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fishmongeringstudies · 3 years

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twenty one: i keep waking up in rooms i don't recognize and then realizing that i am still dreaming. my therapist says this is a symptom of a dislocated knee. i have not gone running since march. everyone that i know is lying to me

when i was a kid my parents used to take us to the same restaurant for brunch every sunday. it was on the first floor of a shopping mall which had big panes of glass stitched together for a ceiling and consequently let in far more natural light than your average building, but the restaurant itself was dark. moody. the walls were black and so was all the upholstery. the coffee mugs the waitresses served you coffee in were so dark you couldn't tell how full they were unless you looked extra hard at them, which i rarely did. in most memories of this place i'm seven or eight and i only drink two things: lemon tea and milk. so i'm sitting there with my frosted plastic cup of lemon tea, methodically stirring in my syrup with a skinny metal spoon because they make their lemon tea from scratch here which means no sugar and lots of tea, and my parents are drinking from their big adult mugs, and my sister's picking apart the roasted tomato on my dad's plate, and life, well. life is simple. good.

i can't remember when we stopped going there but i know that by the time i was nine and traipsing around in the hallways of the chinese primary school my parents had transferred me to, it had closed down and been replaced with some other restaurant whose name and shape i can't recall. well before i turned sixteen that entire wing of the first floor was demolished and replaced with the monstrosity that is singapore's flagship muji store. the muji's still there today. it's got a retail area and a few showrooms showcasing lifestyle choices for the upper-middle class citizen and a cafe with a dining area marked out by eclectic hanging decor that looks like a hundred little wastepaper baskets made from twine tied together to form a spotty mural of sorts. i'm fond of the cafe. their desserts are on the expensive side but they're thoughtfully made and look pretty in pictures, prettier in person.

your childhood years are one of those things that gets shinier the further away you stand from it, like how a bad experience becomes bittersweet by necessity if you give it long enough or you'll be stuck carrying that baggage with you forever. looking back, for example, on spring, i am inclined to see the educational takeaways instead of the moments in which my brain shut off and was replaced with a vat of screaming kittens. in this way we propel ourselves forward with the wisdom of the past, scrounged together from moments of pain and deep embarrassment. in this way we find ways to stay alive.

this summer i have wound up in upperclassmen housing by some unfortunate trick of fate. my apartment suite has five bedrooms but only four of them are occupied; i live in the room at the end of the hallway. my flatmates live in the next three. it has been five days since i moved in and i am convinced all of them think that they are living with a cryptid constructed in the scp containment breach format and unsure how to let them know that they are correct without making it personal. last night i woke up after a brief period of dreaming to use the bathroom; while washing my hands in the sink one of my flatmates walked past in the hallway behind me. 'hey, it's you,' she said. 'i feel like i haven't seen you forever. i mean. i've seen you, but i haven't seen seen you, you feel me?' asleep on my feet and ready to crash facefirst into bed, i nodded. 'yes.' she stood there for a few seconds as if expecting me to say more, but i had a vending machine for a brain at the moment and couldn't find it in me to press any more buttons. i certainly could've tried. but i was tired.

when i got on campus in february i resolved to sign up for therapy sessions with the school's mental health services since i was paying an ungodly amount for 'health insurance' (not a thing in singapore, really; not necessary in most places except america, really) anyway and i might as well make use of some small part of the astronomical sum that had been deposited in the pockets of some old white people i would likely never meet in my life. i got as far as filling out the form embedded in the school website and opening the automated email i received a few days later asking me to list my free times each week. i forgot about the rest. we are therefore entering the summer of my twentieth year without a goddamn clue what the inside of my head looks like apart from the fact that it must be pretty cool in there. it has to be cool. if it isn't cool what's the point of holding onto any of it anyway? we live for the spice of life. like garlic powder. cumin. oyster sauce.

this morning i went to target to look for sugar. the dining hall here doesn't do any of its vegetables justice but their desserts are to die for, and i've found myself suffering from a mild withdrawal since i started scrambling eggs and boiling about five hundred grams of cauliflower a day for the sheer therapeutic effect of it and because i don't really know any better. the target near campus is located in a shopping mall and surrounded by miles of parking space on both ends. while walking back across that stretch of empty parking space, i came across a smear of orange on the pavement. it was an orange. or it had been. the rind had been ground into the gravely surface of the road by a repetitive smoothing action so that it looked less like a bit of roadkill and more like it had been there all along. i can't stop thinking about that orange. who the fuck drops an orange in the middle of a road? why didn't they pick it up?

i have been cursed with an idea. it came to me last night before i fell asleep and it has been sitting on my shoulder since then like the devil in the popular angel-and-devil writing device which all nine year olds are taught by their teachers in chinese class, whispering to me about how great things will be if i can teach myself the fundamentals of sound design in three days. unfortunately it is when one decides to start a war that they are forced to confront their contacts list and the vast, untraceable geography of its contents. i cannot tell you if anything will result from this. but i hope that it will.

back when i still talked to her i mentioned the idea of doing puzzles to soothe the mind once and she took to it with so much genuine enthusiasm (she was always enthusiastic. too enthusiastic. enthusiasm was the problem, and the lack of willingness to curtail it the thing that eventually nailed the coffin shut) that i went to target the next weekend and bought a set of four puzzles depicting various scenes from old disney films. over the last two weeks i have done each puzzle three times, save for the last one, in which mickey and minnie mouse waltz down a red carpet and the people on the sidelines cheer for them with champagne moustaches and glittering beads for eyes. i cannot decide if this is meaningful. i cannot see the point of summer. but i am trying.

i don't remember the name of that sunday brunch restaurant. i don't remember the names of a lot of places our parents brought us when we were children, but my sister has been on a nostalgia trip since april and sends me screenshots of old pc games we used to play together from time to time. ernie's adventures in space. timmy's sea adventures. barbie island princess. i open each image and feel something inside of me physically ache in response. it appears that despite my best efforts, i will never be seven years old again.

i'm not a huge fan of lemon tea anymore. i prefer water. how it cleanses the palate like a vacuum cleaner sucking up all the dust and grime in a musty room. it's hard to distinguish between the inside and the outside of a thing when both are the color of a blood-red sunset but we try our best, you know? we draw lines on the sidewalk with chalk and we say 'here is my side of the universe and here is yours'. we act diplomatic when inside we are drunk and slurring our words all over the bartender's white vest. and then, because there is nothing else to do on this planet, we keep on living.

06.10.21

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aethelfleds · 5 years

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Victims of the Childbed - Elizabeth of York, Queen of England

Often referred to as the daughter, sister, niece, wife, and mother of a king. Elizabeth of York was the first Tudor queen of England. Her influence was quiet but always present, and her sudden death left a king and country bereft.

Much, much more below the cut:

From the moment of her birth, Elizabeth of York was enveloped in a large and, unusually so for the era, close knit royal family. She was named after her mother, the beautiful Queen Elizabeth Woodville. Her father, Edward IV of England, was a giant of a man both in person and persona. Edward had won the English crown five years prior to Elizabeth’s birth and would fight to retain it throughout her childhood. Princess Elizabeth was one of the first children born into a new generation of the House of York. She was the firstborn of the new king and his consort and though the birth of a son had been predicted, she was still welcomed by her parents and doted on at their merry court. Edward IV’s account book for 1466, the year of Elizabeth’s arrival, records the purchase of a jeweled ornament “against the time of the birth of our most dear daughter Elizabeth.”

The young Elizabeth was soon followed by two sisters, Mary and Cecily. In addition, the princesses also had two elder half-brothers, Thomas and Richard Grey, born of Elizabeth Woodville’s first marriage. Queen Elizabeth preferred to keep her children near her at court, as well as members of her own large family. As a result, Elizabeth of York enjoyed the close company of her siblings and Woodville relations for the rest of her life.

It was the influence of the Woodville family at court and their involvement in politics which contributed to a boiling over of tensions between Edward IV and his cousin and adviser Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, who allied himself with Edward’s brother George, Duke of Clarence. Warwick and Clarence rebelled against Edward, forcing him to flee into exile on the continent. The rebellion claimed the lives of four-year-old Elizabeth’s maternal grandfather and uncle, Richard and John Woodville, who were executed by Warwick. The rebellion would be the little princess’s first experience with the traumatic and deeply personal world of politics in late medieval England. Queen Elizabeth took her children into sanctuary at Westminster Abbey, where she gave birth to Elizabeth’s brother Edward, the future ill-fated Edward V. This would not be the only time Princess Elizabeth would find herself in sanctuary at the Abbey during uncertain times.

Edward IV’s restoration to power in the spring of 1471 also restored domestic peace for a time. He brought his family out of sanctuary and Elizabeth of York re-assumed her place as “Elysabeth the Kyngys Dowther.”

Elizabeth of York was well educated. She became fluent in both English and French and could perhaps write better than was expected for noblewomen of her day. Her maternal family, the Woodvilles, were a literary bunch. Books were shared among Elizabeth, her siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles. King Edward maintained an impressive library and often purchased new volumes and illuminated manuscripts to add to his collection, which his daughter no doubt enjoyed perusing. As well as an appreciation for the written (and newly printed, thanks to Caxton and his press, which her family avidly supported) word, Princess Elizabeth also cultivated a love of music and dancing. She learned to play several instruments and is recorded dancing with her father as early as the age of six. Elizabeth would pass on this passion for musical persuits to her children, namely her son Henry VIII, whose own compositions are still known today.

By 1480, Elizabeth was the eldest of ten royal children, eight of whom survived infancy. In addition to her two half-brothers, Elizabeth’s parents kept quite a brood. For the most part, Elizabeth’s childhood had been a happy one, but her early adulthood would prove to be very different. On April 9, 1483, Edward IV died suddenly, leaving his twelve-year-old son as King Edward V. The boy’s youth was potentially dangerous, as Queen Dowager Elizabeth was well aware, as were her enemies. Distrust was rampant among the rival factions at court and conflict soon erupted as it often did in 15th century England. Princess Elizabeth’s uncle, Edward IV’s youngest brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester, took control of the boy king from Sir Anthony Woodville. The Queen Dowager acted decisively and once again fled to the sanctuary of Westminster Abbey with her daughters and remaining son, Prince Richard, who was soon taken to the Tower of London with his brother.

Elizabeth, now seventeen, stayed in sanctuary with her mother for almost a year, her future prospects dwindling. During that time her remaining family received one tragic blow after another. Richard of Gloucester seized control over the realm. Both the young Edward V and Prince Richard were locked away in the Tower and soon disappeared altogether, their fate an enduring mystery. Gloucester executed Elizabeth’s beloved uncle, Anthony Woodville and her brother Richard Grey. To fully consolidate his power, Gloucester declared the children of Edward IV by Elizabeth Woodville illegitimate. Princess Elizabeth was now traumatized and bastardized with little hope for what lay ahead.

In early 1484, however, the new King Richard III persuaded the Queen Dowager to allow Elizabeth to return to court. Elizabeth and her sister Cecily joined the household of Queen Anne Neville. Her life doubtlessly improved once she was away from the bleak seclusion of Westminster. Eighteen-year-old Elizabeth was one of the greatest beauties at Richard’s court, and soon rumors were circulating that the king intended to wed his lovely and charming niece. Queen Anne’s declining health and subsequent death only increased the suspicion surrounding Elizabeth and Richard’s relationship. Richard was eventually obliged to send Elizabeth to Sheriff Hutton Castle in Yorkshire along with Cecily and their cousins Margaret and Edward, Earl of Warwick, the children of the Duke of Clarence. Elizabeth’s thoughts on her uncle, the fate of her brothers, or indeed most of the momentous events of her life are often speculated but still remain quite unknown.

The subject of Elizabeth’s marriage had been controversial for some time at this point. Her hand was promised several times for various political expedient reasons. At the age of nine she was formally betrothed to the Dauphin of France and was called “Madame la Dauphine” in her adolescence. But the betrothal was broken by a rather slippery King of France not long before Edward IV’s death.

Following Richard’s declaration of her illegitimacy, the potential for a glittering match seemed dim. But Elizabeth Woodville had allied herself with Margaret Beaufort and together, using a physician as a messenger, the two ladies would work towards supplanting Richard. Margaret’s son Henry Tudor, nephew of the late Henry VI, had spent half of his life in exile as the last Lancastrian heir. Aside from Richard III, according to the laws of primogeniture, Elizabeth of York was the Yorkist heir to Edward IV in the absence of her brothers. A union between the two would perhaps remedy the rift between the two houses made by the Wars of the Roses, at least partially satisfying both sides.

While Elizabeth was residing at Sheriff Hutton, Henry Tudor landed in England and met Richard’s army at Bosworth Field on August 22, 1485. The battle’s end found Richard III dead and Henry with the English crown. He had won his right in battle, but Henry Tudor’s claim to the throne was rather shaky. He was a descendant of Edward III only through his mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, through the bastard line of John of Gaunt. Elizabeth of York, though still legally bastardized herself, also descended from Edward III, but through a legitimate male line. Thus it seemed that Henry Tudor would need her to lend stability to his throne, though he would forever fight to conceal it. Henry was crowned Henry VII on October 30, 1485 and immediately set about establishing his authority in his own right. England was an uncertain nation in need of stability, but that was difficult to achieve with so many Yorkist claimants and their adherents at large.

The generation of Yorkists to which Elizabeth belonged was largely female, and for the next decade Henry would neutralize the threat they posed through marriage. Elizabeth of York, as the eldest surviving child of Edward IV, was regarded by many to be the rightful heir to his throne. Certainly no one expected Elizabeth to be queen regnant of England; the country was still not ready for such a concept. Once Henry Tudor was crowned and his first Parliament opened, Elizabeth’s legitimacy was reestablished. Finally, with the proper papal dispensation in acquired, Henry and Elizabeth were formally betrothed.

Elizabeth of York became Queen of England when she married Henry VII on January 18, 1486. It has been suggested that Henry put off the marriage as long as possible to establish his rule in his own right without seeming to have accepted help from Elizabeth. Regardless, she would bring his reign stability that he could not have gained on his own. As queen, Elizabeth is not known to have taken an active role in political matters. She had been brought up to play the traditional role of a consort, which she did perfectly. Her kindness, generosity, and gracious nature were renowned. She was also known for her beauty, golden hair, and fine figure. She surrounded herself with her dearest relatives, most of whom were well provided for in her lifetime.

The relationship between Elizabeth of York and Henry VII has been popularly portrayed as a love match. It was a marriage of political necessity which over time seems to have grown into a partnership of mutual respect and affection. Henry’s accounts show him buying small gifts and trinkets for his wife, and Elizabeth’s show that she undertook tasks such as sewing Henry’s garter mantle when she was not required to do so herself. There were still political aspects to the marriage. Elizabeth never had the financial independence enjoyed by most consorts, possibly because Henry never entirely got over an innate distrust of all things Yorkist.

Elizabeth’s influence on the world of Tudor aesthetics that has fascinated many for five centuries may have been greater than previously assumed. Tudor pageantry was impressive, outlandish, and extravagant. The pageant stages, disguisings, and masques were inspired by Burgundian entertainments. Who had more experience with this style of revelry than she who had grown up at the center of a court heavily influenced by the court of Burgundy? From her infancy, Elizabeth would have been familiar with Burgundian style due to her own heritage through her maternal grandmother, Jacquetta of Luxembourg. The pageantry Elizabeth so enjoyed became a hallmark of Tudor entertainment. Tudor architecture, too, is thought to have some touch of Burgundian influence. Elizabeth of York is documented as being involved in at least the rebuilding of Greenwich Palace, a distinctly Tudor royal residence.

The marriage of Elizabeth of York and Henry VII was certainly successful in regard to their offspring. Elizabeth gave birth to their first child, a son and heir, only eight months after their wedding in 1486 (leading to speculation of consummation before the public wedding ceremony). The prince was christened Arthur and was greeted with national rejoicing. Princess Margaret followed three years later in 1489. Prince Henry and Princess Elizabeth, who died at the age of three, were born in 1491 and 1492. Another daughter, Mary, was born in 1496. Elizabeth may have given birth to a short lived boy named Edward, or this could be a confusion with Prince Edmund, who died in infancy.

Elizabeth of York, like her own mother, was devoted to her children. As the heir to the throne, Prince Arthur was set apart from his siblings with his own household and rigorous education. The younger children lived near their parents at Eltham Palace, where they were frequently visited by their mother. Elizabeth doted on her fair daughters and boisterous son Henry, who took after his grandfather, Edward IV.

Prince Arthur was married to Katherine of Aragon in November 1501 in a lavish ceremony. The teenage couple was sent to Wales to hold court as the future king and queen of England. Their future and the succession seemed secure until an unforeseen disaster occurred. On April 2, 1502, only five months into his marriage, the fifteen-year-old Prince Arthur suddenly died, possibly of the sweating sickness. Elizabeth and Henry grieved the loss of their son both as monarchs and as parents. But Elizabeth attempted to console her husband by reminding them that they still had a healthy son and were still young enough to have more children. They were indeed young enough to produce another heir to secure the Tudor Dynasty, and Elizabeth became pregnant with her seventh child soon afterwards. The queen spent the remainder of 1502 mourning her son and traveling in England and Wales. She experienced some health issue, but it is not known if it was pregnancy related.

Elizabeth of York gave birth to her last child, a daughter, at the Tower of London on February 2, 1503. This baby may have been premature, as Elizabeth had not withdrawn from court to take to her chamber in preparation of the birth. In fact, she had traveled from Richmond to London only a week prior to the birth. For her previous births, Elizabeth had observed the rituals and preparations laid out by Margaret Beaufort in her ordinances for royal births. For this birth it seems almost nothing had been prepared, and one chronicle claims Elizabeth had intended to give birth at Richmond. Instead she delivered her daughter at the Tower of London. While the baby princess was quickly baptized Katherine, her mother became ill. Elizabeth had contracted childbed fever, or puerperal fever and was not strong enough to fight off the infection. She succumbed to her illness and died on February 11, 1503, her thirty-seventh birthday. Princess Katherine had died the day before.

The royal family and country were plunged into grief. Elizabeth was given a funeral fit for a queen. Henry VII was much altered by the loss of his wife and two children in under one year. The illuminated manuscript Vaux Passional contains an illustration of Elizabeth’s bereft family. A rather sullen Henry VII is shown wearing the blue robes of royal mourning. The princesses Margaret and Mary wear black veils. Most moving of all is the image of eleven-year-old Prince Henry weeping on his mother’s empty bed. King Henry never dismissed Elizabeth’s court minstrels and continued to pay them until his death in 1509.

Elizabeth of York was all but canonized in death. She was remembered as “one of the most gracious and best beloved princesses in the world in her time being.” She was the silent guiding hand behind Henry VII, the first Tudor queen from whom descended the next four Tudor monarchs as well as the Stuarts. Elizabeth of York also left her mark through the red-gold hair she passed on to her son Henry VIII and granddaughters, Mary and Elizabeth, queens regnant of England.

Arlene Naylor Okerlund, “Elizabeth of York”

Kavita Mudan Finn, “The Last Plantagenet Consorts: Gender, Genealogy, and Historiography, 1440-1627”

#we are all so fortunate for read more links #this thing just spiraled out of control #the more I researched the more stuff I just couldn't NOT include #she's one of my favorite historical ladies can't you tell #I also deliberated over the gown #she always gets drawn in that one red gown #but I thought blue might be nice #it's also the color of royal mourning which is appropriate #Elizabeth of York #Henry VII #Tudor #england #victims of the childbed #art #my art

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 5 years

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Humans are Space Orcs “Joke’s on You.”

Thank you to an anonymous reader who requested this prompt. I hope you find it entertaining.

Krill emerged from his restful trance to the sound of cursing. Violent, aggressive cursing followed by the sound of ruckus laughter. He had been floating absently down the hallways of the ship suspended in his restful trance allowing the natural air currents of the ship to carry him from one end to the other. He was close to the crew’s sleeping quarters.

With a quick hiss, he released the hydrogen from its sack finally making contact with the cold metal floor to scuttle off down the hallway.

He made it to the crew’s quarters just in time to see Petty Officer Ramirez stumbling from bed face and right hand covered in shaving cream. The additional crew sleeping in the room sat on their beds giggling and jeering as the man cursed and stumbled towards the bathroom.

Towards the door Airman Young called, “APRIL FOOLS!”

The entire room went suddenly quiet. Expressions of amused laughter narrowed to deep expressions of distrust and paranoia. A few of the crewmen began glancing under their beds. One of the men even turned over his boot and shook it onto the floor as if he expected to find something there.

Krill didn’t like the look of that, and he didn’t like the sound of that either. He knew what a fool was, but he had no idea what an April was. It didn’t translate, so he couldn’t be sure what was going on. Not wanting any part in this, rill moved on down the hallway just in time to hear screaming from the female quarters of the ship.

Female humans were more likely to use sonic attacks than their male counterparts, plus they were better at it, though this one sounded more like a warning call than an attack, so he hurried over peering in to find Chief Warrant Officer McKay standing in a shower of glitter hands held out to her sides. Her uniform was absolutely covered in the tiny shimmering flakes all of which seemed to have fallen from her cap which she now removed in a glittery waterfall of horror.

“I am NEVER going to be able to get rid of this…. You A**holes.” Though she seemed livid, the anger on her face quickly melted away, and she began racing around the room rolling on the other women’s’ beds and hugging anyone she could make contact with. The screaming and laughing must have echoed down the hallway to the men’s quarters, and now they were cautiously peering out from their rooms testing the ground before them with tentative steps.

One of the men peered in at the glittery carnage and laughed in delight, “Glitter bomb.” He looked down at krill, “Better hunker in in prepare for war, this is going to get ugly.”

Krill stared up at the crewman in confusion, “Why?”

“Why my fine quadruped today is April fools, the day we humans use as an excuse to play mean jokes on each other and laugh.”

That was not exactly a good explanation for Krill, but the humans had already moved on before he could ask further questions, but he watched as the crew slowly moved up the corridor and towards the captain’s quarters. Trying the door handle, they found it to be locked.

The captain’s voice rose up on the other side of the door, “Not this year. No one waking me up with a chainsaw this year. That is not how this day begins.”

The crew looed slightly miffed, but shrugged it off.

On the sly, Krill thought he caught one of the crewwomen grinning evilly behind someone’s back.

A sudden loud clatter from the captain’s quarters heralded another string of cursing and a couple of loud thumping noises. The door hissed open and the captain stumbled against the frame, “Which one of you took the time to make a PERFECT replica of my leg with FOAM and then swamp if for my real one….. Who the hell does that!” In his other hand, he brandished a crumbled looking bionic leg. While the undamaged parts looked impressively like the real thing, the breaks clearly showed its truth. “This is!... Amazing actually really talented, but also its MEAN it steal from the crippled.”

No one seemed all that ashamed, not even when no one came forward to return the leg, and the captain was forced to hop his way down the hallway between bouts of cursing and laughing.

In fact, they all laughed.

Krill was very scared at what this day was to bring.

He honestly couldn’t have known that April fools generally doesn’t get this intense with most humans, but the crew of this particular ship had the unfortunate circumstance of being full of pranksters and misfits. It probably shouldn’t have happened that way, but sometimes the universe rolls an unusually exceptional hand.

When they finally stumbled onto the bridge past the trip wires and motion sensors, they found the entire room plastered with stick on googly eyes. Sizes on the googly eyes ranged from smaller than a fingernail to about the size of the average person’s head. Krill found the effect to be rather disconcerting, though it gave the ship a rather inebriated expression of lopsided misfortune.

The Captain seemed impressed, that was until he tried to sit down on the command chair. Someone had apparently gone in and loosened the bolts, which held the chair in place. Under the captain’s weight, the chair subsequently collapsed and spilled him onto the floor. The rest of the crew found that mightily entertaining until a few unfortunate crew members learned that the same trickster hadn’t simply targeted the captain.

Those chairs that had not been unbolted from the ground had air horns and canisters of silly-string locked into their springs. Krill was honestly afraid to move assuming a bucket of glue or pant would be dumped down on his head, or, somehow, he might step into a bear trap.

The captain still didn’t have his leg back, and seemed to be growing rather frustrated with his inability to move around properly. The rest of the crew seemed about 0% sorry for him laughing at his inconvenience.

But it didn’t end there, oh if only it had.

Someone had plastered clear tape over all the toilets and urinals causing at least two crewmembers to pee on themselves and at least four more to make a mess all over the floor. The captain ended up calling one of the younger airmen into the room, and in his rush, the poor boy missed the plastic wrap tied across the sliding door at about face level. He ran into the wrap, and the door closed behind him trapping him by his face against the door, while the rest of the crew laughed.

Someone somewhere tampered with the crew’s food, and the three crewmembers who had completely forgotten what day it was ended up with lower GI involvement, and at least half a day in the bathroom until Krill came to their aid with a neutralizing agent.

He honesty felt as if he was in a war zone slipping from one room to the next treating minor injuries and poisonings all the while attempting to dodge enemy attacks as the pranking grew in escalation.

Three humans, turned themselves various shades of neon colors when it was determined that the shower heads had been tampered with. The captain claimed responsibility for that one and additional responsibility when two dozen more crewmen had their hands changed color when trying to wash their hands.

Multicolored, and paranoid, the humans moved their way around the ship looking for the rest of the pranks, all while watching the captain as he went hunting for his leg. At this point he had appropriated two younger crewmen to help him as he walked.

Krill stayed at the very back of the group mistrusting every sound and doorknob they came into contact with.

One of the younger women was picked to check the next door, a cleaning closet, and as it opened, a thousand tiny black figures spilled from the door and onto the ground landing in her hair and on her uniform tiny legs splayed outwards.

The scream she let off could have shattered glass, and she danced away screaming and batting at her hair. She stopped once she realized the tiny black bodies weren’t moving, in grudging relief when she learned that they were only plastic.

The captain received a punch on the arm when he took credit for that one.

Similar pranks included rubber snakes tied by wire to cupboards and drawers.

Krill was forced to return to the medical bay for more minor-injury supplies, and was just leaving through the hatch when a low growl stopped him in his tracks. Trembling terribly, he turned and was confronted by a massive reptilian head mouth lined with huge glittering teeth. The high pitch shrill he let off would have deafened anyone were it within normal hearing range. He dropped the medical supplies screaming and running as the creature chased after him massive predatory head swinging and roaring.

He was going to die.

And then one of the crewmen stepped into his path elegantly clothes lining the raptor to the floor. A foot flew free from the raptor shoe, and Krill in his relief found a human encased inside the rubberized costume.

If he had a heart he would have had a heart attack, but there might still be a possibility of him having a stroke.

He still wasn’t sure that he wasn’t going to die. There was a very real possibility that that could still happen. No doubt in his mind.

The engine room was the last place to look. The captain doubted they fouled find anything serious in there, since the room was connected directly to the warp-core chamber, and no one should be dumb enough to mess around near the warp core.

He was partially correct.

They found the captain’s leg, and the captain’s dog.

They found Waffles, poor girl, sitting in the center of the room. The light tan of her fur had been died a bubblegum pink and her usual black collar had been replaced by a glittery bedazzled harness. Whoever had put her here hadn’t been a terrible person and left food and water for her.

With big mournful eyes she looked up at her captain head low tail wagging piteously sitting as she was above his bionic leg, which had been covered in zip ties.

“Hey girl.” He said, “What have they don’t to you, those terrible people.”

She seemed happy upon seeing him and perked up from her mournful state once she realized she wasn’t in trouble.

“Turned my dog pink.” The captain grumbled in annoyance as he examined the dog’s fur.

The expression he gave the bionic leg was not dissimilar to the dog’s mournful expression, “That will take forever to remove.

***

Things died down towards nightfall, and while the captain’s dog was still pink, he had at least released his leg from the zip ties, and was back to moving around the ship on his own power.

Krill was finally coming down from his stress high.

One of these days he was just going to drop dead, and he almost did walking into his office to find someone had plastered pictures of ballerinas all around the room. Everyone knew that they freaked him out, and apparently they thought it would be funny to continue the growth of his potential aneurysm

Krill wasn’t sure the real point of this, “Holiday or Tradition” the humans seemed to think it was downright hilarious, but some of it was pretty mean intended to scare or even hurt the other humans. No one seemed to mind too greatly, and most of them admitted to enjoying the day congratulating others on proper prank execution.

Chief Warrant Officer McKay was still shedding glitter, and admitted doubts that she would ever fully rid herself.

Krill wasn’t totally sure what glitter was, but he definitely hoped the humans wouldn’t realize its potential application for bio warfare. If glitter got everywhere than what would stop someone from using it as a delivery system for terror.

The thought made him shiver.

Thank you everyone for reading. I was honestly thinking at first that the crew member dressed as a dinosaur would be wearing a costume like they used for the Jurassic park movies, but I realized the idea would be much funnier if they were just using one of those blow-up dinosaur costumes. You know the ones I am talking about

#humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #humans are weird #humans are space australians #earth is space australia

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sapphicscholar · 5 years

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Pride Month Prompts Day 2: Rainbow (Grace/Frankie)

From this Pride Month Prompts post! I’m taking the opportunity to write some short fics for a variety of pairings that I haven’t written for as much, maybe at all. They won’t be going on AO3, so I’ll be sure to tag them all with #pride month prompts so you can find them later if you want.

Day 2: Rainbow

Pairing: Grace/Frankie A/N: I’ve never written for Grace and Frankie before, so hopefully I did them a bit of justice, even though I’m still trying to get their voices and figure out my style for writing them as a pairing. I might try a few more prompts with them this month...we’ll see!

“Tomorrow’s June 1st. You know what that means, don’t ya?” Frankie had asked, apropos of absolutely nothing in between the gummy bears she picked up and popped into her mouth one by one during the commercial breaks of annual Scripps Spelling Bee.

Grace tried to remember. She’d always thought of herself as a considerate partner--she’d certainly been more likely to remember important dates and moments than Robert had, that’s for sure, and she knew his secretary was the only reason she always received a timely, perfectly impersonal gift for their wedding anniversary. But with Frankie, suddenly things weren’t so clear. Grace had inscribed a careful, cursive F inside of her planner on April 17, the day that all of the feelings that she’d been pushing down further and further finally beat back the dam and demanded her attention, demanded that she lean over and kiss the infuriating, impossible woman who she’d fallen in love with at some point over the years. But Frankie recognized so many other dates as important milestones in the relationship she’d described later that same night as being “like playing fetch with that old dog we had, Ernie, remember him?” Grace mainly remembered the way he’d smelled like kibble and rain and mud. “We’d throw a ball for him, and, well, he wasn’t exactly a professional fetch player, if you know what I mean, but he’d meander over. Maybe sniff the grass. Eat a bug. Chew on a stick. Really enjoy the whole experience, one with nature and all that. Pretty enlightened if you think about it. And eventually, he’d find whatever you threw and make his way back to you.” Grace had been halfway to offended until Frankie had added: “Fetch with Ernie.” Us. She gestured between them. “Inevitable. You just have to be patient, trust that things will work out.” So instead of getting snippy with Frankie, Grace had found herself kissing Frankie, again, for the better part of an hour until her neck was stiff and her bad knee demanded something stronger than the heat and ice Frankie would suggest.

A few days later, once it was easier to be alone on the couch together without reveling in the newfound ability to lean over and hold hands or hold one another or kiss, Grace finally asked Frankie about the milestones she’d mentioned. As Frankie began listing them, Grace realized she might need a separate planner just to keep track. Because there was the first time Grace made a proper promise with a kiss. The first time they had a whole meal together uninterrupted by phone calls or fights or family members barging into the house. The first time Grace actually ate something at Del Taco. The first time Frankie had an erotic dream about Grace and Del Taco’s queso--unsurprisingly, those two shared a date. The morning on the beach when Frankie first realized she could spend the rest of her life with no one but Grace and be happy. The first time Frankie had an inkling that Grace might feel the same way.

Still, June 1st wasn’t ringing any bells. “Alright, you’ve got me. What is it? Is it the first time we got high together?”

“Don’t jest, Grace. We all know that was an early spring evening just before Mercury entered retrograde.”

“But of course.” Still, she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Just barely.

“It’s Pride month! Oh Grace, there’s glitter and rainbows and parades--you know how much I like a good parade.” The distinction between good and bad parades was still lost on Grace, though Frankie had been working to explain it, mainly by yelling, “Bad!” whenever they happened to drive past a bad parade or see a bad parade on TV or see something that reminded Frankie of a past bad parade.

“Are you...celebrating?”

“Well of course! But not with those Wall Street sellout types.”

“Obviously.” Frankie beamed at her like she’d done something right, so Grace once more resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“But remember that potluck Babe organized her last year here? Then on Facebook I got an ad for Gay Day at the Beach and a 65+ mixer. And I know it means Mark and all his little friends are listening to me.” She glared at her cell phone. “I know you can hear me, but you don’t own me!” A moment later her attention was back on Grace. “Doesn’t that sound great?”

Grace swallowed heavily, thinking of Robert’s theater friends and the big loud crowds of 20-somethings all yelling about how happy they were to be out and proud when she’d spent her 20s pushing down memories of kissing her best friend in a darkened dorm room and following instructions as everyone around her reminded her that it was time to find the right kind of man and settle down into the right kind of life. She managed some vague noise of assent before begging off with claims of exhaustion, knowing Frankie was never one to discourage napping.

Over the next few days, Grace watched as Frankie trotted out colorful outfit after colorful outfit. Not that her typical color palette was what anyone would call reserved, but now there were patches and buttons and bright swaths of primary colors that made Frankie beam every time she caught sight of herself in the mirror. And Grace tried. She pulled out the pink button up she knew Frankie liked, and tried to shy away from the blacks and grays and navys and tans she too often favored. But still, her colors always turned out more J-Crew in the Summer than Queer Grandmas at Pride. Anything more than that made her stomach clench uncomfortably, like she was trying to force herself into a mold that fit no better than motherhood and heterosexuality had.

So it was with no small amount of trepidation that Grace accepted the rainbow gift bag from Frankie, who stood in front of her, bouncing on the balls of her feet, nearly vibrating with energy as she waited for Grace to tear into the present she’d gotten her “for Pride, of course!”

The first item she pulled out was a coffee mug with Straight Outta the Closet printed on it--an homage Grace recognized only because of the weekend Frankie had come back from some protest or other and made them listen to N.W.A. again and again in her studio until the neighbors came over and asked them to keep it down or at least shut the windows. It wasn’t anything Grace would ever have picked for herself, but it reminded her of Frankie enough that she already knew she’d be using it frequently, just like she’d spent a whole month drinking her coffee out of the matching Vybrant-purple coffee mugs Frankie had made for them.

“There’s still one more thing for today’s potluck!”

“Right.” Grace forced herself to smile as she dug into the tissue paper exploding out of the bag. But she didn’t find the rainbow tutu Frankie had laughed about for a solid three minutes or even one of the t-shirts she’d browsed for hours. Instead, she found a rainbow enamel pin, about the size of her nail.

“I thought you could pin it to that big bag you carry to the beach. Just right in the corner.”

And it was small and understated, but still bright and colorful. A tiny, personal reminder of what this first Pride month being together meant. The kind of thing that could be overlooked, but wouldn’t be by those who knew to look. She didn’t realize she was getting emotional until she felt tears she refused to let fall prickling at her eyes. “It’s perfect,” Grace whispered. “How’d you know?”

“You forget that I am an intuitive witch, Grace Hanson.” Frankie grinned as she reached out a hand, tangling her fingers with Grace’s. It would probably last only until they hit the beach or the water or the first person whose reaction wasn’t already guaranteed to be fine strolling along the shore. But until then, Grace’s hand--always slightly cool to the touch, but perfectly moisturized, perfectly manicured (but nails kept shorter these days, thank you very much)--would find its home in hers, and until then, Frankie would enjoy every second of it.

#pride month prompts #grace x frankie #fanfic #grace hanson #frankie bergstein #grace and frankie #ficlet

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theliterateape · 4 years

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The Cat with the Key

By J. L. Thurston

Note from the author: I would absolutely love to claim this entire story as my creation. I do love this tale tremendously. But I was inspired to write this after reading a writing prompt on Pintrest that actually originated from a Tumblr post that was highlighted on Ladnow.com. The exact link actually does not exist, as it is quite old. I wrote this story because it is an idea that deserves to be written.

IT WAS A RAINY DAY IN BARTONSHIRE, as were most days, when Jane Alaric declared her wish to marry. Such a thing would not be so extraordinary, save for the fact that Jane was nearly thirty and was still considered the most beautiful woman any man had ever seen. She had been propositioned by dukes and lords, haughty heirs and desperate commoners alike. In Jane’s opinion, her beauty was the least interesting thing in her life, but it seemed to be all anyone cared for.

Her bloodline was a mystery, and rumors were abounding. Some said her father was the king’s sorcerer and he had purchased Jane from the Fae in exchange for his soul. Others say Jane had no family. She had simply grown from the ground in the form of a flower. Under the light of a full moon, an angel plucked the flower and it became a woman.

In the city of Allensville, they feared her. She was chased away and accused of witchcraft. She was absolved by the Cardinal of Elderbast. In all places, women seethed behind her back and glared at their husbands whenever Jane was near. It had been ten years since she had quietly settled in the village of Bartonshire. She found solace in the sleepy seaside town where there were fewer men to chase her.

Yes, beauty was something Jane had little time or patience for. It had cost much. But the life of a shut-in was not a joyful one. Her loneliness was so deep, and so bitter, and so profound that the previous summer no flowers grew in any of her gardens. Mother nature herself was demanding she find a companion.

It was a worrisome thought. Every man she’d ever met only wanted her for her beauty, and no man was worthy to learn her many secrets. It would be difficult to find a man who would protect them.

So it was on a rainy, cold, blustering day in March, that Jane announced that she would take her door key and tie it around the neck of a cat. The man who could get the key and unlock her front door would be the man she would marry.

The heavens opened, and all of Bartonshire was beneath a downpour for two solid days. No cat was seen. The third morning arrived with clear skies and Marcus the butcher spotted a glossy black cat bearing a gold key on a chain. It was just before dawn, and the cat disappeared down an alley before he could get a closer look. That night, Adam Hoss caught sight of the feline as he docked his fishing boat.

It was the fourth day that the chase began in earnest.

Stephen Warfer gathered five of his closest drinking buddies and they scoured the streets for hours. Twice they spotted the cat. The first time, the beast was sunbathing on the roof of the tannery, and by the time Stephen and his friends drew near it was long gone. The second sighting was on the wide cobblestones of Arbor Street. The gang of men drew exceedingly close as the cat stared with wise green eyes. Then, in a flash, the cat darted off, sending the men stumbling after it.

Stephen Warfer’s group was not the only band of men to rally together. And the women of Bartonshire had their fun, as well. Lucy Hoss set fox traps all over her property in the hopes of tossing the captured cat into the sea. Several other women spent the next few days tying false keys around any feline they could get their hands on. The fifth day found Bartonshire littered with key-toting kitties. The trick worked to make fools of dozens of men, as each cat was caught and each key was forced upon Jane’s front door.

Twelve years ago, Rufus had been thrown from his father’s horse, shattering his leg. The bones grew back as knotted as an oak branch.

Andrew Barge refused to chase the cat. Instead he belted serenades outside Jane’s darkened kitchen window, to the dismay of his young fiancé. Simon Dore spent every last penny he had on roses that slowly died on Jane’s steps. Efforts stooped low as Bart Thomas attempted to bribe the locksmith into opening Jane’s door. When the locksmith refused, he sat at her door for hours with his own ill-fashioned pick.

All the while, through the chasing, hollering, and scheming, as the men taunted each other’s efforts in the taverns and awoke with newfound fervor, there was one man who quietly laughed at them from the comfort of his home.

The afternoon of that legendary first day, mere hours after Jane announced her desire to marry, Rufus the painter and potter was sipping tea by his window when he spotted glittering eyes through a heavy curtain of rain. The black cat with the gold key had taken shelter under an overhanging eave of his shed. He chuckled to himself, as he thought of the game Jane had put upon the town and continued to sip his tea.

Twelve years ago, Rufus had been thrown from his father’s horse, shattering his leg. The bones grew back as knotted as an oak branch. Thus, he was not a man to go chasing after four legged critters. But as the night grew chill, and the rain refused to let up, Rufus could not help but feel sorry for the cat who had taken shelter on his property.

Before bed, he warmed a saucer of milk and limped to his front door. Clicking his tongue at the cat, he set the saucer down on his porch and went back inside. He was not surprised to find it empty the next day. Nor was he surprised to find glittering eyes looking at him in the darkness that following night. Evenings passed this way. One dry night, he sat on his porch as the cat lapped up the milk and chewed on the fish bones.

“I have to admit,” Rufus said, listening to the purr of the cat. “I felt sorry for you that first night. With every hungry man chasing you down. But I’ve heard them talk. You have them all spinning on their heads, don’t you, kitty?”

The cat blinked up at him placidly. Rufus laughed.

“Oh, yes. You aren’t one to be captured. Not in a million years.”

After a moment, the cat slinked forward and leapt into Rufus’ lap. In a soft ball of purrs, the cat settled in. Automatically, Rufus stroked her sleek black fur. The key made soft tones against the chain around her neck. He smiled, knowing that any man in town would give anything to be in his shoes at that moment. An absolute first.

Rufus stroked her, and he eyed the key. He could quite easily remove it and win the game he hadn’t been playing. According to Jane, he’d be able to marry her. But the poor woman wouldn’t want a man such as him. Broken, teetering on the brink of poverty. He only had a home because his parents left it to him. He only had coin because his hands picked up where his legs failed him.

Still…

Rufus removed the chain from the cat’s neck. The cat leapt from his lap. Just as her paws touched the wood planks of the porch, she was no longer a cat. Jane stood before him, as naked as the moon, grinning from ear to ear.

Gasping, spluttering, heart hammering, Rufus was led inside his own home so that Jane could share with him the first of her many secrets.

They were wed on a flowering spring day in April. They had three children who grew up beautiful and strong. Jane was lovely until the day she died, but she was so much more than that. She gave her secrets to her children, and her legacy continues in her bloodline. But, more importantly, she did not die lonely and bitter. She died with a full heart, asleep in the arms of her lover, who died that same night, holding in his arms the embodiment of his happiness.

#Love #Magic #Fiction #J. L. Thurston #Chasing Tail #Cat #Key #Beauty

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newstfionline · 6 years

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Divided By Drought

By Kevin Sieff, Washington Post, February 23, 2018

CAPE TOWN, South Africa--What do you do when your city is running out of water? The answer, at least in one of the world’s most unequal countries, depends on how much money you have.

Within the next few months, Cape Town’s taps could run dry, the result of a protracted drought and a government failure to provide an alternative water source to this city of 4 million. Now, residents are scrambling to find their own private solutions.

For the wealthy, that means hiring companies to dig boreholes and wells. It means buying truckloads of bottled water, even at inflated prices. It means ordering desalination machines to make groundwater drinkable--or safe enough to fill a swimming pool.

For the poor, it means waiting to see what the government comes up with, and contemplating whether you can afford to cut back on food to be able to buy water.

In modern history, no city in the developed world has ever run out of water. Cape Town’s experience, then, may be a Hobbesian test of the way people on opposite ends of the 21st century’s income gap access the most basic resources in the most dire times.

“Inequity plays out in water very obviously, and what we’re seeing in Cape Town risks becoming an example of that,” said Giulio Boccaletti, the global managing director for water with the Nature Conservancy. “The social contract breaks down, if the rich find their own solution and leave the rest to fend for themselves.”

A few miles from the city’s glittering coastline, Portia Ngqulana, 33, sat in her home in the Gugulethu settlement, an agglomeration of small concrete homes and sheet-metal shacks where water arrives via communal taps, each shared by about 200 people. So far, it’s still flowing--most of the time.

“If the water stops, what can we do? We’ll eat less, I guess, and we’ll find a way to buy bottles,” she said.

Settlements such as Gugulethu have long been marginalized. During decades of white-minority rule, blacks were forcibly relocated there, and residents frequently clashed with police. One day in 1986, seven young black activists were killed by security forces in Gugulethu, a landmark moment in the struggle against apartheid.

Even after the end of apartheid and the election of Nelson Mandela, the neighborhood remained poor and neglected. The public water taps were among the scant examples of government assistance, and even they leaked much of the time.

“I don’t know what we’ll do if they stop flowing,” said Richard Ndabezitha, 60, who is living on a $200-per-month government pension.

In other parts of the city, the water shortage has prompted a surge of spending, families investing millions of dollars to insulate themselves from the drought.

For $6,000, a borehole can be dug, tapping into underwater reservoirs. For $2,000, a company sells a machine that claims to turn moisture in the air into potable water. For $400, people can buy special washing machines that use small quantities of water. In upscale parts of the city, bottled water has been sold out for days at a time.

“The lesson here is that you can’t trust the government to provide water for you,” said Gabby De Wet, whose family owns De Wet’s Wellpoints and Boreholes. The company now puts new clients on a waiting list and says it may not get to their requests until September. “People are taking things into their own hands.”

Last year, the World Bank surveyed 154 countries and determined the South Africa had the world’s highest Gini coefficient, a common measure of inequality. According to Anna Orthofer, a professor at South Africa’s Stellenbosch University, 10 percent of the population owns more than 90 percent of the country’s wealth.

Cape Town is a remarkable illustration of those statistics. Last year, a handful of homes overlooking the Atlantic Ocean sold for around $10 million each. A new luxury hotel opened in a renovated grain silo, offering its penthouse suite for $10,000 a night. Fifteen minutes away, in the settlement of Khayelitsha, the per capita income is less than $2,000 per year.

Inequality here is often racialized, with whites concentrated in the city’s wealthiest enclaves. The government says the poor, informal settlements will be prioritized in its emergency water distribution plan, making them among the last places to lose water. So far, because of the shortages, the city has imposed a daily consumption limit of 50 liters per person.

“The city is very aware of the need to be sensitive to the vulnerable and poor,” said Xanthea Limberg, the member of Cape Town’s city council in charge of water and waste services. Under the city’s disaster plan, she added, informal settlements will receive water as long it is available, to prevent disease from spreading through densely populated areas. Cape Town was originally expected to run out of water in April; now, thanks to conservation, that potential “Day Zero” has been pushed back to July, officials say.

In the United States and Europe, until the early 20th century, clean water was largely supplied to homes by private wells or utilities, and poor residents often had less access to it. The result was frequent outbreaks of disease, such as cholera, in places with poor sanitation. In the early 1900s, urban planners began to consider water as a public good, distributed without regard for economic status and funded by a broad tax base. When water runs out, that system and its underlying philosophy could be weakened.

The water shortage is far from the only example of how Cape Town’s poorest communities have struggled for basic services. Just over half of the homes in Gugulethu, for example, have toilets, according to the country’s census. But the current crisis has underscored the stakes of the city’s wealth gap.

Cape Town officials have tried to respond in a democratic way, opening up natural springs at the base of Table Mountain to anyone with a water jug. On a recent afternoon, people of different races and economic backgrounds formed lines to fill up.

But those springs are miles away from the city’s informal settlements, and there is no available public transportation.

“How are we going to get there?” Ndabezitha asked.

For some of the city’s poorest residents, the other stark reminder of inequality relates to the way water is used. When Andiswa Maxakata, an unemployed resident of Gugulethu, travels through the city’s wealthy suburbs, she sees pools and golf courses.

“They’re using water to fill their pools!” she exclaimed. “That’s why we don’t have any left.”

Still, she added: “If I had a pool, I guess I’d be filling it, too.”

About 10 miles away from Gugulethu, in the suburb of Table View, Carsten Hensel, 31, was having a wellpoint installed in his back yard, next to his swimming pool. It cost $700.

“Actually pretty cheap,” he remarked.

Hensel wasn’t sure yet whether he would use the water to fill the pool or to water his garden. Mostly, it was a fail-safe in case the water situation deteriorated.

“In the long term, there’s no other solution,” he said.

Doug Cloete, a 48-year-old IT consultant, grew up in a poor family, cautious enough about the cost of water that he and his two brothers took turns bathing in the same bath water before draining it.

“Now I would categorize us as middle-class,” he said. “We have resources that most people don’t. Now, we’re able to stockpile water.”

As the drought deepened last year, and people began to talk about the possibility of a water shortage, Cloete bought 250 liters of bottled water for about $65, filling a room in his home in the Bothasig suburb. He also installed a wellpoint to extract water from deep underground.

He had always been conscious of his relative privilege. With the water crisis looming, that awareness grew more acute.

“There’s a massive section of the community that doesn’t have this disposable income,” he said. “They can’t afford to prepare for the worst.”

#South Africa #Cape Town water shortage #Day Zero

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