you with many spare dollars and he couldn’t phone often because he rented a room in a house and there was no phone jack in there. If he wanted to make a call he had to use the pay phone across the street. Instead, he sent postcards. Carmen didn’t like it. His sister complained about his lack of financial support for their mother. “Why do I have to take care of mom, hu? Why is it me stuck in the house with her?” she asked him. “Don’t be melodramatic. You like living with mom.” “You’re off in California and never send a God damn cent.” “It ain’t easy.” “It ain’t easy here either, Ramon. You’re just like all the other shitty men. Just taking off and leaving the land and the women behind. Who’s gonna take care of mom when she gets old and sick? Whose gonna clean the house and dust it then? With what fucking money? I ain’t doing it, Ramon.” “Bye, Carmen.” “There’s some things you can’t get rid of, Ramon,” his sister yelled. He didn’t call after that. Soon he was heading to another city and by the time he reached Canada he didn’t bother sending postcards. He figured he would, one day, but things got in the way and years later he thought it would be even worse if he tried to phone. And what would they talk about now? It had been ages since he’d left home and the sister and cousins that had lived in Potrero. He’d gotten rid of layers and layers of the old Ramon, moulting into a new man. But maybe Carmen had been right. Maybe there’s some things you can’t get rid of. Certain memories, certain stories, certain fears that cling to the skin like old scars. These things follow you. Maybe ghosts can follow you, too. • • • • It’s a bad afternoon. Assholes at work and in the streets. And then a heavy, disgusting rain pours down, almost a sludge that swallows the sidewalks. He’s lost his umbrella and walks with his hands jammed inside his jacket’s pockets, head down. Four more blocks and he’ll be home. That’s when Ramon hears the squeal. A high-pitched noise. It’s a shriek, a moan, a sound he’s never heard before. What the hell is that? He turns and looks and it is the old woman, the one he’s nicknamed Llorona, pushing her shopping cart. Squeak, squeak, goes the cart, matching each of his steps. Squeak, squeak. A metallic chirping echoed by a low mumble. “Children, children, children.” Squeak, squeak, squeak. A metallic chant with an old rhythm. He walks faster. The cart matches his pace; wheels roll. He doubles his efforts, hurrying to cross the street before the light changes. The cart groans, closer than before, nipping at his heels. He thinks she is about to hit him with the damn thing and then all of a sudden the sound stops. He looks over his shoulder. The old woman is gone. She has veered into an alley, vanishing behind a large dumpster. Ramon runs home. • • • • The dogs are howling again. A howl that is a wail. The wind roars like a demon. The rain scratches the windows, begging to be let in, and he lies under the covers, terrified. He feels his mother’s arm around his body, her hands smoothing his hair like she did when he was scared. Just a little boy terrified of the phantoms that wander through the plains. His mother’s hand pats his own. Mother’s hand is bony. Gnarled, long fingers with filthy nails. Nails caked with dirt. The smells of mud, putrid garbage, and mold hit him hard. He looks at his mother and her hair is a tangle of grey. Her yellow smile paints the dark. He leaps from the bed. When he hits the floor he realizes the room is filled with at least three inches of water. “Have you seen my children?” the thing in the bed asks. The dogs howl and he wakes up, his face buried in the pillow. • • • • He takes a cab to work. He feels safer that way. The streets are her domain, she owns the alleys. When he goes to lunch he looks at the puddles and thinks about babies drowned in the water; corpses floating down a silver river. Don’t ever let the Llorona look at you, his uncle said. Once she’s seen you she’ll follow you home and haunt you to death, little boy. “Oh, my children,” she’ll scream and drag you into the river. But he’d left her behind in Potrero. He thought he’d left her behind. • • • • Ramon tries to recall if there is a charm or remedy against the evil spirit. His uncle never mentioned one. The only cure he knew was his mother’s embrace. “There, there little one,” she said, and he nested safe against her while the river overflowed and lightning traced snakes in the sky. • • • • In the morning there is a patch of sunlight. Ramon dares to walk a few blocks. But even without the rain the city feels washed out. Its colour has been drained. It resembles the monochromatic images they broadcasted on the cheap television set of his youth. Even though he does not bump into her, the Llorona’s presence lays thick over the streets, pieces of darkness clinging to the walls and the dumpsters in the alleys. It even seems to spread over the people: the glassy eyes of a binner reflect a river instead of the bricks of a building. He hurries back home and locks the door. But when it rains again, water leaks into the living room. Just a few little drops drifting into his apartment. He wipes the floor clean. More water seeps in like a festering boil, cut open and oozing disease. • • • • The Llorona stands guard in the alley. She is a lump in the night looking up at his apartment window. He feels her through the concrete walls and the glass. Looking for him. He fishes for the old notebook with the smudged and forgotten number. The rain splashes against his building and the wind cries like a woman. The dial tone is loud against his ear. More than ten years have passed. He has no idea what he’ll say. He doesn’t even understand what he wants to ask. He can’t politely request to ship the ghost back to Mexico. He dials. The number has been disconnected. He thinks about Carmen and his mother and the dusty nothingness behind their house. There might not even be a house. Perhaps the night and the river swallowed them. • • • • The Llorona comes with the rain. Or maybe it is the other way around: the rain comes with her. Something else also comes. Darkness. His apartment grows dimmer. He remains in the pools of light, away from the blackness. Outside, in the alley, the Llorona scratches the dumpster with her nails. The dogs howl. Ramon shivers in his bed and thinks about his mother and how she used to drive the ghosts away. • • • • She is sitting next to a heap of garbage in the middle of the alley, water pouring down her shoulders. She clutches rags and dirt and pieces of plastic against her chest, her head bowed and her face hidden behind the screen of her hair. “My children. My children.” She looks up at him, slowly. The rain coats her face, tracing dirty rivulets along her cheeks. He expects an image out of a nightmare: blood dripping, yellow cat-eyes or a worn skull. But this is an old woman. Her skin has been torn by time and her eyes are cloudy. This is an old woman. She could be his mother. She might be, for all he knows. He lost her photograph a long time ago and can’t recall what she looks like anymore. His mother who ran her fingers through his hair and hugged him until the ghosts vanished. Now he’s too old for ghosts, but the ghosts still come at nights. The woman looks at him. Parched, forgotten, and afraid. “I’ve lost my children,” she whispers with her voice of dead leaves. The alley is a river. He goes to her, sinks into the muck, sinks into the silvery water. He embraces her and she strokes his hair. The sky above is black and white, like the pictures in the old TV set and the wind that howls in his ears is the demon wind of his childhood.

The woman is a mound of dirt and rags pushing a squeaky shopping cart; a lump that moves steadily, slowly forward, as if dragged by an invisible tide. Her long, greasy hair hides her face but Ramon feels her staring at him. He looks ahead. The best thing to do with the homeless mob littering Vancouver is to ignore it. Give them a buck and the beggars cling to you like barnacles. “Have you seen my children?” the woman asks. Her voice, sandpaper against his ears, makes him shiver. His heart jolts as though someone has pricked it with a needle. He keeps on walking, but much faster now. It isn’t until he is shoving the milk inside the fridge that he realizes why the woman’s words have upset him: she reminds him of the Llorona. He hasn’t thought about her in years, not since he was a child living in Potrero. Everyone in town had a story about the Llorona. The most common tale was that she drowned her children in the river and afterwards roamed the town, searching for them at night; her pitiful cries are a warning and an omen. Camilo, Ramon’s great-uncle, swore on his mother’s grave that he met this ghost while riding home one night. It was the rainy season, when the rivers overflow and Camilo was forced to take a secondary, unfamiliar road. He spotted a woman in white bending over some nopales at the side of a lonely path. Her face was covered with the spines of the prickly pears she had savagely bitten. She turned around and smiled. Blood dripped from her open mouth and stained her white shift. This was the kind of story the locals whispered around Potrero. It was utter nonsense, especially coming from the lips of a chronic alcoholic like Camilo, but it was explosive stuff for an eight-year old boy who stayed up late to watch black-and-white horror flicks on the battered TV set. However, to think about the Llorona there in the middle of the city between the SkyTrain tracks and a pawn shop is ridiculous. Ramon never packed ghost stories in his suitcase, and Potrero and the Llorona are very far away. • • • • He sees the homeless woman sitting beneath a narrow ledge, shielding herself from the rain. She weeps and hugs a plastic bag as though it were a newborn. “Have you seen my children?” she asks when he rushes by, clutching his umbrella. Nearby a man sleeps in front of an abandoned store, an ugly old dog curled next to him. The downtown homeless peek at Ramon from the shadows as he steps over old cigarette butts. They say this is an up and coming neighborhood but each day he spots a new beggar wielding an empty paper cup at his face. It is disgraceful. This is the very reason why he left Mexico. He escaped the stinking misery of his childhood and the tiny bedroom with the black-and-white TV set he had to share with his cousins. Behind his house there were prickly pears and emptiness. No roads, and no buildings. Just a barren nothing swallowed by the purple horizon. It was easy to believe that the Llorona roamed there. But not in Vancouver which is new and shiny, foaming with lattes and tiny condos. • • • • The dogs are howling. They scare him. Wild, stray animals that roam the back of the house at nights. His uncle told him the dogs howled when they saw the Llorona. Ramon runs to the girls’ room and sneaks into his mother’s bed, terrified of the noise and his mother has to hold him in her arms until he falls asleep. But when he wakes up Ramon is in his apartment and it is only one dog, the neighbor’s Doberman, barking. He rolls to the centre of the bed, staring at the ceiling. • • • • Ramon spots the woman a week later, her arms wrapped around her knees. “My children,” she asks, with her cloud of dirty hair obscuring her face. “Where are my children?” Nauseating in her madness, a disgusting sight growing like a canker sore and invading his streets. Just like the other homeless littering the area: the man in front of the drugstore that always asks him for spare change even though Ramon never gives him any, or the gnarled man beneath a familiar blanket, eternally sleeping in the shade of the burger joint. The city is heading to the gutter. Sure, it looks pretty from afar with its tall glass buildings and its mountains, but below there is a depressing stew of junkies and panhandlers that mars the view. It reminds him of Potrero and the bedroom with the leaky ceiling. He stared at that small yellow leak which grew to become an obscene, dark patch above his bed until one day he grabbed his things and headed north. He felt like repeating his youthful impulsiveness, gathering his belongings in a duffel bag and leaving the grey skies of Vancouver. But he had the condo which would fetch a killing one day if he was patient, his job, and all the other anchors that a man pushing forty can accumulate. A few years before, maybe. Now it seemed like a colossal waste of time. Ramon tries to comfort himself with the thought that one day when he retires he will move to a tropical island of pristine white beaches and blue-green seas where the wrecks of humanity can never wash ashore. • • • • He’s gone to buy groceries and there she is, picking cans out of the garbage in the alley behind the supermarket. Llorona. He used to send a postcard to his mother every year when he was younger, newly arrived in the States. He couldn’t send any money because dishwashing didn’t leave you with many spare dollars and he couldn’t phone often because he rented a room in a house and there was no phone jack in there. If he wanted to make a call he had to use the pay phone across the street. Instead, he sent postcards. Carmen didn’t like it. His sister complained about his lack of financial support for their mother. “Why do I have to take care of mom, hu? Why is it me stuck in the house with her?” she asked him. “Don’t be melodramatic. You like living with mom.” “You’re off in California and never send a God damn cent.” “It ain’t easy.” “It ain’t easy here either, Ramon. You’re just like all the other shitty men. Just taking off and leaving the land and the women behind. Who’s gonna take care of mom when she gets old and sick? Whose gonna clean the house and dust it then? With what fucking money? I ain’t doing it, Ramon.” “Bye, Carmen.” “There’s some things you can’t get rid of, Ramon,” his sister yelled. He didn’t call after that. Soon he was heading to another city and by the time he reached Canada he didn’t bother sending postcards. He figured he would, one day, but things got in the way and years later he thought it would be even worse if he tried to phone. And what would they talk about now? It had been ages since he’d left home and the sister and cousins that had lived in Potrero. He’d gotten rid of layers and layers of the old Ramon, moulting into a new man. But maybe Carmen had been right. Maybe there’s some things you can’t get rid of. Certain memories, certain stories, certain fears that cling to the skin like old scars. These things follow you. Maybe ghosts can follow you, too. • • • • It’s a bad afternoon. Assholes at work and in the streets. And then a heavy, disgusting rain pours down, almost a sludge that swallows the sidewalks. He’s lost his umbrella and walks with his hands jammed inside his jacket’s pockets, head down. Four more blocks and he’ll be home. That’s when Ramon hears the squeal. A high-pitched noise. It’s a shriek, a moan, a sound he’s never heard before. What the hell is that? He turns and looks and it is the old woman, the one he’s nicknamed Llorona, pushing her shopping cart. Squeak, squeak, goes the cart, matching each of his steps. Squeak, squeak. A metallic chirping echoed by a low mumble. “Children, children, children.” Squeak, squeak, squeak. A metallic chant with an old rhythm. He walks faster. The cart matches his pace; wheels roll. He doubles his efforts, hurrying to cross the street before the light changes. The cart groans, closer than before, nipping at his heels. He thinks she is about to hit him with the damn thing and then all of a sudden the sound stops. He looks over his shoulder. The old woman is gone. She has veered into an alley, vanishing behind a large dumpster. Ramon runs home. • • • • The dogs are howling again. A howl that is a wail. The wind roars like a demon. The rain scratches the windows, begging to be let in, and he lies under the covers, terrified. He feels his mother’s arm around his body, her hands smoothing his hair like she did when he was scared. Just a little boy terrified of the phantoms that wander through the plains. His mother’s hand pats his own. Mother’s hand is bony. Gnarled, long fingers with filthy nails. Nails caked with dirt. The smells of mud, putrid garbage, and mold hit him hard. He looks at his mother and her hair is a tangle of grey. Her yellow smile paints the dark. He leaps from the bed. When he hits the floor he realizes the room is filled with at least three inches of water. “Have you seen my children?” the thing in the bed asks. The dogs howl and he wakes up, his face buried in the pillow. • • • • He takes a cab to work. He feels safer that way. The streets are her domain, she owns the alleys. When he goes to lunch he looks at the puddles and thinks about babies drowned in the water; corpses floating down a silver river. Don’t ever let the Llorona look at you, his uncle said. Once she’s seen you she’ll follow you home and haunt you to death, little boy. “Oh, my children,” she’ll scream and drag you into the river. But he’d left her behind in Potrero. He thought he’d left her behind. • • • • Ramon tries to recall if there is a charm or remedy against the evil spirit. His uncle never mentioned one. The only cure he knew was his mother’s embrace. “There, there little one,” she said, and he nested safe against her while the river overflowed and lightning traced snakes in the sky. • • • • In the morning there is a patch of sunlight. Ramon dares to walk a few blocks. But even without the rain the city feels washed out. Its colour has been drained. It resembles the monochromatic images they broadcasted on the cheap television set of his youth. Even though he does not bump into her, the Llorona’s presence lays thick over the streets, pieces of darkness clinging to the walls and the dumpsters in the alleys. It even seems to spread over the people: the glassy eyes of a binner reflect a river instead of the bricks of a building. He hurries back home and locks the door. But when it rains again, water leaks into the living room. Just a few little drops drifting into his apartment. He wipes the floor clean. More water seeps in like a festering boil, cut open and oozing disease. • • • • The Llorona stands guard in the alley. She is a lump in the night looking up at his apartment window. He feels her through the concrete walls and the glass. Looking for him. He fishes for the old notebook with the smudged and forgotten number. The rain splashes against his building and the wind cries like a woman. The dial tone is loud against his ear. More than ten years have passed. He has no idea what he’ll say. He doesn’t even understand what he wants to ask. He can’t politely request to ship the ghost back to Mexico. He dials. The number has been disconnected. He thinks about Carmen and his mother and the dusty nothingness behind their house. There might not even be a house. Perhaps the night and the river swallowed them. • • • • The Llorona comes with the rain. Or maybe it is the other way around: the rain comes with her. Something else also comes. Darkness. His apartment grows dimmer. He remains in the pools of light, away from the blackness. Outside, in the alley, the Llorona scratches the dumpster with her nails. The dogs howl. Ramon shivers in his bed and thinks about his mother and how she used to drive the ghosts away. • • • • She is sitting next to a heap of garbage in the middle of the alley, water pouring down her shoulders. She clutches rags and dirt and pieces of plastic against her chest, her head bowed and her face hidden behind the screen of her hair. “My children. My children.” She looks up at him, slowly. The rain coats her face, tracing dirty rivulets along her cheeks. He expects an image out of a nightmare: blood dripping, yellow cat-eyes or a worn skull. But this is an old woman. Her skin has been torn by time and her eyes are cloudy. This is an old woman. She could be his mother. She might be, for all he knows. He lost her photograph a long time ago and can’t recall what she looks like anymore. His mother who ran her fingers through his hair and hugged him until the ghosts vanished. Now he’s too old for ghosts, but the ghosts still come at nights. The woman looks at him. Parched, forgotten, and afraid. “I’ve lost my children,” she whispers with her voice of dead leaves. The alley is a river. He goes to her, sinks into the muck, sinks into the silvery water. He embraces her and she strokes his hair. The sky above is black and white, like the pictures in the old TV set and the wind that howls in his ears is the demon wind of his childhood.

From Horror photos & videos July 16, 2018 at 08:00PM

View On WordPress

#Horror Ghost Paranormal

[ixvyupdates]

My Kids Are Obsessed With ‘Fortnite’ and It’s Not Such a Bad Thing

“Fortnite” has taken over my house and there’s a good chance it has taken over yours, too.

It is the newest and coolest video game, particularly popular with boys, and when I say I’ve never seen my kids love anything more than this game, I’m really not kidding. They’ll hop out of bed at 6 a.m. on a weekend to play. They’ll race to get their homework done so they can play. They’ll even try to feign being sick so they can stay home to play. Mom doesn’t fall for that one.

They will even spend hours watching videos of other people playing. Good use of time, right? They argue that it is.

And don’t get me wrong. This isn’t a rant because I hate the game. I don’t.

Unlike many video games that isolate boys into what can be a very unsocial and even antisocial space, “Fortnite” is interactive. In the spirit of the old school employees at Banana Republic, most kids wear headsets that allow them to communicate, hands free, with one another while they play.

I have to confess that since kids practically never talk on the phone anymore—talking on the phone was life when I was a tween—it is sort of fun to hear them talking to their buddies and yelling, “I’m down, I’m down,” or, “Look out, they’re right behind you.”

I also get a bit of evil satisfaction when I hear them say, “Guys, my mom says I gotta go.”

That’s right. The woman who carried you in her body for 40 weeks and threw up for 20 of those weeks wants you to put down your little answering service lady headset and get the hell upstairs.

“OK, OK, it’s my last game.”

This is the most common rebuttal to the “time to get off that game” refrain echoing through practically every house in America.

taking turns

But here’s the thing.

Unlike when it’s my last Dorito and—sadly—over in a flash, a last game in “Fortnight” can last for what feels like forever because it doesn’t end until their guy dies.

If I’m in a decent mood and the whole “Fortnite” thing hasn’t already shortened my fuse, I’m cool with the whole “this is my last game” deal. But God help my kids when I’ve just tripped over their backpack and found their cup (the baseball kind) on the kitchen counter and they default to their “it’s my last game” strategy. Because then, there is no last game.

Now, if you are a mom of multiple boys—three in my case—and only allow one Xbox in the house as we do, you will likely agree that the whole issue of sharing and taking turns with “Fortnite” is the root of most video game-related family discord.

The arguing and the headache-inducing medley of “he played longer than me” and “when’s it’ going to be my turn?” and “I’ve only been playing for, like, five minutes,” is enough to send you straight over that edge with Thelma and Louise.

One of the game’s greatest assets—other than that it’s free—is ironically also the cause of the most strife on the family front: Anyone of any age and any skill level can play.

So, yes, that means that my 9-year-old and my 13-year-old are fighting over whose turn it is to play the same game. And if Chance the Rapper or Gordon Hayward lived here, they’d be whining too because even adult celebrity types are loving—and playing—this game. (Though my guess is that neither of those famous millionaire men would accept my “only one Xbox and you have to be off by 8:30 p.m.” rules but the point still stands that this game is all the rage whether you’re 6 or 36.)

Everyone telling me to try #Fortnite…Jumped on @fbach stream and I'm already making plays like this. #quickscope #pc #imamonster @hyperx pic.twitter.com/dWsah3vNKO

— Gordon Hayward (@gordonhayward) March 19, 2018

https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js

Putting Out ‘Fortnite’ Fires

Parental reaction to “Fortnite,” at least in our house, seems to vary in direct proportion to the parental moods and/or stress level of the given moment.

There are times when the game actually has a blissful quality because my boys are happy and entertained for hours and I can work, read or even watch a couple shows without interruption. If that heavenly trend continues, I just may have to splurge and sign up for HBO.

And who doesn’t love an hour to fritter away scrolling through Groupon and Zulilly uninterrupted so you can buy some dumb monogrammed item you’ll have forgotten you bought until it arrives weeks later and you’re waving the package around asking, “Who bought this?”

But there are other times—lots of them—when I kind of want to throw a YouTube-worthy nutty every hour on the hour because it seems like from the second my boys awake ’til the time they go to bed, I am putting out “Fortnite” fires—and when mama’s patience wire has been tripped repeatedly in a short period of time, the kids know to expect my firehose to be on full blast.

Why Do I Let Them Play?

I can already hear your questions that we all know are really just judgements with a question mark at the end: Why do you let them play the game? Why not get rid of the Xbox altogether? Why aren’t they spending their time eating organic carrots and playing outside?

To all of that, my responses are simple.

“Fortnite” is what my boys currently most enjoy when they are inside and not busy playing sports and going to school. But much more importantly, their love for this game has provided that most perfect lever, or carrot, if you will, when it comes to kids and chores. They will do whatever they need to do if it means they can play “Fortnite” and that means that healthy bribery—ahem, I mean accountability—is alive and well and quickly ratcheting up in this blessed home.

Dishwashers get emptied, clothes get put away, homework gets done, I can even get my feet rubbed, if they know that “Fortnite” is waiting at the end of mom’s to-do list. Unfortunately, I’m the farthest thing from a domestic goddess and my cleaning ideas are limited but something tells me that if I really wanted them to scrub the bathroom grout with a toothbrush, they would.

Can you get me a seltzer with ice? Can you go out to my car and get my bag? Can you feed the dogs? Miracle of all miracles, they will even take a shower without any argument or stalling if they know they can squeeze in a few rounds of “Fortnite” afterward. Can we say jackpot?!

This is a win-win. It certainly doesn’t feel like a win all the time—like when I feel like a lunatic who does nothing but curse the day that “Fortnite” came into being.

But, on balance, the kids are having a blast with their game—including with kids they may not hang out with much but know from school and sports—during their downtime at home. They are so motivated to play that they are also becoming my long-overdue personal assistants.

Sure, they fight or talk back and sometimes lose the privilege of playing, and instead win a front seat to a short but intense mom rant about gratitude and how not to be a total a**hole, but for the most part, I put “Fortnite” in the plus column.

God knows I am getting far more out of it than I ever did from bottle flipping and fidget spinners.

An original version of this post appeared on Good School Hunting as To Be a Mom in the Age of Fortnite.

Photo courtesy of Fortnite/Facebook.

My Kids Are Obsessed With ‘Fortnite’ and It’s Not Such a Bad Thing syndicated from https://sapsnkraguide.wordpress.com