where is the border to reality

            There are some parts of the library to which one simply does go. There are cool, dark recesses where the stacks twist unnaturally and lead to strange new halls. There are ragged alcoves where the books are locked behind bars of iron or of silver. There are shelves where language folds into itself and becomes the script of dreams. These are the places where secrets live and grow, far from the sun, far from the eyes of both the students and the Gentry.

            It is best to avoid these parts of the library, yet you will find them eventually (or they will find you, depending on your perspective). You stayed at the library late, late, late into the long winter nights. You went looking for a particular edition of a particularly esoteric tome. You were just looking for someplace quiet to study.

            You can tell when you’re at the borders. At the places where Known world fades away and the edges of reality grow blurry and indistinct. You will feel the walls of the library stretch away from you. You will look out into the stacks and see only shadows where there should be structure. You will listen as the soft sounds of turning pages and calm breathing fade away into silence, silence almost pulsing with some unknown heartbeat. You will grow dizzy as the scent of paper and pulp turns to sweet incense and fills your lungs. You will feel as though you are drowning.

            Most of the time (though-and this is critical-not always) you will spin away from the dark and find yourself back in the library. Perhaps it will be in a different section, perhaps it will even be a different day, but you will return more-or-less unchanged. You may find yourself hesitant to return at night or on those silvery days when the sun comes from the sky like water damaged silk and the wind sinks through your skin and into your bones. Days that you feel as if you could be cast away on a particularly strong breeze.

            But that’s the trick of the library, you can never really escape it, after all, you are a scholar. Eventually you will return, eventually though every nerve will scream at you to stay on solid ground, to stay in the bright light, you will return. You will need that book, that phrase, that secret. After all the University is known for its vast library. And in all likelihood you will never go farther then those borders. You may shiver as you pass a particularly dark shadow lurking between the shelves, you may rush in and then out with equal speed, you may be unable to escape the lingering feeling of being observed, but still, you will return.

            And perhaps you will find some reason to search out those strange sections. It has happened before. Perhaps you will go stalking through the stacks looking for some words that are just a little off, some symbols unknown to Dewey or the Library of Congress, some book that written by inhuman hands. Should that occur you may try to talk to the librarians. They are, after all, the most knowledgeable of the library’s particular idiosyncrasies.

            Be careful, the librarians aren’t entirely part of your world. Oh they can touch iron and be trusted with a name (at least, as far as anyone can be trusted with a name), but that doesn’t mean they are safe. Those who have dedicated themselves to the library have been changed, how could they not? You can tell in the way their voices carry a slight echo, a slight edge. You will notice in the way their eyes glint like broken glass at the edge of a fire. You will sense in the way you can feel their gaze regardless of whether or not they are actually looking at you. They are creatures of the library just as much as their books.

            So approach them with caution and respect. Don’t expect accommodation. Depending on which one you ask and how you word your request they may help you. There’s the young woman with honey colored hair and wormwood eyes, she will smile (a not altogether comforting expression) and simply steer you towards a different part of the library, try to help you find a book that is of this world. There is the severe woman in black who, nine times out of ten, will simply raise her brows, sigh, and send you on your way. That one time out of ten she will ask you if you know what it is you’re asking (you will reply yes-you will be wrong) and then lead you up and down the stacks, twisting this way and that through sections you didn’t even know existed, that you didn’t even know could exist before depositing you in that shadow realm and looking at you with an expression of such profound pity your heart will break. Then there is the silver haired man with the thickest glasses you have ever seen, whose eyes peer out at you through that heavy glass, liquid and deep and beautiful as the moon reflected in still water. He will take a magnifying glass (reading through layer upon layer of glass) and softly and with kindness help you get to where you need. He is rarely seen.

            After you have found your way (through whatever means) to those fluid sections of the library you will need to find your books. Not a simple task. The sections and organization are rather more eccentric than is standard. The scripts twisting in and out of legibility, the layout flickering as if the shelves were about to gutter and shutter and fade from existence at any second, even the books are liable to change, you will rarely find the same one in exactly the same condition, with exactly the same contents as when first read.

            When it is time to leave you will have to rely on luck and your status as a creature of the material world. These hidden places are so different from you and yours they will work to spit you out. That is if you don’t stay too long, if you don’t fall too deep, if you don’t travel to far, that is if you don’t let the dusk and air and darkness sink through you and into you to settle on your bones. For there are places not even the Gentry know, there are creatures that live in homes of parchment and thought, in gardens of ink and memory, in palaces of whispers and dust and they are not to be disturbed. You will hear them breathing from a few shelves down, you will hear their irregular footfalls echoing through the thick stillness, you will feel them lingering at the edges of understanding. If you are wise you will ignore them.

            Eventually when you return, if you return, you will be able to take your prize with you. You will walk in relative safety back to your dorms and you will find if not what you were looking for than at least something of interest. You will find things that seep into your dreams and echo about through your heart. You will find yourself changed. You will find that you have lost something, or perhaps gained something. Regardless you must remember that you only have two weeks. These books belong to the hidden parts of the library and the late fees are rather more extravagant than most.

x

complex mental problems the signs have (sorry not sorry)

 Aries: A real conformist. They like to look normal, act normal, be normal. While deep down they have this thing that makes them unique and special, I really don’t get it why most of them try to “go with the flow” all the time. For fuck’s sake, you are original, embrace yourself! They are SO afraid of what the other people have to say, that’s why they cannot succeed in life.

Taurus: They always like to be “the good guy” in every situation, they ALWAYS want to present themselves as the most humble person you’ll ever meet. When in reality, deep down, they’re just a weak-ass attention whore who has a boring life and they always try to be at their best because they always follow stereotypes, doesn’t matter how much open-minded they are.

Gemini: Another attention whore. They constantly need approval and assurance by everybody, they’re the MOST FAKE people. Their low self-esteem makes them this person that pops up in your life, suddenly, out of nowhere, assures you things about you (which might not be true), sugarcoats every single one of your problems and when you pay them back with your real goodness for their FAKE goodness, they become mentally stable and they start to believe in themselves. Then they get bored of you and forget that they even had you as a friend. 

Cancer: Cancers are so bitchy. I mean, they always like presenting themselves as that good innocent blonde angel in pink fluffy clothes when in reality they always cheat, they care only about themselves and their family, nobody else.

Leo: Jfc, these people need to chill. (most of them). They talk SO much, they always try to be the center of attention all the time and they always try to have the best things in life. If someone is less successful (on their imaginary scale of success), they see that person as a weakling and nothing more. If a person is more successful on the same scale, they start talking shit about their person behind the person’s back, neglecting every success the person has ever reached, trying to ruin the social image of that person. While behind the mask, they are actually cowards and are terrified and afraid by that person’s success. If they cannot destroy the person’s image, they try to befriend them and stay friends, presenting an image of “the best squad”.

Virgo: Maybe the most judgmental people you’ll ever meet in your entire life.Their ego is so big, they even get depressed, thinking that they’re better than everybody around them, thinking that something is not wrong with themselves. Here we have a reversed big ego when the individual has an immense ego, constantly reassuring themselves that they are not egotistic, but only practical and really successful. But you know what? Stop living inside your forlorn mind and go use your potential because you suck if you drown yourself in self-pity for the rest of your life. And you will never be able to evolve.

Libra: These people are crazy. I mean, CRAZY. Constantly bothering everybody around them with gossips and that kind of things while acting innocent and good, when in reality they don’t fucking realize that THEY are the one who’s spreading gossips. They love acting like social justice warriors, they just cannot live without attention and popularity. It’s disgusting, stop it. Spread your false positivity somewhere else.

Scorpio: Another example of people who want to look like the baddest guy OR the best guy, there’s no in-between. And it’s all because of attention, because they need compliments. In fact, their real goal is to look, act, behave and BE hard-to-get, they love living in the clouds. The scary thing is that they can achieve this very easily because they have natural charm, especially for the ignorant masses. But one day, they will tire themselves trying and close themselves inside them, that’s the price. They will really become unreachable and will end up living alone, isolated somewhere until they overdose and die.

Sagittarius: They have a serious PHOBIA of showing their feelings and revealing how they feel to another person, especially their partner or someone they love very much, while deep down, they feel really hard and true. They are very constructive and productive but sadly, they are so nervous and this makes it almost impossible for someone to love them because they hurt, accidentally or intentionally.

Capricorn: Freaks for success and being the best. Stop trying so hard, for fuck’s sake, be original and spontaneous for once. They always try to be original AND the best at the same time, they only think about working and success and when they achieve it (because they actually HAVE the potential to get what they want) they will get bored and depressed and the only thing that will be able to pull them out of their depression will be… a new task/goal. Stop doing that to yourself, just relax and pay attention to the beautiful things in life.

Aquarius: You can’t win an argument with these people. Not because you can’t but because they won’t let you. Because talk too much and probably aren’t paying attention to your opinion and what you’re saying in the conversations. The thing is, they act like they do pay attention about what you have to say. They have this need of being the most intelligent person (and they are very intelligent but they’re definitely NOT the most intelligent, they’re only just a show-off). Know-it-alls beyond borders. Jfc, y’all need to think before you speak. And stop acting so intelligent, you’re not stupid if you don’t understand maths or chemistry, gosh. Just relax and admit your mistakes, you’ll learn more that way and you’ll put your intelligence and potential in good use.

Pisces: Ugh, where do I even start with these. The thing is, they can morph into every one of the signs mentioned above. When in reality, they are only manipulators who are good at acting and making y’all feel wonderful and all that stuff but it’s sad because they’re probably using you for their own goals. They can be so cold-hearted and materialistic on purpose. Too bad because they have immense potential, they could be very successful in a good way. But it’s not them to blame, but the cruel society they live in, because Pisces are actually never born evil, they become this vengeful monstrosity that society has created. Don’t underestimate them and stay away from them if you mean to harm them.

A radical DC Rebirth endgame theory

So while I’d personally rather take things in a different direction, it’s pretty clear that some manner of final showdown is coming between the heroes of the DC Universe and Dr. Manhattan. And while his power is considerable, one would have to imagine the collective might of the entire DCU would be able to rout him. They can, y’know, punch him and laser-blast him until he stops doing evil. That tends to work out pretty well for them.

So how? How will that final fight work? What does even Dr. Manhattan have that could possibly stand up to the collective might of the DC Universe - 52 of it, in the likely event this turns into a multiversal Crisis? For that matter, how could he have wreaked such havoc on the DCU in the first place? How were the Spectre, the Monitors, the angels of the Pax Dei, the imps of the fifth dimension, all those beings of unbridled cosmic power unable to stop him, when it was clear even back in Watchmen that there were some hard limits to his abilities? What does he have that they don’t?

Funny you should ask.

Dr. Manhattan has a penis. And that makes him unstoppable.

After all, no one can actually appear on-panel to stop him. The all-ages, hilariously mischievous Mxyzptlk show up in the same comic as a naked man, even to save the DC Universe? Not gonna happen. Unless it’s in a Young Animal joint where you can swear in front of him without repercussions, no plan on Batman’s part is going to be able to do anything when he can’t reach the threat: sure, the Comedian too could easily banish Bruce Wayne from his presence by saying “fuck”, but the very existence of a glowing blue dick is Kryptonite to the sheer concept of corporate-mandated superhero comics. Oh, you thought Jon Osterman walked about in the nude because he needed no protection from the elements and had grown beyond human social conventions, but he’s always been able to see the future. He knew this day was coming, and set the continuity wheels in motion within the safe confines of a stand-alone mature readers project, ensuring a bulletproof shield once he set foot in the DCU proper. Why do you think he hasn’t shown up yet? He may have restructured the entirety of reality, but he’s saving his real trump card for the final act.

Imagine it: the final curtain is falling on reality as we know it, as Manhattan unleashes his ultimate scheme to annihilate love and faith and hope and all that jazz, and the Justice League and company are there to stop it, but there’s nothing they can do! The best they can handle is being seen with him for moments at a time when he’s in the foreground facing them and can only pull off a butt-shot, but even that’s leaving them in agonizing pain. We hit the point where it’s like the end of Animal Man as the heroes realize the presence of the panel borders separating them from their foe; only Batman can even be heard by their enemy through the conceptual gap, but his words fall on deaf ears. As Manhattan tinkers with the doomsday weapon in the panel on the right, the heroes pound away at the edges of the panel on the left, attempting to break through to save the world, but not even their combined strength is enough: Superman can no more appear on-panel with a tumescent neon cock than I could beat the sky to death with my bare hands. 80 years of content control and mass media franchising stay their hands. Who - who?! - can save the day now?

The boys and girls of Vertigo and Wildstorm, that’s who can save the day! John Constantine! The WildC.A.T.s! Swamp Thing! The Authority! Animal Man, except as a cult leader or something! Mr. Majestic! Kid Eternity, Gen13, Black Orchid, Voodoo, Timothy Hunter and Grifter! Pandora’s desperate plan to unite them with the mainstream DC Universe yields fruit at last, for only they, with both powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men AND permission to cuss and screw, can confront the destroyer of heroes on his own terms! So, at last unleashed, utilizing every ounce of prestige-format power and narrative sophistication at their fingertips, they punch him and laser-blast him until he stops doing evil. And then Midnighter kicks Dr. Manhattan’s head off and says something fucking awesome, and Midnighter and Apollo under Steve Orlando and company rightly gets a 50-issue run. Truly, as their friend Jenny might say, a finer world.

Sorry Tumblr, There Are Only Two Genders

It seems like every day, millennials find new ways to feel unique and different. Special Snowflake Syndrome is running rampant and with it comes the need to invent new things to make themselves stand out and “out-oppress” their peers. One of the ways this manifests itself is Social Justice Warriors’ obsession with gender and gender identity. Don’t believe me? Go read Complete List of Tumblr Genders (So far); there are at least 300 genders in there, and new ones get invented every day.

On Friday, March 4th 2016, a group of SJWs and feminists gathered outside the Railway Club in Vancouver where a man named Augustus Invictus was scheduled to give a talk. He was stopped at the Canadian border and refused entry on the grounds that he “has no legitimate reason to enter the country and will just cause trouble.” Internet famous journalist Lauren Southern was on the scene where she got into an argument with some of the feminists, and made a mistake of saying the words “sorry guy, but there are only two genders.” Moments later, she was drenched in urine by one of the feminists, who seemed to have taken offense at her statement. Social Justice Warriors want to be special, and they will attack anyone who tries to make them face reality.

Luckily, science and human biology does not care about people’s feelings. You can live in your childish delusions all you want, but at the end of the day, you are either male or female. Period.

“But what about transgender individuals?”

This is how Social Justice Warriors usually reply. This one is always a fun one to deal with, because by implying that there are more than two genders because transgender people exist, they are pretty much admitting to themselves that they don’t think transwomen are “real women” or that transmen are “real men.” After all, if people are whatever gender they have transitioned to then how exactly does that break the “gender binary?” Whether you are one of those people who believe that people are whatever gender they transition into or you are one of those who think people are whatever they are born as and that changing your gender is impossible, the point still stands. At the end of the day, that person is still either male or female.

“But….But…….But gender is whatever you identify as!”

Nonsense. If gender is whatever you identify as, then gender is irrelevant and nonsensical. I am yet to hear a good reason why what someone “identifies as” is relevant or important in any way. In a debate about the existence of God, if a theist states that he identifies as God, does that mean he is God and God is now real? If a student identifies as a someone who graduated summa cum laude, is the university obligated to give him that honor? This type of thinking isn’t permitted in any other form of discourse, so why would we permit it here?

“Gender is a social construct.”

Incorrect. Gender is entirely biological and based on genetics. You might be thinking of “gender roles,” which are something completely different. If your counter argument here is to inform me that gender differs from sex, I don’t have to necessarily disagree with you to tell you why you’re wrong. Fair enough. Let’s say that the current definition proposed by certain social scientists is true and that “sex” is whatever is between your pants and “gender” is what is in your brain/what gender you feel like. At the end of the day, your genitals aren’t a social construct, and neither are your brain waves.

Yes, sex is biological, and:

Yes, gender is also biological.

Stop confusing “gender” with “gender roles.”

“But gender is a spectrum”

When you hear this argument from a Social Justice Warrior, it means s/he has reached their endgame. This is the last cry of someone who knows they are losing a battle. I do not agree that gender is a spectrum, but the current consensus in neuroscience is that it is, so lets go with that. I couldn’t care less, because my point stands either way.

To suggest that there are more than two genders because gender exists in a spectrum is outrageous. Consider this;

Feelings exist in a spectrum. You could feel sorry, ashamed, angry, happy, sad, etc and each of these feelings exist in a spectrum. How happy you are about winning $5,000 in the lottery would be observably “happier” than if you only won $50. Being hit on your head by a falling fruit would make you angry, as would someone stealing your car, but one would make you measurably angrier, which I’m guessing would be the stolen car. To suggest that the anger you feel when you get hit on the head by a fruit isn’t really anger because its not as intense as the anger you feel over your stolen car is just poor logic. The anger from the falling fruit isn’t a different type of feeling, it’s just an already existing feeling at a different intensity.

Similarly, height exists in a spectrum. There are tall people who are 5’9″, 6’0″, 6’1″, 6’2″. all of these are tall people. You do not have to invent a new height name for every one of these different tall heights (mega tall, ultra tall, super tall, bio tall – I can actually imagine a Social Justice Warrior doing this). Nobody has the time to to memorize whatever special name you have invented for your unique brand of tallness. Even if we had the time, we wouldn’t want to.

What am I trying to say here, then? Just because you stray a little from the traditional norms of masculinity or femininity doesn’t make you another gender, it just makes you one of the two genders with a few distinctions. A man who loves to wear pink isn’t a “non-binary demiboy” or a “pink-transvongender-boy,” he’s just a man who likes pink. Same goes for women. No matter what side of the male or female spectrum you are, you are still either male or female. A feminine man isn’t a new gender, he’s just a man (who has some feminine qualities).

Stop trying to make yourself feel special; you aren’t.

So I’m now doing a little typology of Atheists.

1. Why-do-I-have-Herpes-Atheist

This sort of Atheist has never really went deep into religion and

 faith. Often times she is coming from a loosely religious household and was never able to leave it mentally, because she has never overcome her puberal grudge on the world and her family. All the sad tragedies that happened to her, that she was always the last pick in sports, the F in religion class, that her great love Leon has left her for her best friend, but that he gave her Herpes before, all of that must be God’s fault. And therefore she is punishing him with non-existence. And of course the church is also stupid, nothing that requires you to get up early on Sunday can be good. It isn’t always that this childish attitude is paired with low intelligence, but almost always it is tied to a sense of entitlement.

Favourite argument: „Yes, but if God really exists, why is there so much shit going on in the world?!“
Is often confused with: People with real issues, that lost their faith over their immense existential crisis.
Favourite food:  Gluten-free spaghetti with vegan tomatosauce, Salad, Vegan and gluten-free Pizza, Starbuck’s coffee.
Weakness: She has little to no idea what she is talking about.


2. The Political Atheist

The political atheist, contrary to our first entry, really got into the matter of religion and faith, with help of famous Authors like Karl Marx, Richard Dawkins and Ludwig Feuerbach. In his opinion there are some religions worth his protection and that would be Islam and all non-Christian religions from non-european countries and all religious groups that have fewer followers than Marxes whole work pages (except of course national-socialist esoterism and right-wing neo pagans!).

His problem with religion is, that it in his opinion creates all that is bad in the world: War(except for peace loving muslims of course), Social Injustice, Intolerance, pedophilia and sexual inhibition.

The only reason that people still follow those fairy tales must be a world wide conspiracy, for example those of war loving priests or those damn zionists, which control all the world’s finances. On special occasions like the 9th of November he is sometimes posting his theories to the facebook wall of his local communist worker’s party, for example that Israel belongs to the peace loving Palestinians and that Hamas is a proxy of the Mossad or he is inviting himself for a lecture of the history of Christianity, only to point out that Christians are ruthless barbarians that slaughtered the poor muslims and that ISIS is just a product of processing the trauma which the crusades have left.

Favourite argument: „The church is run by money-loving ruthless criminals that would burn homosexuals and Jews alive if they could.“
Is often confused with: Nobody. Really you will know him when you see him and you will hear him before you see him.
Favourite food: Kebab and Hummus, because he is based and multicultural. AND NO, THOSE ARE NOT EXPENSIVE DOLCE AND GABANA SHOES!
Weakness: his logic is often flawed by his political agenda, his arguments are often bordering antisemitism, his greatest weakness is reality itself


3. The Beatles Atheist

He really took the song “imagine!” by heart. He probably really has done some research and experience with religion or so, but somehow he never really felt welcome and taken serious or so.
He feels very spiritual, sometimes ultra spiritual. He also has been to India where people in his opinion have a completely different understanding of the universe and their environment, but to believe in God? That’s not his thing really, an old man that tells you what to do, in his mind he doesn’t need such boundaries to his spiritual flow. He doesn’t really know what to think about all day and he likes talking about things, but really to make a commitment to something he refuses. And of course Mahatma Gandhi also said something about that, if he could only remember what. So if Mahatma says that, or something like that, who needs a God am I right?

Favourite argument: „I don’t want to be so constrained by that, man.“
Is often confused with: People who seriously and without naive expectations have interest in far-east religions.
Favourite food: Weed, Vegetarian Ayurveda-Curry 
Weakness: He has no weakness. He isn’t even interested in beef with you, he is just annoying.

4. The I-Outsmart-You-Atheist

This sort of Atheist has at no time even considered to read into religion or faith. I mean why? Science will answer all our questions we could ever ask, and for all those questions for which science cannot find answers, those questions aren’t even worth asking and she is too intelligent to even consider wasting time on them.
Humans feel love because it makes sense in an evolutionary context. Mankind produces art because we have an overflow of thought and religious experiences have always been reproduced under influence of strong psychoactive drugs or magnetic waves, whatever.
The idea that, how the earth was created and why the earth was created, could have different reasons is too hard to grasp for her. And that is why she is leading her own crusade against every creationist she can find, it doesn’t matter if their religion has something to do with it or not. That for example the catholic church is leading in research of natural sciences and that every christian and jew can study as much natural sciences as he/she, wants will be ignored by her.

So the only explanation for her is that religious people are simply too stupid to grasp her advanced concept of thinking and that they simply cannot think as sharp as she does. The only Martyr she knows is Galileo Galilei and if one day she is might be struck by an existential crisis she will lose everything she usually does rely on.

Favourite argument: Genesis 1
Is easily confused with: Real signs of higher intelligence 
Favourite food: We eat food to digest it and get the necessary energy input for our bodies to function properly, coffee and sugary stuff.

Weakness: Unimaginative, Boring personality and an almost zealotistic defense of science as “the only true answer”


5. The I-Eat-The-Souls-Of-My-Enemies-For-Breakfast-Atheist

This sort of Atheist has really gotten into religion, but the dark side of it. Because he is “evil”. He want’s his mother to be sad. He would grow a Whisker like Nietzsche but for that his puberal beard growth isn’t sufficient. He has a very broad collection of metal-bandshirts, because he is the Antichrist, but to be honest he never really made it beyond the first two pages of the St.John Revelation.
For shits and giggles alone, he pretends to be a real satanist, but he is secretly shitting his black underpants at the prospect of Satan answering to his calls. But good for him it is all nothing more than a charade in reality he doesn’t believe in it so it is not real, at least he hopes that.
But to be fair, under this menacing crust of dried beer, black and white face paint and eyeliner(that his little sister had to buy him), there is mostoften a good heart, he doesn’t really feel superior to religious people, he probably has a very social attitude, that only comes forth, when sits home at his granny’s place and drinks tea with her to listen to her old stories or when he meets somebody that is listening to the same music as him. As rough and brutal as he might seem, he just wants company and a feeling of belonging and in reality he doesn’t want that his mom is sad and crying, he only wants to be more interesting than the TV for once, so that she will take notice of him.

Favourite argument: Something with Witch trials, women and the medieval era
Is easily confused with: Guys that can be really dangerous
Favourite food: Human Flesh of course!
Weakness: Split ends in his Metal-Head; his social insecurities and his emotional vulnerability.

silver and gold

Summary: The summer of Crown Prince Will Solace’s tenth birthday, he stumbles upon a boy on the beach who turns out to be a little more than he first appears.

The summer of Will’s tenth birthday, he gets lost on the beach.

The water is the color of sunlight, the sand burning hot under his bare feet by the time he realizes he’s lost track of the knobby, stone-gray turrets of the castle behind him. He can already feel the itchy heat on his neck that means a sunburn, his mind helpfully supplying the exact lecture he’s sure to receive from his father when he finds his way back.

William, I understand the impulse to wander, but you have to understand that, as heir to the throne, you have a responsibility to take care of yourself.

Keep reading

firefly eyes

i made the huge, huge mistake of listening to fourth of july by sufjan stevens again. outcome: tears.

You have been sitting there for a long time. I saw you walk in the door, and once you looked at me lying here you pulled up the hard little chair from the corner, right up to my side, and you haven’t moved since.

Are you comfortable there? The couch might be nicer, especially if you’re waiting. Are you? Are you waiting?

“Hello,” I say. “Who are you?” But I know you already. You’re the boy with the firefly eyes.

“Hello,” you say. “My name is Yato.”

I love your name. I feel…proprietary, towards it. It is mine. Yato is mine.

“I’ll carry you somewhere, if you like,” you say. The bed is a good place, but I know there are better places out there.

You lift me into your arms, and I am small next to you; the dove bones shift under my skin.

“You’re a nice young man,” I say, patting your cheek.

Was it a dream I had, that we knew each other before this bedroom? Dreams and reality flirt with each other’s borders these days.

I know there is a long black shape lurking behind me. That is always the same—dream or not.

“Where should we go?” you ask.

“The best place to go is up,” I say. Isn’t that true? The dove bones that shift and slip against each other in my skeleton tell me they would like to go up. And I am a slave to my bones.

We go up to the roof of the hospital. You hold me close to you, away from the sobbing wind.

Who do you miss?

You look down at me. A shard of the sky has fallen off and landed in your eyes. Does it hurt? Is that why you’re crying?

“Do you remember?” you ask. “Do you remember how we’ve done this every day?”

It’s all right, little boy god.

“You’re a nice young man,” I say.

Your skin shudders under my fingertips. Your angles are my angles: a couple of paper cranes, hung against the sunset. Do you have someone else to take care of?

“Can I follow you?”

You ask this with dry lips and sore eyes. I ache for your emptiness. My hand is on your cheek again. You have ageless skin. I love touching it.

“You’ll come too, someday.” Except I know you can’t. You are a god of the unfinished, a priest to the needy, a mender of broken things. As long as there are people to fix, you’ll be here to fix them.

Your ageless skin smells like a garden in the heaviness of the rain. It smells like the bitter, too-early cherries after a warm winter. It smells like the childhood I must have had. You belong to the youth I must have had.

My moon in the sky. I’ll miss you so much in the dark.

“Yato.”

“Yes.”

But as long as I’m still breaking, I need you here.

“How long have you known me?”

Your chin trembles. A peculiar quiver finds its way over your lips. And then you kiss my cheek. I love you, I love you, I love you, and I’ve remembered your firefly eyes.

“Not long enough.”

Begin Again: Chapter 4

A/N: aaaaaaaaaand it’s back! I owe a thousand apologies for being so fucking lazy with this series, I have no excuses except that time period where I was shooting out one shots as they came to mind. I made this part longer to make up for it and things start to pick up from here. Also - I love the idea of Bruce and Bucky being bros? So this chapter gets kind of deep with them but I just like the idea of them being friends in general? Feedback’s totally appreciated, I love reading the replies you guys leave and I hope this makes up for the hiatus this series has been on xx

Word count: 2.4k


The clay pigeon exploded as soon as it reached the peak of its arc. You observed the shards falling to the floor of the shooting range, lowering your gun from behind the barrier. Tony gave clay pigeon shooting a whole new meaning.

‘Don’t you just shoot at paper targets?’

‘The CIA uses paper targets,’ Tony replied. ‘Competent people recognise that not all gunmen are going to stay still and give you time to shoot.’

Your eyes followed the next target; your bullet pierced it’s tail, catching it in the nick of time.

‘I’m gonna go for a drive later’, you grunted. ‘Haven’t been in the same building for three days since college.’

The automatic launcher chucked another three clay pigeons across the room; Tony shot three consecutive times from his gauntlet - all three were precise. 

‘I need me one of those,’ you muttered.

‘Shut up and use your gun like an adult.’

‘Feel like a baby compared to you.’

‘You can have one when you’re older,’ Tony snapped.

‘Aww, as old as you?’ you cooed sardonically. 

Tony shot down another target without even looking. ‘As old as Cap.’

‘A lot of surprises have come up, Stark,’ you warned. ‘For all you know, that could actually happen.’

‘God help us all,’ he murmured under his breath. ‘Why did I bring you here?’

‘Fuck if I know, I was gonna start season two of Attack on Titan.’

‘I meant in general,’ he stonily. 

You snickered and raised the rifle eye level, shooting only two out of three launched targets. You watched the shrapnel scatter.

‘So I was going through some of the data you got on your last recon mission,’ you started. 

Tony’s shoulders tensed.

‘You’re surprised I got through that security?’ you raised an eyebrow. ‘Anyway - does everyone know there are Hydra agents loose in New York?’

‘You sound like the narrator of a shit TV movie.’

‘Y’know, when people say clay pigeon shooting, they don’t mean actual clay pigeons.’

Tony rolled his eyes at your analogy.

‘I got creative,’ he deadpanned.

‘C’mon, Stark.’ You cleared your throat and put the safety on your gun like he had showed you. ‘Bucky wasn’t on that mission; did you tell him?’

‘Did I have to?’ 

‘I think he’d like to know if his previous captors are in the same city as he is.’

Tony leaned against the barrier, running his fingers over the scarring in the gauntlet; he had fixed the technical problems but now he just had to make it pretty again

‘That info doesn’t stay with me anymore,’ he shrugged, trying to play it off. ‘You’re the one who figured out how to find it, you should know. Dunno if you remember, but I answer to someone else now, not Steve.’ He blinked. ‘And yet I still pay for everything, what is with that?’ 

You sighed. ‘They won’t let you tell him.’

‘They were barely happy with me letting him into the compound - letting all of ‘em back. I can’t push it.’ 

You nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ you admitted. ‘And I’m guessing no one else wants to tell him in case he freaks out?’ 

‘Steve recommended no one say anything until we find them. Telling Barnes his captors are somewhere we can’t find doesn’t help anything, ‘specially not him.’ 

‘And when you do find them, what then? Will Ross allow you to go?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Will he try to arrest the others for intervening?’

I don’t know. Go shoot your pigeons.’


You decided to take some time alone outside of the compound; you drove on your bike for almost two hours in circles before pulling over on a quiet near-abandoned strip mall just outside of Queens. Few patrons were milling around, but shopkeepers were sitting outside of their stores mingling and sharing cigarettes and stories, taking advantage of the lack of business. You tucked your hands in the pockets of your jacket as you passed a group of particularly unruly men. Their eyes followed you as you entered a quiet coffee shop.

The floors were wooden, unpolished, scarred, and there was a suspicious-looking stain in the far corner coming from underneath the door that lead to the bathrooms. Dark walnut tables were scattered haphazardly, their mismatched chairs even more so. The walls were made of crumbling brick and decorated with peeling posters of famous films and musicians from the fifties and sixties. Some light bulbs were out, a few were flickering incessantly, and aside from a man standing behind the counter and another mopping the floor (staying quite far, you noticed, from the dark stain), you were alone.

You sat at the counter and ordered a black coffee, not in the mood for much else. You had stayed awake for a few hours with Bucky; when you couldn’t coax him back to sleep, you stayed awake playing card games with Parks and Recreation in the background. After calming him down, you found out that he had woken up from a nightmare (which you noticed were becoming more and more infrequent) and had failed to calm himself down, instead falling into a panic attack which Nat had helped him get out of. You had taken it upon yourself to keep him grounded in reality - where he was, who he was with … simple things to look forward to or be happy about.

Being around Bucky scared you. Because it was difficult, you were realising, to be friends with someone you wanted more from. You had thought you would be able to handle it if you admitted to yourself what you felt for him, that maybe coming clean to someone (even if that someone was you) would push some weight off your shoulders and allow you to move on. Only, it didn’t, and it was painful that you and Bucky had strict borders around your platonic relationship.

You got up and went to the bathroom to splash some water on your face.

Maybe Steve was right. Maybe your own insecurities and stubborness were what was holding you back.

Or maybe he was wrong and all Bucky needed was someone to hold his hand until he could walk on his own. Sure, the post-traumatic stress disorder would probably never completely go away but maybe Bucky was someone who was trying to learn to live with it on his own.

You turned to leave and as soon as you cracked the door open by a fraction, you spotted a man approaching the counter. He had dark brown eyes and a heavy jaw with a scar running from its corner down the column of his muscled neck. His jacket was black, hiding his bulky, well-muscled arms.

He put his hand on the back of your seat, leaned forward and, instead of ordering, gestured for the barista to come closer and muttered something unintelligible in his ear. The shop started to darken as the barista went to pull the blinds down and suddenly, the only light came from the reflection of sunlight on the silver coffee machines.

Your heart was beating erratically as you used all your willpower to stay still. Who were these men?

‘… cолдат был в течение почти двух месяцев.’

You narrowed your eyes. Солдат … you knew that word … Bucky mumbled it a lot in his sleep.

Солдат … Soldat. Soldier.


Bucky pushed the door to the lab open, disappointed when he realised that Bruce was here alone.

‘Is [Y/N] around?’

Bruce looked up from his blueprints, smirking slightly. ‘Out for the day.’

‘Oh,’ Bucky said trying to sound off-handed. ‘Is she …’

‘She’s fine,’ Bruce promised. ‘Just wanted to be on her own.’

Bucky nodded. He thought that you would tell him. But you weren’t together, you didn’t need to tell him if you were going anywhere …

‘You’re not as careful as you think you’re being.’

Bucky slipped out from his daze. ‘What?’ he blinked.

‘I don’t wanna pry but …’

Bucky blinked and he didn’t know what compelled him to do so but he said, ‘No … no, it’s okay.’

Bruce sighed and took his glasses off, fiddling with their arms. ‘If you’re trying to keep things platonic, it’s not working. You’re spending too much time with her, you’re trusting her with too much.’

Bucky narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing.’

‘Oh, it’s not,’ Bruce said skeptically. ‘It’s not. It is, however, if you want to keep a distance.’

Bucky frowned. ‘I don’t want that,’ he said. ‘And it doesn’t matter, it’s not like she … nothing’s going to happen anyway.’

‘You really believe that?’

Bucky shrugged like it was obvious. ‘She shouldn’t. I’ve got a lot of baggage. She doesn’t need to be dealing with that.’

‘She already is by being close to you,’ Bruce entreated. ‘And it’s not a bad thing.’

Bucky picked up a ballpoint from the lab bench and twirled it between his fingers. ‘I’m a time bomb,’ he murmured. ‘They declared me safe in Wakanda but …’

‘You think there are people who can still control you,’ Bruce supplemented.

Bucky froze.


Bucky, was your first thought. What if they knew he was here, alive, and conscious …

The man and the barista had were sitting at the table next to the door, conversing in hushed voices. It was a message - you couldn’t leave. The silence of the room should have given you the chance to eavesdrop but with the language barrier, you wouldn’t be able to decipher much.

You leaned against the door, sweat gathering on the nape of your neck. Two men conversing in Russian and mentioning a soldier? You didn’t want to make any false assumptions but you reached for your phone, put it on silent mode to be safe, and then hit the voice recording app. You weren’t an expert in Russian but Natasha could translate. You couldn’t take this straight to Bucky, not without knowing what the men were saying first.

‘… взять его обратно.’

обратно - back. You remembered it clearly, Bucky muttering in Russian during one of his panic attacks: They’ll take me back.

‘защита?’

‘достаточно.’

It was silent for a moment, the barista’s foot still tapping on the hardwood floor. If these men where who you thought they could be, there still was a chance they didn’t know you. Your heart pounded harshly in your chest … perhaps, if you acted casual enough, you could slip away with them leaving you alone.

Nonchalantly, you opened the bathroom door and walked to the exit.

You were snapped out of your thoughts when you felt your a hand grip your shoulder; your breath caught in your throat as you were tugged backwards, the man’s hand wrapping around your neck and dragging you against the window. His fingers stretched to your jaw, locking you in place. His body encasing yours, each knee resting against your hands rendering your upper body immobile.

‘If only you had stayed hidden.’ His Russian accent was distinct, curling around the English words with regalness. He reached into your jacket and drew your phone out from your pocket.

Your eyebrows knitted as you glared at him, confusion almost prominent in your eyes.

‘Get - your hands - off me,’ you hissed through gritted teeth.

The man smirked. ‘Stark’s resolve has rubbed off on you.’

You glowered at him suspiciously. What did he want with Tony?

‘Stark turns into a bitch when it comes to you, so send him a message for me, will you?’ the man whispered. You groaned when he pushed your head back hard against the window, smacking it loudly and sending shockwaves through your skull. He dropped your phone and kicked it to the other side of the cafe and drew a wicked five inch serrated blade.


‘If I was in your position, I’d have the same fear,’ Bruce continued, tucking his glasses into the pocket of his shirt. ‘It’s rational to be afraid of something.’

‘What are you afraid of?’

Bruce looked at him like the answer was obvious but his voice held the same calm tone it usually did. ‘Of hurting people. When I … turn into the other guy, I lose a lot of control over myself. More times than I want to admit, I’ve had none. I’ve hurt a lot of people and I don’t always remember until I see the wreckage or someone tells me.’

Bucky softened as he listened to Bruce’s story. He didn’t know much about Doctor Banner, just that he treasured seclusion but was able to put up with Tony’s sometimes present erratic behaviour. He knew that everyone in the tower had done some damage, had hurt innocent people but Bruce, he had decided, was someone who understood what it was like to be him without actually being through the same experience.

‘When those trigger words were used… I’d surrender all control to the people who spoke them. They would make me do things that I wouldn’t always remember because they’d wipe my memory when I started to get any indication as to who I was.’

Bruce nodded. He knew all of this already but he didn’t act like he did. ‘People have manipulated my … fragility, triggered me into going rogue.’

It didn’t feel like competition. Bucky actually felt good talking about it with someone who had never had the same experiences but still ended up with a somewhat similarity to his state of mind.

‘The world loves us,’ Bucky said sardonically, smiling darkly.

Bruce smiled wryly. ‘It’s almost too difficult to tell which is worse, huh?’

‘Why do you stay?’ Bucky asked. ‘This place is … the opposite of a stress reliever. Why do you put yourself through that?’

Bruce raised an eyebrow, chuckling sardonically. ‘Myself? Not many people are concerned with how I’m feeling while I’m on a rampage.’

‘I know what that’s like,’ Bucky muttered.

‘I can handle crowds,’ said Bruce, ‘and stress in general. It’s why I was in Calcutta, why I don’t turn green everyday, otherwise the tower would be in ruins.’ His tone was bitter for a moment, like he didn’t mind letting go around Bucky. ‘No, people are fine. It’s authority, hierarchy … This makes me sound extremely anti-establishment, but the argument at it’s core is that … people in charge try to control me because they only see me as, in your words, a time bomb. They think I need to be controlled, locked away, and tagged if I’m to be around civilians.’

‘You don’t feel that here,’ Bucky guessed.

‘That’s why I stick around.’ Bruce shrugged again. ‘Why do you?’

Tags:  @lauraonly @mytastereckless @hedakylo @wefracturedmotivation @eternal-queen @dontfuckwithkezolas @fanfictionreblog @mrs-brxghtside @sociallyimpairedme @lexbugz @ephemeral-high

(If I’ve missed anyone off or if you want to be tagged, drop me a message xx)

6

Behind them lay the makeshift campgrounds where they had spent months living rough, waiting for the right moment to climb the six-metre, razorwire fence lying between them and their dream of making it to Europe. In front of them lay an immaculately groomed golf course complete with white-clad golfers teeing off.

The two radically different realities, just metres apart, was what greeted a dozen or so migrants caught on the triple fence that marks the border between Spain’s north African enclave of Melilla and Morocco on Wednesday. After 200 had tried to scale the fence, Spain’s interior ministry said 20 people had made it to the enclave and another 70 remained perched on top of the fence for several hours.

beeswaxdraws  asked:

Ah man, I'm sorry to hear that you gotta fend off those 'things' on your own, but hey if ya want I could volunteer to help in kickin asses with ya ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) or patchin you up or researchin more about these things (•//^//•)

* eh, it’s somethin’ i’ve taken on of my own want. we’ve been like this for a couple years now, and thanks to how my magic works all soaked in Void now, i actually can’t do much in reality… the Void, though? i can see it - but it’s like veil for me. can’t interact fully with it, except for my magic on things made only of Void, and i can still use it to teleport - but i have to see the place first… bein’ a new world and all, i’ve had to walk. a lot.

* but really, i spend a lot of my time in the human city closest to the Void city where my family is - the one at the base of Ebott. the Void gets unsettled whenever one of those things push into an area with reality, because they strain the border between the dimensions. i book it to them anytime they do, and have covered enough ground now to be able to teleport pretty close.

* … most my time i spend either researchin’ for the family or findin’ souls hovering on the edge of death. they’re a mixed crowd, but… most of ‘em don’t make it back to their bodies.

* before the soul shatters, there can be a lotta clarity - but that’s really overwhelmin’ dependin’ on the circumstances of their… fall, so sometimes they cling and stay on in that half-life for a long time - and it’s dangerous, ‘n lonely.

* … i keep ‘em company. keep ‘em safe, as best i can.

* heh, for some of those battles, i’d be glad to take ya up on the patch job - but i’m afraid you probably wouldn’t be able to see me, and i’m really not feelin’ up to gettin’ more literally close to you only to have you forget me and walk around with a missin’ chunk of your day. damn Void magic effects.

* but hey, it’s more ‘n enough to get the cheerin’ up from gettin’ your sweet thoughts ‘n messages here! i’m a lucky guy after all, i think.

The End of Eternity (Diego/Varyyn Fic)

This is my entry for the #ChoicesCreates Round 30 (WOW can you believe … 30 rounds already) hosted by @holly-park and @captainsugarcakes :)
I really hope you’ll enjoy reading it! 


Prompt: Reunited

Inspired by: Coldplay - “O (Fly On)”

Book: Endless Summer

Pairing in focus: Diego/Varyyn (also mentions of MaleMc/Sean, Zahra/Craig & Grace/Aleister)

Words: 1203

Summary:
True love will last till the end of time, that’s what they teach. 
Moving on in life is inevitable, that’s what they preach. 
Even after all these years Diego finds himself torn between his love for Varyyn and the prospects of a “normal” life ahead. Reminiscing about old promises and contradicting emotions he starts questioning his past, present and future…  Which way is right and which one is wrong?

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OC Night Market Hate Crime 5/21/17

On the 21st of May, 2017, an Asian-American man was severely beaten in the parking lot at the OC Night Market by a tall white man with full tattoo sleeves and two white women, one of which was the original instigator. He is currently in ER. When the Asian man refused to let the white woman cut in line for a drink, she told him to ‘eat dogs’ and go back to Asia, and then gathered her companions and stalked the Asian man until he was leaving the event and alone in the parking lot.

When more information is revealed about the hate crime that occurred last night, I’m going to thoroughly follow the case and do my best to spread the info, make sure that the three perpetrators are caught and brought to justice, and raise awareness about the shocking and dismaying prevalence of anti-Asian sentiment and violence even in the most diverse of Californian communities.

What happened tonight is disturbing, and I feel as if my knowingly false sense of security in my own home territory here in SoCal has been somehow proven even more false than ever before. I grew up in the LA suburbs on the border of the OC where the majority of the residents were Asian-American, and in this insulated bubble, many of my peers grew up complacent and ignorant of the reality of life as a person of color in America. After all, the horrific events surrounding the death of Vincent Chin seemed to us like it was so long ago. But that has never truly been the case, and I hope that in this influx of overt anti-Asian racism in the places where we feel the most safe, we can come together as a community and face the fact that none of us were ever safe here. All we can do is fight for a voice of our own and do what we can to see to it that the systematic injustice that aims to bring down all people of color in America is faced with all of our collective strength.

I was out in Hollywood all of yesterday, in a group of mostly Asian-American (and entirely POC) friends, and ate at a Japanese izakaya filled with white people spouting microaggressions just a few hours ago. And the frightening thing is, we were contemplating heading out to the night market ourselves. This story hits home because it could have been me or anyone I was with. It could have been a member of my family. It could have been my significant other. And it happened to this specific Asian-American man simply because he was the one that was there.

And it happened in the OC: Asian-American territory. Racists have no fear any longer, and we are no longer safe even within our own communities, at our own events centered around Asian food and culture, in the heart of what is supposed to be one of the most tolerant, progressive and ethnically diverse places in the world.

As you may be able to tell, I’m pretty angry about it.

None of the perpetrators of the crime at the OC Night Market have been found as of yet, there seems to be no mention of the attack on the local news, and I haven’t been able to find any information other than the first-hand accounts posted to social media by friends of the victim. Please follow the link for more information on the perpetrators, and stay safe, folks.

https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=10213547897435970&id=1358265078

Human trafficking survivor: I was raped 43,200 times: Karla Jacinto is sitting in a serene garden. She looks at the ordinary sights of flowers and can hear people beyond the garden walls, walking and talking in Mexico City. She looks straight into my eyes, her voice cracking slightly, as she tells me the number she wants me to remember 43,200. By her own estimate, 43,200 is the number of times she was raped after falling into the hands of human traffickers. She says up to 30 johns a day, seven days a week, for the best part of four years 43,200.

Her story highlights the brutal realities of human trafficking in Mexico and the United States, an underworld that has destroyed the lives of tens of thousands of Mexican girls like Karla. Human trafficking has become a trade so lucrative and prevalent, that it knows no borders and links towns in central Mexico with cities like Atlanta and New York.

U.S. and Mexican officials both point to a town in central Mexico that for years has been a major source of human trafficking rings and a place where victims are taken before being eventually forced into prostitution. The town is called Tenancingo.

Click on Source to see video clip…

I’m somewhere in between a dream and reality

Character: Kyungsoo/D.O (E.X.O)
Word count: 1588
Summary: For as long as you could remember, a boy had haunted your dreams. Brown-eyed and mysterious, you presumed that he was just a creation of your active imagination. Until one day you both met and destiny was set in motion, revealing that he was a lot more than just a dream.  | No warnings, other than my obsession with use of Oh My Girl’s “Liar Liar” as inspiration and cheese from watching too many dramas.

/ / / 

// I toss and turn in bed all night. Splashing across the sea of imagination //

Big, brown eyes haunted your dreams. They were a mystery to you, so beautiful in a hypnotizing manner. You had never met anyone in the world before with eyes like that, which begged the question; why do they haunt your dreams? A face accompanied them, round and olive toned. Dark, fluffy hair sat atop the beautiful boys head. It drove you almost to the brink of insanity, trying to figure out how this unknown person could haunt you so much. Was he a figment of your imagination? Or a handsome stranger who captured your subconscious attention one day? And why did he make your heart beat so fast?

Keep reading

In my head, i can take existence and turn it inside out.

Like imagine a room with 4 walls, a ceiling and a floor. There is a door leading outside into the world. Now if you were inside the room it would be like being inside a box, a well decorated box with book shelves, a tv, two-three lamps, a reading desk and a chair. Keep the door in mind. You’re looking at all these things from the center of the room.

Now… Imagine the walls that are facing to the inside of the box, actually being outside the box and facing away. Project each wall with its decoration as being the outside wall of that box. The ceiling is on the top of the box, the floor on the bottom. On each side, outside the box, there’s the wall with the book shelf, the one with the desk, the chair etc…

And then in one wall, there is the door. But this time, if you open the door and go inside you’re actually going inside the outside world. Which is now inside, and infinitely converging into the center of that box.

In my head, i usually imagine that as a sphere, where the surface of our planet is on the inside concave walls of the sphere, and the universe extending infinitely into the center of the sphere. Infinitely converging to a single point but never reaching it.

Now you can easily imagine that with 3 dimensional objects/shapes, i mean it’s the image of our projected reality from one single perspective. And outside that perspective, there is nothing. Non existence itself.

Remember the room? The one which you go through the door into the world? Well that box of an inside out room has a thing to it. Outside the borders of that room, or box… There is nothing. Nonexistence. A thing with no defined rules of reality. With non-defined rules of reality which we can’t even fathom.

But back to our imagination. Cause it’s easy to imagine these things in 3 Dimensional shapes and objects. But try doing that in 4 spatial dimensions. That my friend, is where the spooky stuff resides.

Unless your fourth dimension is time then what you just imagined is how an elementary particle sees the world when it comes to life.

Conscription during the French Revolution (Jean-Paul Bertaud)

Drawing inspiration from the writings of the philosophers of the 17th century, the politicians of the Revolution, of the Constituant Assembly as well as of the Legislative Assembly and the Convention, maintained the principle of military duty: the citizen had to have two costumes, the one of his trade and the one of the soldier. The citizen was a soldier in power, the solider remained, under the flag, a citizen. In fact, the principle was never really applied until the era of the Directory. The Constituent Assembly, in its beginnings, limited itself to levying 100,000 auxiliaries for the troops of the line, and later, in 1791, volunteers from the National Guard. The Legislative Assembly, in spite of the declaration of La patrie en danger, also limited itself to levying Volunteers, and the Girondin Convention, while reaffirming the principle of obligatory military service, did the same. The law of 23 August 1793, passed under the pressure of the sans-culottes and of the Jacobins, only envisaged a requisition of young bachelors or of widowers without children between the ages of 18 and 25 for the duration of the war: the requisition should only be a helping hand given, in a period of time which was hoped to be short, to the already standing army.

After Thermidor the army grew gradually weaker, while the number of dersertions increased and the requisition ran out, for lack of coactive force of the Montagnards. In 1797, the headcount of the army fell alsmost from almost a million to 365,000. Such a contingent was insufficent for facing the war, which flared up again everywhere in Europe.

General Jourdan, deputy in the Council of Five Hundred, presented a mobilisation project on 23 Nivôse Year VI (12 January 1798). Obligatory military service for all was henceforth a reality: young men from 18 to 21 years of age in peacetime, from 18 to 24 in times of war, would henceforth be enrolled. As France only needed a limited number of troops in peactime, Jourdan proposed to draw lots in order to determine who would actually have to depart. Delbrel, the deputy from Tarn, spoke against such a procedure, as he considered it to be antidemocratic.

The Jourdan Law was finally passed on 19 Fructidor Year VI (5 September 1798). It regulated military service for almost a century. All Frenchmen of military age (20 completed years) had to be inscrits ensemble (i.e. conscrits) on the tables of recruitment of the army and remain there until the age of 25. All Frenchmen born in the same year formed a class. Military service lasted five years in peacetime and rested upon the youngest of each class. Soldiers enrolled in the navy and married men were exempted. Men between 20 and 25 years of age could not travel without a passport on which their military situation was recorded. In case of relocation, young men had to inform their municipality of origin ; thereby, the authorities hoped to counter insoumission. The insoumis was persecuted, arrested and judged as a deserter. No Frenchman could hold a public office or enjoy his rights as a citizen if he had not fulfilled his military duties.

The municipal administrations drew up the tables of conscription on the authority of the central administrations of the department or of the Ministry of War. Surgeons or doctors were appointed in order to form medical boards. In these, five family fathers sat who had children serving in the army, deciding on who to recruit or to exempt ; due to these boards, we still possess, for numerous departments, information on the physical aspect and health status of thousands of young men from the end of the First Republic, from the Consulate and the Empire. Not all administrations showed scrupulous care in organising the conscription, and in April 1799, when the war started again, many tables remained devoid of information.

The municipalities, which supported the military cause, show us the « bons pour le service » gathering in the administrative centre of the department and, in groups of hundred or two hundred, leaving on foot under the command of a former officer. Their departure gave rise to public manifestations: the representative of the government rediscovered the language of Year II in order to glorify the Revolution, the community gathered in a banquet, where one swore « hatred to tyrants » and one distributed travel provisions to the conscripts, a ball closing the festivities. On the next day, the community accompanied those who departed to the last hurdle of the city or of the village. « The example of their elders, the account of victories ignited their hearts ; and why should it be otherwise, are they not French, wrote a commissioner of the directory ». Reality was often different: while many villagers in the border zones which were directly threatened rediscovered the gestures and the enthusiasm of the first moments of the Republic, there were also processions, almost funeral, surrounding an open coffin, into which the conscripts would, as a gesture of mourning, throw their freshly cut hair.

In Year VI, among 202,000 conscripts, 143,000 were recognised as fit and only 93,000 departed. In the spring of 1799, the Directory decided to levy 150,000 men, designated by drawing lots. The law of 28 Germinal Year VII (17 April 1799) went counter to the principle of equality: the conscripts, drawn by lot, could indeed include substitutes between 18 and 20 years of age. Drawing by lots and replacement aroused protests: the drawing was, according to some, reinstituting a practice of the Ancien Régime. The replacement? The poor asked: was the blood of the rich worth more than theirs? There were insurrections, only amplified by royalist propaganda, as in the region of Toulouse. The law of 19 Messidor Year VII (28 June 1799), passed under the pressure increased by the Coalition, ordered that the ones who had been exempted from the prior levies would have to return before the councils in order to have a medical examination ; the departments of the West, who had been protected until had, had to contribute. This was the starting point of a new revolt that was marked by the occupation, for some time, of Mans, Nantes and Saint-Brieuc. The royalists mingled with the réfractaires here. In spite of everything, the levy provided nearly 400,000 men, who allowed Masséna and Brune to halt the offensive. Victories were achieved which the Bonapartist propaganda minimised on the eve of the coup d'état of 18 Brumaire.

Under the Consulate and the Empire, Napoleon Bonaparte took over the essentials of the previous laws on conscription. He perfected a « machine conscriptionnelle », bequeathed by the dead Republic, to the point – the historian I. Woloch has shown this – of making it an effective tool of mobilisation until 1812. Contrary to popular belief, it seems that one can subscribe to what the Emperor said on Saint Helena: « Conscription had rendered the French army the best composed in the world. It was an institution, eminently national yet very progressive in the mores ; henceforth, it was only the mothers who were still distressed by it ; and the time would have come where a girl would not want a boy who has not paid his debt towards the patrie. And it is in this state alone that conscription would have acquired the last level of its advantages: when it is no longer presented as a punishment or as a duty, but has become a point of honour of which everyone is jealous, then alone the nation is great, glorious, strong ; that is when its existence can defy setbacks, invasions, centuries. » Conscription, originally regarded as a burden, was soon recognised as a droit du citoyen and appeared as a democratic safeguard.

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A film critic (under the cut)

I watched “Look Who’s Back” (Original title: “Er ist wieder da”) in cinema with my parents today and it was one of the most intense cinema visits of my entire life. I can honest to god say it was worth it, but it was disgusting too. I am so appaled by all of the events concerning the refugees, the rise of national parties and all of those themes that were addressed that are so common nowadays. It’s like it’s the beginning of the 20th century all over again, and that is nothing but a bad thing.

Before you read: I know and understand that there is a lot you shouldn’t laugh about in this movies, and I didn’t laugh at the whole movie. If you read this, you will see that I cried, and I got angry.

Keep in mind that this movie was made (just like the book was written) to make you, me, all of us realise that we are always in danger of being manipulated and that it’s important to self-check before laughing at stuff like this. (Also, this is not spoiler-free but I kept the biggest plot twists out of it. Stuff that didn’t appear in the book.)

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a mother's love

ok ok ok, this is supposed to be a birthday gift for cacatuasulphureacitrinocristata (c/p-ed that, ngl). So happy birthday, love! I’m really glad we met, and I hope you’ll like this!


“Mama! Mama, up, up!”

Glancing downwards, feeling the slight tugging on the bottom of her skirt, Yoshino smiled at the sight of her toddler son, asking for attention. He had been particularly good today about being quiet and, even though silence was nice, it was getting a bit heavy. She wasn’t used to the lack of noises anymore, always aware of the surroundings and possible bonks and crashs that would indicate a soon crying child.

“Yes, dear?” she said, before bending down to pick her son up, as he already had thrown his little hands towards her. “Mama’s cooking, kiddo. Dinner, for when Dada comes home.”

“Dada?” his little voice asked. “Dada?”

“Yes, Dada. He should be home soon.”

Apparently, the answer satisfied Shikamaru, since he smiled with his newly acquired teeth — what a pain they were to grow out, the kid hadn’t stopped crying — before letting his head fall on his mom’s shoulder. With a small amused smile, keeping him against her and completely forgetting about the still uncut carrot on her cutting board, she kissed his temple softly.

“Is it time for a nap, my love? You only got your morning one today. What about we lay you down until your father comes home?”

The toddler didn’t seem to appreciate the idea a lot, as he frowned, grasping and clenching to Yoshino’s apron. She chuckled, before shifting him onto a more comfortable position in her arms, where he settled back almost immediately.

“No nap.” he grumbled in his baby sleepy voice and she knew he needed to sleep, even for a bit. Slowly, she started rocking her body, along with his, to the absent notes of music. He was particularly heavy; which meant it wouldn’t be long before he’d fall asleep on her.

“No nap, but yes sleeping on Mama, huh? You’re your father’s son, that’s for sure.”

Shikamaru let out another grumble, his face nuzzling against the skin of her neck, indicating he was getting to the border between dreams and reality. With another slight smile, followed by a sigh, she carefully proceeded to exit the room, keeping him very steady in her arms so he wouldn’t start waking up, before walking into his.

“Nap time, kiddo.” she murmured, more for herself than for the now asleep child in her arms. With gentleness she didn’t know she had until she held him for the first time, Yoshino put down her son in his own bed, before he rolled on his side, as if he never tried to avoid napping. Covering him up and placing his favorite stuffed animal between his little fists, she stayed, looking at him, hearing his calmed down breathing.

He was such a gift. A present Gods she wasn’t sure existed had put on Earth for her to take care of, an angel she was supposed to raise and help open its wings. Every time — every. single. time. —, she would stop for a second, watch him toddle around, play with his favorite toys, sleep in his bed and wonder what good she had done to the world to be granted with him.

She didn’t know if she was being a good mother. After all, she had grown up only to her father’s care. She remembered the late night worries when she learned about the baby growing inside of her. Fragile, tiny life she wasn’t sure she was ready to welcome, small beating heart she needed to protect. Many mistakes would be done — many already made, probably —, but she knew that he’d forgive her, even if she didn’t.

Letting her fingers linger on his chubby cheek, she bent down, kissing his forehead. He didn’t react much except from his little body rolling again, hiding his face away. She smiled, before straightening up.

“Sleep well, baby boy.”

—————————————-

“Ma? Ma, I want up.”

She didn’t feel the tugging just as much, since he was much more steady on his feet and didn’t need to clench onto her skirt to keep his balance. Though, she could feel his head against her thigh — he was still too short to reach her hip. With a smile, a loving one but a bit more tired, she looked down to him.

“What’s wrong, love? You might be getting a little big for me to pick you up, you know.”

“Maaa…”

The very well-known gesture of his hands thrown up towards her made her give up. Bending down, she placed her hands beneath his armpits and — oh, he was much heavier now — brought him towards her chest. Still manageable, she mused, but she wasn’t going to be able to hug him as tight, as close, for much longer. As usual, his head found its place on her shoulder, his arms almost carelessly thrown around her neck.

The same grumble, the same way of searching for her warmth — yes, those didn’t change. She doubted they’ll ever will, she didn’t want them to change. Precious memories, small remembrances of how small he used to be, how easy it was for him to fit between her arms, how his giggles, unexpected, would brighten the day.

“When is dad coming home?”

“Soon, kiddo.”

Even the same exact way to grasp onto her apron, twisting its fabric between the tiny hands, before nuzzling his face closer to her neck. A warm feeling — nostalgia? — invaded her and she hugged him tighter, pressing her cheek against his head, completely forgetting about getting dinner started. They didn’t hug like that much more; he was getting too big, too old for getting affection so directly from his mother, at least in his opinion. But the way he didn’t climb back down when she tightened his hold showed her he wasn’t always sure he didn’t want those hugs anymore. Slowly, her body started rocking back and forth, to the same melody she often seemed to hear every time she’d held him.

Shikamaru didn’t move, his legs and arms still around his mother, without showing any signs of wanting to get out of their embrace. Even though he had grown up, he still was her little boy; nothing would change that. Not time, not age, not the usual mom-don’t-hug-me-i’m-six speech.

She silently wished she could have kept him pocket-sized.

Dinner wasn’t started when Shikaku came home; instead, he found his wife cuddling with their son on the sofa. And he joined, despite the young boy’s horrification — my dad doesn’t cuddle, who are you? —.

—————————————-

“Ma?”

“Mh?”

This time, she isn’t the one throwing arms around him or bringing him to her chest but he is. The gesture is gentle, just like she was when he was younger. It’s surprising; so surprising she, at first, doesn’t know how to react. He’s much older, much, much older. Married. With a son. He isn’t a baby anymore, but he’s still her boy. With a small smile, her arms answer the embrace, her chin barely making it onto his shoulder.

But he does just the same as he used to; his head finds its place on her shoulder, nuzzling into her neck, his warm breathing tickling the skin. She asks herself if he, too, misses those days sometimes, the ones where she was carrying around, where he wasn’t big enough to grab things in the kitchen’s cabinets. Those days where they used to play, on the living-room’s floor, with alphabetical cubes he already knew the letters from, reading those children’s books that would have him frowning at the ending’s logic. Why does the prince marry the princess, already?

She knows she isn’t going to be here much longer and she can hear the clock — tick tack — trying to break their moment. But if there’s something time can’t change, can’t touch, it’s the way she loves him, with every part, every atom of herself. It’s the way she can see the man she calls her soulmate in his features, holding pride into their similarities but even more in their differences. It’s the way she loves him for who he is, not for who he wishes he was.

There’s nothing stronger than a mother’s love. Not time, not age, not mom-don’t-hug-me-i’m-forty-five speeches.

Threaded between the fabric of realities, you can find UNREALITIES, places that can only exist if you know exactly where to look. The FOREST OF ARAIN is one such place. A place where magick beings can go for sanctuary. However, when Hans and Greta, a couple of curious scientists began to settle in the forest, everything changed. The BALANCE of magick in the forest has shifted and on the day of the ECLIPSE the border cairns, or BREADCRUMBS that allowed beings in and out, malfunctioned in a way that trapped all beings inside of the forest. Others may arrive, but none may leave.

When science meets magick, who will prevail?

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sixpenceee in response to your “create your own horror”

Pic related, horror “story/theory”:

Every house, every building has that one place where when you’re by it it literally just creepy you the fuck out. Whether it’s that one dark corner in your basement, that one stairway up to your third floor apartment where the light is always flickering, the stairway in your house up to your attic, always shrouded in darkness, the space under your bed or the black void in your closet when you’re trying to sleep at night.

But whenever you see it, and you turn your back to it, some part of you knows you’re being watched. It’s that part of the house where you always turn off the lights and run as quick as you can away. Goosebumps on your arms because you felt like something was taking a step towards you, arms reaching from somewhere else.

These spots are the weak points between us and them. Where, I don’t know what you’d call it, our realities intersect. And ours is weaker, letting them slip through. Sure, we always shrug it off and walk away quicker than we want to admit- but that’s because we are the ones who got away. But imagine if that hand actually grabbed you? You’re sitting on your couch- your bed, and all of a sudden you start to feel real paranoid about that space under it again, even though you’ve put that fear to rest. You’re glancing up at that open bathroom door- or that closet, nervously. Imagine- a hand slowly extending around the bathroom door frame, fingers gripping it’s edges, or fingers brushing the back of your heel and GRABBING.

Right now, reading this, that nervous feeling in the pit of your stomach is that part of you that knows. Knows that it’s not all in your head, your childish fears. You tell yourself you know whats in the dark- but if you do, why are you still afraid?

Trust your instincts.

Now, whatever they are, and I have a few different theories, they crave life. Humanity, or whatever you want to call it. And the fear that you have when near these spots is only feeding them. The more you ignore that feeling of uneasiness, the more you sit there telling yourself not to be afraid, you’re too old for it, or any other excuse, you’re just inviting them in. Worse, you’re helping them.

Think of it as a tear; there’s the reality in which you and I exist, and also, the one in which they do. And when you pick up on these points where our borders intersect with theirs, they pick up on the fear that’s pouring out of you, because of that part of you that’s telling you to RUN. But you’re too mature now, you’re not a child anymore, you aren’t afraid of the dark. But did the closet door just move? I could have sworn I just saw something dart by in the murkiness of the bathroom. What was that sound?

Do yourself a favor and get away.

These points aren’t always around. Notice how it’s easier in the daytime? Or when you have other people around? You’re naturally not near as scared, and depriving them of the strength they need to enter into our realm. So move away whenever you’re sitting at home alone, by yourself, and you start to feel that creepy, tingling sensation that something is right behind you.

I only know of one case where they got one of us. A friend of mine, Mike, had a sister. This was a few years ago, however when they were both young and still living with their parents. They had separate rooms, though there was a single door that connected the two. They had lived there for a little over a year when his sister, April, first started complaining about the things in her closet. And of course, being a child still, her parents dismissed this as childish fears and told her that there were no monsters or things in her closet. But Mike could hear them too. Scratching, tapping at the walls in the middle of the night. Pretty soon, April began screaming in the middle of the night, exclaiming, “It touched me! It touched me!” After months of this, Mike and April’s parents had her talk to a pediatric psychologist about the things  she said that lived in her closet and wanted to grab her.

She was diagnosed with a severe case of Night Terrors, and despite Mike’s assertions that she wasn’t making it up, was given medication to help subdue her outbursts.

The next few months were relatively quiet, when it came to April and the things in her closet. However, when her parents finally asked her about them, she simply told them, “I can’t move when they’re here”

Shortly after, her mom would come to find small bloodstains on April’s sheets. Upon inspection, the girl had small cuts, apparently caused by fingers scratching down the length of her arms and legs. April claimed not to have done this herself, and that they started appearing without her noticing them, only to realize that they must be scratching her in the night, trying to grab at her.

Their parents scheduled her regular meetings with her psychologist.

Things progressed this way, until one night when the house awoke to April screaming. Her parents came running, bursting through her bedroom door. She was off of her bed, on the floor in the corner away from the closet, sheet wrapped around her, with her scratched arm pointing toward the closet. She said, “I heard them. They want me in there.”

Mike tells me at this point, he offered to have April sleep with him in his bed, but his parents instead had her go back to the psychologist to undergo a sleep study. And after being hooked up to extensive machinery, she looked to sleep just fine. No issues to be recorded at all. Perfect REM and non-REM sleep patterns. She was cleared to go home, with a higher dosage of her sleep medication.

The next night, back at their house, she did sleep with Mike in his bed.

However the next morning, when Mike awoke, she wasn’t with him in the bed. He went to the kitchen after getting dressed- she wasn’t there. He checked the living room- she wasn’t there. Bathroom- she wasn’t there.

So he went to her room- she wasn’t there. But, the closet door stood ajar.

Mike says that they never found her. Typically, the police ruled her a run-away. Mike says that he believed his sister though, and believes that she was taken through the tear into whatever lies beyond. Mike was the one who taught me what the weak points in our realm are. There’s actually a surprising amount of info on them, though it’s usually catagorized as “demons”. I don’t neccessarily believe it to be the work of your stereotypical demon, but research this. People have been taken, never to be seen again.

So do yourself a favor. When you feel that uneasiness creep back into the pit of your stomach, move away from it. Wait until morning. Don’t feed it. Get away before whenever you go to turn off the light in the closet,  a hand is already there