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cryysiswritesthings · 4 years

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A Year, A Century || Reunion AU

Series: Inuyasha Rating: PG-13 Warnings: Implied/Referenced Character Death Status: Complete Pairing: KogKag Summary:

The sounds aren't real, the smell is his nose playing tricks. Kouga knows that. Of course he knows that. She's been gone for five centuries. He'd never seen her again.

...

It can't be.

Find it On: AO3

Tumblr Tags: #kogkag #inuyasha

Kouga walks the streets of another city, draped in a faded sweater/jacket combo, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the strings of an old duffle over his shoulder. It’s been decades since he’s seen any of the pack. Ginta and Hakkaku have tried keeping steady contact, but it’s too much for him to keep in touch. He needs the distance from them. From their worried eyes, their friendly recommendations. The unwarranted (rage inducing, heart crushing) advice.

(Wolves mate for life. No amount of time would ever be able to change that.)

He stays away from cities regularly, only stomachs them when his clothes are nearly rags. Where he’s at now isn't large, but as part of the trail to the Mountains of Dewa, it's full of students and tourists. Still, the forests border the edge of town; getting back to his cabin won’t take any time.

He's half out of it, not really paying attention to what’s going on. That’s why when he first hears it, he thinks he's dreaming. A laugh that sounds like a faded memory. But he knows that’s all it is, just another memory of a long lost girl superimposed on someone in the here and now.

When Kouga hears it again, he wonders if he’s finally lost it. He only just stops himself from straining his ears to listen. But it’s the scent on the breeze that does it, that brings his slow walk to an abrupt halt. Its like someone threw open the windows in his mind and a gust of wind blew through, bringing all his memories with it.

The sounds aren't real, the smell is his nose playing tricks. Kouga knows that. Of course he knows that. She's been gone for five centuries. He'd never seen her again.

…

It can’t be.

Kagome is walking the streets with her friends when she feels it. An impossible well of power, something she hasn’t seen since the closing of the well. Her intake of breath is sudden and sharp, stopping her in her tracks. Her head turns automatically to track it, ready to shout a warning to people who are no longer there.

It’s gone as quickly as it appeared.

Her friends look worried, having stopped themselves when they realized she wasn't following. They're good friends, people she's met and gotten along with since college where they first met. Even Ayumi is here, the only one of the original three she'd never lost touch with over the years.

Ayumi is the one who calls her name, snapping Kagome back to the present. She must have imagined it. There haven't been demons in Japan for centuries. Or at least not that she’s seen. She would be the one to know; she hadn’t stopped searching for a sign of them until three years ago.

She waves it off, trying to smile even if it feels wrong in her face. Ayumi is looking at her the same way she did during her first year back. Like she's waiting for something. Sympathetic, but wondering if this is the day one of her best friends is going to crack.

As much as she understands it, Kagome hates that look more than she wants to admit.

The girls continue their trek. Kagome tries to pay attention, has to fight the urge to turn back and make a run for it. She’s crazy. They don’t exist. Time has proven it. She knows it, her mother and brother know it, even her grandfather knows it. Still wasn’t easy to accept.

They debate stopping, and Kagome tries to get back in the swing of things. She doesn't want to get lost in the past, trapped forever and alone with her memories. She wants better than that. Deserves it.

They're in front of a restaurant when it hits her again, and it makes her whole body turn with the force of it, searching desperately for the source. She takes a step, ready to run, when she remembers who she's with.

But Ayumi's smile has changed, an understanding she hasn't seen in centuries (not since she befriended a demon slayer and began the building of a life-long, now distant friendship.) That smile tells her to go, to find whatever it is she needs to find. Whatever it takes to make her whole again.

Kagome’s gone faster than her friends can blink, kicking up a there-and-gone cyclone of wind.

Her running feet carry her through the city, through gaggles of students and local teens (all no older than she used to be, back then, before, when time could mean anything.) She passes through them like a ghost, flickers of eyes catching her frantic pace without acknowledgment.

It reminds her of running through a long forgotten forest, makes her blood sing.

The aura disappears and she collapses against a column, giving herself a chance to breathe. She doesn’t know where she is, only knows that she’s near the city center. The buildings are reminders of the once grand greco-roman empire, but are covered with flecks of paint. This place doesn’t have to try and make itself look old, it already is. Instead you see the city that’s grown around it.

Kagome’s caught her breath, so she straightens, taking in the sights. She knows what direction she needs to head in, but there’s a part of her still fighting it. A corner of her mind is screaming to let it go, that if she can ignore this, she’ll have finally moved on in her new life. She should listen to it. She knows it.

There’s a hum against her skin, demonic power like static making the hair on her arm stand on end. There’s no feeling in it, nothing to tell her if its malicious or benevolent. But its unsure, flickering. As if its feeling the same uncertainty she is. Like it’s not sure if it wants to be found.

She’s already moving, but slower now, more carefully. Nervous as she is, the last thing she wants is to spook it.

It comes and goes, leading her through the streets, making her search with her own power to seek it out. Her reiki reacts as quickly to her commands now as it did then. The years have changed how she looks. They haven’t done much for what she is.

(Shard detector, miko, reincarnation, friend, enemy, protector, protected. Family.)

The buildings have grown smaller. More shabby, less populated. The road was cobblestone, but no longer. It’s only dirt now, rocks scattered at its edge. The treeline is in sight, a barrier separating the city and its inhabitants (the villagers knew to fear the woods, had never lingered near that terrifying line) from the wild and its wonders. The smell of wet earth and deep forest sits heavy in the air; the snap of a twig sets her heart pounding.

Whatever she found here, something was going to change.

There weren't words to describe how desperately she needed it.

It was her. Standing there, only feet away.

It shouldn't have been possible; Kagome had been many things (the love of his life, the song in his heart, the wind in his hair, the mountains at his back), but she was human. Death was always going to come for her unless she bound herself to a demon. (Even the mutt would do, as long as it meant she lived.)

But here she is, as beautiful as he remembers her. Silky black hair, sapphire eyes, rosey skin. A scent he could track anywhere he went.

(How that moronic half breed had ever thought she looked even remotely like that pasty ass priestess was beyond him.)

All he had to do was step out from the trees and he could touch her. Tell her he was there, and she’d speak to him. He’d hear his name on her lips.

His voice was gone. He couldn’t make his legs move.

She was right there, right in front of him, and he was scared fucking stiff.

She didn't know how long she stood there, searching with unused senses for something she couldn't see with her eyes. The longer she stood at the edge, the closer she was to the precipice. One wrong move, and she'd fall from the edge. Never to be seen again.

Her heart is pounding in her chest, enough to make her think she can hear it with human ears. If she even thinks she hears it, she knows whatever is out there surely can. But it isn't coming.

(That's the problem with hope. It can be the most powerful thing in the world, or the most devastating.)

Heartbreak clogs her throat, brings salt to her eyes that makes them sting. She doesn't want to cry. She doesn't want to give up. (It was real, she knows it, she KNOWS it was real!)

The space in front of her stays empty. There's nothing there.

No one's coming.

Quakes rack the frame of her body, and she thinks this is it. The world is coming down around her, forcing her to face reality.

No one's coming.

The weight of the world drags her knees to the ground.

They don't make it.

They’re laying on their sides in his bed, staring at each other. Neither can really believe they’re here, that this is happening. He’d watched the fight leave her, seen her ready to give up everything. (His heart couldn't take it.)

He hadn’t thought about it. His body moved, and he’d trusted his instincts for the first time since… he couldn’t remember when. But he’d taken her and ran, legs pumping faster than they ever had (even empowered with the jewel's strength.) Kouga had kidnapped her all over again, dragged her to the safety of his cabin (the privacy of his den) and hadn’t cared a damn bit.

(He wasn’t going to lose her again.)

If he’d been any less of a demon, any less of a man, he’d have already sunk his teeth in her neck and bound her life to his. Made it so she would be as indestructible, as forever lasting, as him.

But he couldn’t do it. Not because he wasn’t selfish (there was still a high chance he’d do it sometime over the next few days), not because he was worried she’d hate him when he did. It was just… he hadn’t seen her in five hundred years. What a hell of a first impression.

A crack in the window let cool air in, goosebumps rising on her delicate skin. Kouga’s hand moved on its own, the backs of his fingers brushing over the ridges of her dress. Her gasp was quiet, almost inaudible even to him.

(She was here. She was real. This wasn’t a dream.)

Kouga’s thoughts are so focused inward, he doesn't see her hand moving. But he feels it when the pads of her fingers hover over his cheek, light as a butterflies wing. It's like she's afraid to touch him, like she'll shatter the illusion if she does. He understands completely, but he wants that touch more than he needs to breathe.

He turns his face into her palm, nose brushing over its center. The slightest twitch in her fingers, and he grazes his lips over the meat of her thumb, down to her wrist. He can feel the blood, warm under her skin, her pulse fluttering against his lips. (It's everything.)

There's no stopping it; Kouga holds her hand to his cheek and kisses the bend, soft lingering things, breath moistening her skin. He inhales, and the smell hits him like a ton of bricks.

(She wants him.)

His hand moves from her waist to the hem of her dress, risen high on her thigh. Warm fingers cup smooth flesh, slipping beneath the fabric to pull her thigh over his. The smell assaults him, hardening him in his jeans, but it doesn't matter. It's secondary to everything else he's feeling.

Kouga lets go of her wrist to press more kisses to her chin, up her jaw to the throbbing pulse in her neck. Kagome's not pushing him away, instead making little sounds of encouragement at his attention. He settles his attention there, tasting the life in her.

The tang of their want coats his nose, makes him heady. He wants to lose himself in it, to let go, to put everything he has into making more of it. He wants to know the fragrance of their joining, to have it linger and live in his sheets. (He wants her with him for eternity.)

He scrapes his teeth at the nape of her neck, fangs itching to grow and sink. Her core rocks into him at the feeling, and he does it again, a little harder, a little longer. Kagome’s as lost as he is, her gasps and whimpers howling in his ears. (He has her. She belongs to him.)

Rather than roll her onto her back, he drags her over him. But Kagome isn’t mindless, and she tugs him up, holding him to her. Kouga takes a moment to breathe, try to get his bearings. Kagome’s fingers are in his hair, tugging the tail loose so she can feel its length. It’s a wolfish show of affection, whether or not she’s aware of it. He feels a smile tug at his lips for the first time in decades, and nuzzles her for it.

His eyes are drawn downwards, to the sight of her dress pooling over their laps. It’s just long enough to be decent while she’s standing, but anything else (even this) reveals the softness of her skin. It does something to him, makes him want to catch, to chase, to have her always dress like this. Innocence and prey, temptation (mate.)

Kouga doesn’t see the way his eyes tint red at the edge, doesn’t feel the difference in himself as they change. But Kagome must read something in him, or knows enough about lost control and demons (don’t think about it, don’t wonder, the mutt’s been dead for years and there’s nothing he can do about it) to draw his lips back to her neck. It works, and he focuses on the taste of her skin again.

Kagome is still making those noises, the ones that go straight to his cock, make him want to claim her here and now. But the way she’s acting, there’s no need for it. He knows it, same as she.

Kagome belongs with him. She’s here, in his arms, in his woods, his cabin. He’s found her again.

Just like he knows she’s found her home in him.

#kogkag #inuyasha

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the-cookie-of-doom · 4 years

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Okay so I said I have a ton of ABO AUs in my drafts and like. Just off the top of my head, here are a few:

Hunted/Heat Haze/Fever Dream - most of you are familiar with this trilogy, since Hunted is my second most read Stitch fic after Estranged (Bc you're all horny, but surprise my attempt at pep turned into plot.) The premise is that Stiles is taking part in a mating run, but a Bad Alpha catches his scent and Stiles is running from him; he ends up getting saved by Feral Werewolf Mitch.

Massage AU - this is the one I mentioned earlier. Stiles is 19/20, a college student, and pregnant. After he starts having some complications due to a lack of alpha in his life (listen I just love that trope, okay; Omega loses their mate and it makes them physically sick?? Perfect angst.) his doctor recommends he starts regularly seeing a masseuse: Mitch. Stiles is nervous and awkward and talks a lot because of it and they become friends. Stiles goes into labor during a session and Mitch takes him to the hospital/stays with him, and a while later they start dating. Mitch is such a dad in his AU, he's got baby fever bad, he just hasn't found the right person yet. Absolutely adores Stiles' daughter from the get go, and helps him take care of her.

Medieval AU - this one is fun. Mitch is a blacksmith, Stiles is his half brother, and they have a secret relationship. It was lowkey inspired by Red Riding Hood? Specifically that festival they have; except this time it's during the full moon Bc it's one of those AUs where ABO is descended from werewolves. Mitch and Stiles are the only ones in the town who can full shift, which is rare, and Stiles being an Omega on top of it is even rarer, so he's highly sought after. Some creeper in the village finds out about their relationship and tries to blackmail Stiles into mating with him. Instead Mitch publicly challenges him for Stiles - which as Stiles' older brother/only living (alpha) relative, he has the right to do - and tears him to shreds. (That's the serious plot; the less serious plot involves the festival, which lasts for three days and is basically an excuse for everyone to party and sleep with each other. Mitch is popular among virgin girls Bc he's got the secret pain drain ability.)

Victorian AU - Mitch is a Doctor with a newborn son, who's mate just died. He hires Stiles to be the child's wetnurse; Stiles is willing to accept whatever job he can get because his father is sick and they can barely afford a doctor. Mitch sleeps with Stiles during his heat when he can't find a partner, but tries to play it off as him being a good host/taking care of Stiles to keep him healthy, it's All A Business Relationship, Nothing Personal. Eventually they do start pining but are also hella repressed Bc Victorians. When Stiles finally tells Mitch about his father, Mitch wants to see him immediately; his sickness is entirely curable, and it was the previous doctor's neglect that was killing him more than anything. But John thinks he's going to die and makes Mitch swear to take care of Stiles when it happens; not something to do lightly, entrusting your unmated son to an unknown alpha, but Mitch agrees. Then takes John back to his home and fixes him up, much to his and Stiles' relief. (Once John starts to recover he spends his time bossing Mitch around, and trying to get the boys to admit their feelings for each other.)

My Very First Stitch Fic - yep, the first one ever was ABO. And it's TRAGIC; once again they're brothers, but John has spent the last ten years trying his damndest to erase that fact. Shortly after Claudia died he sent Mitch away, and for a variety of reasons Mitch never comes home, until Stiles finally convinces him 10 years later. Mitch just graduated college and everything is completely different, including John: previously an abusive alcoholic that threw Mitch away, now welcomes him home with open arms like nothing ever happened. Ignoring the fact that Mitch has been completely written out of their lives; he's not in any of the family pictures in the house, and Stiles was only able to contact him because coach Finstock used to be Mitch's lacrosse coach at the boarding school he was sent to, and he recognized Stiles' last name. This fic isn't happy at all and isn't meant to be; all the relationships are messed up and so sad 😭, but they do get somewhat of a happy ending after all is said and done.

GoT Inspired AU - Mitch is the bastard son of a lord who is Stiles' father or guardian (haven't really decided. Originally they were half brothers but tbh, I don't think it really affects the plot either way, and it would be more believable if Stiles is the Lord's Ward after his own father was killed.) He eventually took Mitch in when he was 14, after seeing how well he fought, and decided he would make a suitable bodyguard for Stiles. Some time later, he decides to sell Stiles to an alpha werewolf in exchange for an army. When it comes time, Mitch challenges the Werewolf; he has no right, but the Werewolf doesn't take kindly to the challenge and accepts, with the intent of putting Mitch in his place. What he doesn't know is that the night before Mitch went foraging for wolfsbane and coated his knives with it. He kills the alpha, but not before getting bitten, becoming the next alpha werewolf. And his first command is to kill all of his father's men, as revenge for all the abuse he and Stiles went through growing up.

I have more but I can't think of them right now lol, I'll have to look at my files. But these are the plot heavy ones!

#cookie writes #stitch #stiles stilinski #mitch rapp

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daggerzine · 4 years

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Ray Farrell on music and his time at SST, Blast First, Geffen and many more.

Ray Farrell has had a lifetime surrounded by music. First as a fan as a young kid and then eventually working for a series of record labels. He’s obviously a fan first and foremost as you can tell by reading below. It also seemed like he was there at the beginning of some major music scenes happening.

I had met Ray very briefly at one of the A.C. Elks hardcore shows that Ralph Jones put on in Atlantic City in the Summer of 1985 though Ray doesn’t remember it (honestly, a bunch of us were standing in a circle and chatting so I’m not even sure if any proper introductions were done).

Anyway, knowing some of the record labels that Ray had worked for I wanted to hear the whole story. I contacted him and shot him some questions and he was more than happy to elaborate and let us know where he’s been and where he’s going. Take it away, Ray!

Where did you grow up?

RF-Jersey City and Parsippany, New Jersey in the 60/70’s. I have two younger brothers.

What did you listen to first…classic rock or stuff earlier than that?

RF-Rock wasn’t classic yet. My earliest memories of music are my parents’ modest collection of 45’s and grandparents’ 78’s. My mom had a handful of singles on Chess and Satellite (pre-Stax) that she said fell off a truck. We rented our house from a family connected to the mob. The records probably came from them. My mom and her sisters often sang Tin Pan Alley era songs at family gatherings. Harmony was encouraged!

Some records I heard as a toddler stayed with me forever. Lonnie Donegan’s “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor?” is a skiffle classic. Chuck Berry’s “Guitar Boogie” and “Last Night” by the Mar- Keys are still favorites. I remember being spooked by the overblown production of the “Johnny Cash Sings Hank Williams” e.p. on Sun Records. In the mid 60’s, my mom had top 40 radio on in the house unless my dad was home. When I was in kindergarten, a high school neighbor in our building babysat me for a couple hours after school a few days a week. Her girlfriends came over regularly. They listened to a lot of doo-wop, which I still love today. The babysitter and her friends taught me how to slow dance, even though I wasn’t nearly a full grown boy. J

My best friend in 7th grade was a Beatles fanatic and we immersed ourselves in decoding clues to the “Paul McCartney Is Dead” gimmick. That was a brilliant scam and a fun short term hobby. It was a deep dive into The Beatles music as a junior music detective. By the time I started buying records, The Beatles were on their way out.

I happily lived for many months on only three albums-

CCR’s “Bayou Country”, Iron Butterfly’s “In A Gadda Da Vida” and the Beatles “Sgt. Pepper.” I joined the Columbia Record Club. I got the first twelve albums for one buck. That was a popular scam. Those first twelve records shaped my taste because they were the only records I had. I didn’t know what to order but I chose very well in retrospect. After that, I bought a lot of records. I didn’t smoke, but many of my friends did. A carton of cigs cost the same as an lp- 5 bucks.

I learned in 7th grade that if I knew the songs that girls liked, we would have something to talk about. Girls loved Tommy James and The Shondells and The Rascals. I still do! I had a wider range in music taste than most of my high school friends. Everyone in my extended circle loved the Stones, Neil Young and the Allman Brothers. In a tighter circle we were into David Bowie, Lou Reed, Sparks, Todd Rundgren etc. I loved Mountain, Led Zep, Hendrix, Budgie, The Kinks, Alice Cooper, Sabbath. At first, The Stooges seemed too deep and serious for me. A little scary because I thought if teenagers felt like this all over the world, I’m doomed. I bought the album with “Loose” and played that song for weeks before listening to the rest of it. The girl next door had Iggy’ s “Raw Power” album the week it was released. When glam rock was happening in England, there was a weekly NYC radio show that played the Melody Maker Top 30 singles. I was fascinated by T.Rex, Slade, Hawkwind. I don’t recall if prog rock was a tag yet, I knew that I didn’t like songs that rambled on for more than 7 minutes. There were exceptions of course- some King Crimson, Yes, Mahavishnu. I was impressionable. Radio station WBAI hosted “Free Music Store” concerts with local acts. One show was a keyboard group called Mother Mallard that had banks of synthesizers on stage. They were similar to the music of Phillip Glass and Steve Reich, who you would only hear on that same radio station. I talked myself into buying their records, but it took years to comprehend them. I was too young to be listening to such serious stuff. I played soccer and ran track for a couple years. During meets at other schools, I made friends. At parties I heard Issac Hayes, Bohannon and James Brown records. Brown was all over top 40 radio. Rhythm guitar was my jam! Soul and funk records were best for that. I spent many nights listening to AM radio. The signal travels farther at night, so I’d listen to stations far away. It didn’t matter what kind of music it was. Some of my relatives had short wave radios. I was more interested in radio production than short wave content. The production quality has not changed much since then. It often sounds like broadcasts trapped in the ether for the last 30 years.

While I was in high school, it was common for local colleges to host rock and jazz concerts for low prices, sometimes free. The schools had to spend the money sitting in the student union coffers. There was a live music club in my town called Joint In The Woods. The venue began as a banquet hall that doubled as a meeting hall for Boy Scout Jamborees and the like. When it became the Joint, it was a disco. The first night of live music was a show with Iggy & The Stooges. The regular disco patrons were pissed! The guys were mostly goombah’s in Quiana print shirts and bell bottoms. Three or four guys smacked Iggy around after his set. Sure enough, he played Max’s Kansas City the next night as if nothing happened. Because of this club, touring bands were suddenly playing in my town. Badfinger, Roy Wood’s Wizzard, Muddy Waters. The NY Dolls were scheduled but didn’t show up. Springsteen was often an opening act. The N.J. legal drinking age had just lowered to 18. It was a great time. I was still in school, so I wasn’t staying out on weeknights.

I was determined to learn NYC music history by hitting all the Greenwich Village clubs and talking to the owners and bartenders. It didn’t matter what kind of music they specialized in- I was into the vibe. There were occasional scary nights parking near CB’s or jazz spots in that neighborhood. Folk music was on FM radio at the time. A high school friend booked a local coffee house called Tea & Cheese. Mostly locals and ambitious tri-state artists. Martin Mull, Aztec Two Step, Garland Jeffries. Some of Lou Reed’s touring band, The Tots, played there. I went to all kinds of record stores, mainly those that sold rock imports and cutouts. I was fascinated by the street level buzz of a record. In ’74, I heard dub reggae for the first time. The only stores to get that music were in Queens because there was a strong West Indian community there. It may have been the “Harder They Come” soundtrack that got me started. There was a “pay to play” radio station in Newark - WHBI. DJ’s had to buy their airtime. Arnold “Trinidad” Henry had a weekly show playing new calypso and reggae. He was more into calypso than reggae. A lot of calypso was political and comical. Arnold was fascinating! There was often a personal crisis he’d talk about on the air. My favorite incident was when he said that his life had been threatened during the program, so he locked himself in the studio.. Someone called the cops. They convinced him to unlock the door. He just wanted more airtime. Arnold played the first reggae dub track I’d heard- full dub albums were a new concept at the time. Most dub was found on the flipsides of reggae 45’s. One of the shows sponsors was Chin Randy’s Records in Queens. I trekked out there by train to buy my first dub records. That was a trip! Randy Chin’s family went on to start VP Records.

What was the first alternative/independent music you got into? How did it happen (friends? older siblings?)

RF-The term “punk” as a music style hadn’t been coined yet. I vaguely recall equating “punk” with the great “Nuggets” compilation or something Greg Shaw might have writ in Bomp Magzine. I didn’t identify labels as independent. I knew that if the label design was simple and the address was listed, it was probably a small company. There were plenty of record stores carrying obscure stuff. I bought import records from a few NYC stores. I took the bus in until I was old enough to drive. One store Pantasia, was up in The Bronx. I went there one Christmas eve day to get the import of the second Sadistic Mika Band album. The clerk talked me into buying the harder to find first album as well. He said it sounded like Shel Talmy produced it. I knew who that was and it was a revelation to talk to somebody in a record store at that level. That is what a record store should be! I read Phonograph Record magazine, Bomp and Trouser Press regularly. Patti Smith and Television self released their debut singles- those are the first “indie” records I bought, followed by the first two Pere Ubu singles. I remember hearing the Modern Lovers’ “Roadrunner” from the Bezerkley Chartbusters comp on WFMU and thinking that there must be more music like that. It was refreshing.

Seeing Patti Smith and Television perform at CBGB’s changed my life. I connected the dots. I had BÖC albums on which Patti had co-writes. She had a poem insert in Todd Rundgren’s “A Wizard, A True Star” album. She read a Morrison poem on a Ray Manzarek lp. She wrote for rock music mags with distinctive style. I read a brief story about her in the Voice and went to see her do her annual Rock N’ Rimbaud show. Shortly after that she and Television played CBGB’s for six weekends in early ’75. Both bands were really great. Patti didn’t have a drummer yet. Richard Hell was a big inspiration to me. He looked cool. He played bass like he just picked it up the month before. That was a new concept. Television changed bass players in the middle of the residency. Television was the first band I saw with short hair and they dressed like teenage delinquents circa 1962. The CBGB’s jukebox had a good number of 60’s garage records. In my head I conceived Television to be inspired by that music. Made sense to me- Lenny Kaye, who assembled the “Nuggets” comp, is in the PSG. When I went back to see Television headline, The Ramones opened. Seeing The Ramones again, Talking Heads opened. It seemed like the streak of seeing great new bands would not end. They were distinctly NYC sounds. They could not have merged anywhere else. I remember avoiding the band Suicide because I didn’t think the music could be good J. Bands like Tuff Darts, Mumps and The Marbles opened shows but I wasn’t thrilled by them. A CBGB’s band that doesn’t get mentioned much is Mink DeVille. They wore matching outfits like they were playing a low budget Miami dive in 1962J. The club still had the small corner stage. The p.a. was ok and the bands had small amps. The music wasn’t loud in a “rock” way. You could sit at a table right in front of the band. Although we consider the club a birthplace of punk, the club showcased local bands that had been around for a while. I think the club upgraded the p.a. once before building the big stage. I realized at that point that when a band was great or at least interesting live, the records were basic documents of the band’s sound.

What was your first job in the music scene/industry?

RF- Before realizing I wanted to be in the business, I hounded import mail order guys on the phone about non-lp b-sides and albums that weren’t released stateside. I was fascinated by the process. Why were some records not in stores even though they had local airplay? My dad did not listen to much music, but he had an army buddy that made a living in Al Hirt’s band. He came to our house once. He gave my dad a copy of John Fahey’s “After The Ball” album, which he played on. I liked his stories about the session man side of the business. Fahey treated him well. I was generally shy, but when it came to music I would approach anyone I thought I could learn from. I heard horror stories about the music biz in NYC but learned later that those were a mob related labels. At the time, I thought the entire NYC music biz might be that way. I planned to move to California anyway. In high school, I go-fer’d at local Jersey radio stations and talked my way into meeting a few top FM radio dj’s. I thought I wanted to be a professional dj, but my dad wisely talked me out of that. The itinerant radio jock life would not be for me. It was a racket.

In ’76, I took a long low budget cross country trip with my high school sweetheart. Along the way, I stayed in Memphis for three weeks with a cousin who was stationed at the Millington naval base. Got a job at a hip movie theatre that served liquor. I found Alex Chilton in the phone book and spent an afternoon talking with him. I wasn’t yet legal drinking age in Tennessee. It amused him that a fan showed up in his town who was not old enough to drink. En route to Cali, Tulsa, OK was on my route to find Shelter Records and studio , but it shut down and the label moved to L.A. At the time, Dwight Twilley’s “I’m On Fire” was a radio hit. I didn’t think there were still bands like that. Twilley was from Tulsa, but had moved to L.A. by that time.

When I arrived in L.A. I visited small label record company offices. A few offered me jobs or references. I spent two weeks crashing at the Malibu house of a distant family friend. I didn’t want to live in L.A. but I was encouraged by the opportunities. I got a job at the famous record store- Rather Ripped in Berkeley, CA.

Patti Smith told me about Rather Ripped before I left Jersey. In ’75, she and her band went to California for shows in L.A. and Berkeley. The northern Cali shows were set up by the store. She did a poetry reading there. This is well before “Horses” was released. I bought a couple records from the store’s Dedicated Fool mail order service. They had a monthly catalog on newsprint. Thousands of records in tiny font. Every record was described with a few words. This is 1976 and punk rock was just getting started. I worked as a prep cook in a charcuterie associated with Alice Waters’ famous restaurant Chez Panisse. The proprietor knew the record store owners. I wasn’t actively looking to work there, but I talked about music all day every day. They fast tracked me for an interview. Because of a scheduling mistake, Tom Petty interviewed me for the job. His first album just came out and “American Girl” was close to being a hit single. The band came to the store before a local show. Tom overheard the owner apologizing for not being able to do the interview, so he offered to conduct it. It was great. I knew all about his label, Shelter Records. I deliberately avoided talking about The Ramones and Patti Smith because punk was new and against the grain. At the end of the interview Tom told the owners that if he lived in Berkeley, he’d buy all his records from me. The store owner still had to interview me formally the next day, but I knew that I nailed it.

It was owned by two dynamic gents that were connected to Berkeley society and Bay Area journalists. They weren’t typical record store guys. They celebrated the 70’s in the moment. They held court with well known music scribes, musicians, dj’s. They were good friends of The Residents. Perhaps my strangest story is meeting The Residents with the Rather Ripped owners at a S.F. Irish bar that specialized in Irish Coffee’s. I had only recently heard of the group, so I was not cognizant of their marketing myth. At the bar, we were with our girlfriends and wives. One of the Residents tried to convince me and my gf to go back their place for a hot tub session. I laughed out loud and said “geez, what a bunch of hippies”! We didn’t go. In retrospect, I should have gone on the condition that they wore eyeball heads in the tub. At that time, The Residents rarely performed live, but they did in 1975 for the store’s birthday party. The early Bezerkley Records (Jonathan Richman, Greg Kihn) was distributed to stores through Rather Ripped. Their office was a few blocks away. At the store, each employee had unique music taste and expertise. Pop music was changing rapidly with a new energy. Some of us were tapped into it. We all had to know the key new releases in every genre because we were tastemakers. Major labels would beg us to do window displays for new releases. But if they could not find a store employee that liked that artist, it was no go. So, no Pablo Cruise window display. We weren’t against major labels, but we put a lot of energy into selling the ton of music that we loved. Our focus was on imports, indies, promos and cut outs where we could get a good price mark up. We had a rare record search service with customers all over the world. We’d find rare records through trade-ins and by combing record stores all over the state.

There were a few import distributors, but they weren’t hip to many small run U.S. independent releases. That was understandable because bands didn’t often press enough records for a distributor to get excited about. In other words, why spend half your day hunting down records that were only pressed in small quantities. Just as they start selling, you’re out of stock. There gonna sell a hell of a lot more Scorpions’ picture discs! As always, some distributors financed exclusive re-pressings of records that had momentum. The only way to get records like Roky Erikson’s “Two Headed Dog” single or The Flamin’ Groovies’ “You Tore Me Down” 45 was directly through mail order. I wrote to label addresses listed in Trouser Press and fanzines to buy direct in order to sell them in the store with no competition. Major label sales reps didn’t prioritize us because we didn’t shift bulk units of the hits. However, we were so plugged in to the lesser known artists that we were a good place for record companies to try and start a buzz. We could swell 50-100 of a record that all the other stores sold a handful of. Bands showed up at the store while touring. Springsteen bought Dylan bootlegs from us by mail order. Patti Smith’s manager Jane Friedman used the store as a home base when Patti and John Cale came through the area.

Berkeley is in the East Bay of the S.F. bay area. A few months after starting at Rather Ripped, I realized that the city had a rich music scene well before punk /new wave started. There was Fantasy Records, a well known jazz r&b label but best known for CCR; Arhoolie, Solid Smoke, Metalanguage; the contemp classical labels- Lovely Music and 1750 Arch; folk and blues labels like Takoma and Olivia. Of course, bands like Chrome and others started labels to release their own music. Ralph Records was started by The Residents, and they began signing bands. Rather Ripped was also a center for improv, electronic and meditation records.

In ’77 or ’78 I joined the nascent Maximum Rock N Roll radio team. This was well before the magazine. In the early days there were weeks when we didn’t have enough new punk records to fill the two hour weekly show. Tim Yohannon was all about energetic, real rock n roll, so he filled in the program with records by Gene Vincent, The Sonics etc. BTW, Tim applied green masking tape to the three closed sides of every record he had. He gave me a Mekons double single he decided he didn’t like. It was in a gatefold sleeve that he sealed shut with his green tape! Sometimes he re-designed the cover art…never for the better. He made his own pic sleeves for 45’s that didn’t have them. Bands would stare at their own records in bewilderment. Tim was archiving the records of the entire punk and hardcore movement worldwide.

Eventually, Tim brought in Ruth Schwartz, and Jeff Bale as co-hosts- both great people. Jello Biafra was a frequent guest. Tim assembled the “Not So Quiet On The Western Front” lp and later organized syndication for the radio show. I remember hearing the first Disorder ep and thinking -this is the future! J It was exciting. But soon, most hardcore records sounded alike to me. It was like- “Do you want more fries with your fries?” I went to plenty of live shows without knowing a lot about the bands playing them. I was happy when the fashion trended away from jackboots to sneakers…getting a boot kick to the head in a stage dive could be brutal. I didn’t see a lot of skinhead violence at shows, but I know it was changing the scene.

San Francisco and Berkeley were important music centers, activist meccas as well as creative artistic and intellectual hubs. Yohannon had history as an activist. He identified with public protests for causes & social issues. For many teenagers, punk rock was a rite of passage. I think it changed a lot of kids’ lives for the better. The overriding message was to be civically aware of what is going on around you and what affects your life.

Tell me about your time at Arhoolie Records. Where was it located?

Rather Ripped’s owners had a falling out and the remaining owner just wanted to sell records and antiques with his wife. He moved it to a nearby city. Just before the store closed, he told me of an open position at Back Room Distribution, a division of Arhoolie. It was in El Cerrito, a small town north of Berkeley. Chris Strachwitz, the owner of Arhoolie is a legendary record man. He recorded many of his early blues albums with a tape recorder in his car. He owned the legendary Down Home Music store in the same building. Separated by partition behind the store was Back Room. It was an indie label distributor for blues, folk roots music. Rounder Records was still a new label at the time. I gotta admit, when Rounder issued The Shaggs “Philosophy Of The World’ I was in seventh heaven. I worked primarily for the distributor, grooming to be a sales rep but I spent a lot of time in the store. At first, I didn’t yet relate to blues and country music. But there were a lot of touring artists in those styles making a living. It was a strong network of clubs, fans, radio shows and press that fueled it. The store had an incredible selection of obscure 50’s/60’s rockabilly and garage band comps. The Cramps were my favorite band at the time. The rockabilly comps mostly on a the Dutch White Label, were treasure troves of insane songs. My heart was in new music- whatever you wanna call it, punk, new wave, art music. That’s the business I wanted to be in. I used my time to learn more about distribution operations. The people that worked at Arhoolie and in its community were fun music heads. There were a lot of good musicians among them. It was a great time to live in Berkeley.

What was next, Rough Trade and CD Presents? Was that in San Francisco? I went to that Rough Trade store a few times and it was an amazing store.

I knew folks from Rough Trade UK because I bought imports from them to sell @ Rather Ripped. When they wanted to open in the U.S. they contacted me, but at the time the wage was low and there wasn’t enough space to work. I was interested in working in the distribution division, not the store. They speiled something about it being a socialist business. I stayed at Arhoolie for a little while longer. In the meantime, I was offered my own weekly late night radio show on Pacifica’s KPFA in Berkeley- same station as Maximum Rock N’Roll. I took over a show called “Night Sky”, an ambient music program. My interim program title was “No More Mr. Night Sky” until I settled on “Assassinatin’ Rhythm”. The station’s music director was a contemporary classical composer closely associated with avant -garde and 20th century music. A major segment of my show was for industrial, post-punk and undefinable music. I hosted a few live on- air performances with Z’ev, Slovenly and Angst among others. Negativland’s “Over The Edge” program started on KPFA around this time. KPFA was 100,000 watts of power with affiliate stations covering the Central Valley down to Fresno and Bakersfield.

When the time was right, I moved to Rough Trade’s U.S. distribution company in Berkeley. The record store was in San Francisco. We distributed a lot of British records sent by Rough Trade UK, often in small quantities. Rough Trade US was set up to press and distribute select RT and Factory records by Joy Division, ACR, The Fall, Stiff Little Fingers, Crass. It was cheaper and more effective to press in the U.S and Canada. I also distributed some U.S. labels but there was one Brit on the staff that hated most American music. On top of that, it could be a dangerous place to work. One of the staff was importing reggae records and weed from Jamaica to our warehouse. The local connection was shot on his porch shortly after he picked up a shipment! I was lucky to spend a few days travelling with Mark E.Smith of The Fall. He loved obscure rockabilly and garage band records. I was able to return to Memphis for a while to prep the first Panther Burns album for release. Tony Wilson of Factory put up most of the money to keep RTUS going. He was a brilliant character, but I learned from talking with him how not to conduct business. I often got sample records from bands that wanted distribution. Pell Mell’s “Rhyming Guitars” e.p. was the start of my long association with the band. I enjoyed selling records to stores all over the country. I learned about local scenes, records, fanzines, clubs and college radio stations everywhere. Making these sources connect for touring bands and record sales was exciting. Because Rough Trade is British, we had the benefit of connections with club dj’s. We pressed and promoted New Order’s “Blue Monday” single on a shoestring budget. For a long time, it was the best kept secret from the mainstream. I left Rough Trade for Subterranean Records ( Flipper etc) for a spell while working in a record store. The guy that put up the money for the record store ran guns to Cuba through Mexico. Thankfully, not through the actual store. I booked Cali shows for Panther Burns, The Wipers, Sonic Youth, Whitehouse.

Who owned the CD Presents label? I remember that Avengers compilation.

It was owned by a lawyer, David Ferguson. He had a recording studio as well. I didn’t understand why he wanted to run a label. He did not have an ear for music. But we did release a Tales Of Terror lp! He almost released a DOA album that I thought the band would kill him over. Many years later I got into a fist fight with one of David’s employees in a limo ride shared with Ferguson and Lydia Lunch. We fought through the window separating the driver from the passengers. I would love to recreate that for a film. Good times!

My main role there was to set up the first Billy Bragg record in the U.S. Billy’s manager was the legendary Peter Jenner and both were great to work with. They were using CD Presents as a stepping stone to a major label. In the meantime, I knew a few people at SST. Joe Carducci is an old friend. He was pitching me to move to L.A. and work there, but I resisted for a while. I had just met the woman that I knew would be the love of my life. I didn’t want to move to SoCal. Joe gave me an ultimatum. He sent three advance cassettes that convinced me to go- Meat Puppets’ “Up On The Sun”, Minutemen’s “Double Nickels” and Huskers’ “New Day Rising” That’s an excellent recruiting strategy. I later married the love of my life.

On the side I booked shows for bands I loved. Gerard Cosloy asked me to book Sonic Youth first northern Cali shows. I also booked shows for The Wipers and noise band Whitehouse

Was SST Records next? How long did you last there and what was that like?

I was there for three years. “How long did you last there?” sounds like I was biding my time :) I’m often asked about my time with SST.

Carducci hired me to do PR. That meant publicity, college radio, regional press. Video was a valuable promo tool. MTV’s “120 Minutes” program was a great way to promote our records.

In 1987 we put out more records than Warner Brothers. By that time, I hired people to help.

I’ve done a number of interviews about SST. If you have specific questions, shoot. I recall that my social life was almost entirely with my co-workers and bands on the label. I was nearly oblivious to music from other labels. I was a big fan of Dischord and Homestead. Metallica, COC, Voivod and the Birthday Party/Nick Cave were my non-SST staples.

I think around this time I had met you briefly in NJ at one of the Elks Lodge shows that my old friend Ralph Jones put on. Were you living in NJ at that point or just visiting?

You’ve mentioned that before and I don’t recall the specific show. I moved out of NJ permanently in ’76. I came back for annual summer visits to NYC, north Jersey and Philly. Some high school friends went to Upsala College, then the home of WFMU. On my first visit back in ’76 I met Irwin Chusid and R. Stevie Moore. Some high school friends were connected to Feelies before they took that name.

Was Blast First! next? I met Pat Naylor once and hung out with her at a show and she was really sweet.

Yeah around the time I left SST, the folks in Sonic Youth called saying that they had left as well. They wanted me to be involved with Blast First! in the U.S. I knew Paul Smith because he released their albums in the UK. Blast First UK released a number of Touch N Go and SST records. The label was a division of Mute which had a U.S. deal with Enigma. My job was almost entirely “Daydream Nation” promotion. It was so much fun to be able to go deep with one album. We issued Ciccone Youth shortly afterward, which augmented the overall Sonic Youth story. The only other active touring band was Band Of Susans and on a limited level, Lunachicks and Big Stick. It was only one year of work before Enigma cut Mute/Blast First loose. I went on Sonic Youth’s Soviet Union tour and I had a few memorable meetings with Sun Ra. David Bowie called a few times asking about recording studios that Dino Jr and Sonic Youth used. Bowie had a brilliant idea to record Suicide’s “Dream Baby Dream” with Glenn Branca’s large guitar group. We tried following up on it but Bowie was immersed in Tin Machine and other projects.

Was it on to Geffen then?

Yes, Sonic Youth had good meetings with the label. I had recently met Mark Kates who was championing the signing. He suggested that I come in to meet the entire company. He brought my name up with David who said, “we need someone like that here”.

I had fleeting thoughts that working for a major was “selling out”...punching corporate clock. I wanted to apply what I knew on a larger scale.

What was that like, working for a proper major label? Was David Geffen still involved?

On my second day there, David called me into his office. He is down to earth, street smart. Like many of the best in the biz, he didn’t have an attitude. He had met with the Meat Puppets. He sensed that Dinosaur Jr. was important. I reminded him that I was not hired for a&r.

He said- “I don’t assign job titles. If you find something else you’d like to do here, you can pursue it ‘after 5pm’ ”. I found reissue projects like the Pere Ubu box and Raincoats catalog. I recorded a new Raincoats album. I signed Southern Culture On The Skids, Garrison Starr, Skiploader. I assembled and recorded Rob Zombie’s Halloween Hootenanny comp. With Sonic Youth, I pondered making records with John Fahey and Townes Van Zandt. After ten years, it was time to move on.

Tell us what you do now, didn’t you get involved with digital music at some point?

Geffen Records was folded into Interscope in 1999 and I was bored with the limitations of the business as it was. Digital music was gaining ground solely through illegal file trading on Napster. I knew there would be a major shift in the business moving to digital. I worked for the download site. eMusic.com, signing distribution agreements with labels. This was years before iTunes and YouTube. Major labels would not work with us because mp3 files are open source files that could be traded freely without control. They saw eMusic as a facilitator of illegal file trading. Like marijuana use leading to hard drugs! In the big picture, I knew that digital downloads weren’t “sexy”. But at some point, digital music would develop into something easier to track and use. We skipped the major labels. The bigger independent labels understood that digital music would be the future. It was a great place to be. I knew a lot of music, but I had no idea there were so many labels in every country. One label owner told me that I had the best job in the world. I knew that to explain this new unproven music format it could be an uphill climb. So I took the time to research label websites for song samples. That way I could find common ground with label owners. There’s surf music in Brazil? There’s a young female cellist duo in Prague that make energetic music? There’s archaic royalty rules connected to opera arrangements? Bring it on! It certainly changed how I listen to music.

It was a time when business rules and legal rights had to change in order to deal with digital income disbursement. For example, digital downloads could be sold by the song while royalty payments were based on album sales. eMusic was at the forefront of those changes. When iTunes launched, digital music was “legitimized”. Borne out of eMusic was RoyaltyShare which provides a royalty accounting platform for labels. It is now a division of The Orchard and I divide my time between The Orchard and RoyaltyShare.

Who are some current bands you are into?

A loaded question! I listen to a lot of new music. I spend a lot of time listening to records and cd’s in my collection. Of current artists, I really like Steve Gunn’s music. I listen to the projects involving members of Sonic Youth. Bill Nace, Kim’s partner in Body/Head is a guitar genius. Body/Head’s music is a cathartic experience for me. London is lucky to have Thurston Moore living and working there. I think the music they make separately is far more exciting that what Sonic Youth would’ve made if still together.

Lately I’m digging Melenas from Spain, Hayvenlar Alemi from Turkey. Quin Kirchner is a Chicago based drummer that put out a great jazz record in 2018 called “The Other Side Of Time”. I think he plays on Ryley Walker ‘s records.

Because I’ve spent so much time with the music of Sonic Youth, Branca and Rhys Chatham, I crave the occasional dive into instrumental symphonic guitar army and tonal stuff. Current favorites in that vein are Bosse De Nage, Pelican, Sunn O)))

Given the chance I’ll see any performance by Mary Halvorson, Ches Smith, Marc Ribot or Mary Lattimore.

It took me years to get it, but I’m now a big fan of Keiji Haino’ music. Dean McPhee is a British guitarist I really like. I just bought a couple of Willie Lane lp’s on Feeding Tube.

I research music history and the development of the industry. There are historical and social components of every type of music by culture, country, time period. I love stories about riots at premieres of new avant garde works. I read a book about famous classical composers in the 18th Century playing home concerts (salons) where people are talking the entire time…but they are paid handsomely for the performance. Streaming music sites and YouTube are vast repositories of music and cultural documentation.

Do you still make it out to many shows?

I go to two/three shows a month when I’m home and more when traveling especially NY/London. I start work early in the morning so I’m not out late often. I understand why people see less live music as they get older. I’m done with music festivals. The Big Ears Festival is the only Stateside event that might inspire me to stand for eight hours.

I always hear music by new artists that I really like. I don’t always go to see the live show. Sometimes I hear a new band that sounds like a band I liked 20 years ago. I wouldn’t deliberately see a band that uses another band’s sound as a template.

What are your top 10 desert island discs?

I cannot do 10. It’s 20 or nothing. If you say sorry Ray, it will be nothing. FineJ If I’m on an island, I’ll listen to the ocean waves and sounds of nature. If I’m relegated to a desert, I’ll listen to the blood coarsing through my veins.

Miles Davis- Kind Of Blue

Television- Marquee Moon

Peter Brotzmann- Machine Gun

Sex Pistols -Never Mind The Bollocks

Rolling Stones- Let It Bleed

Soundtrack – The Harder They Come

Billy Harper – Black Saint

Kleenex/Liliput- First Songs

Patti Smith Group -Easter

Hound Dog Taylor & The Houserockers- Houserockin’

Led Zeppelin- Houses Of The Holy

Sonic Youth – Daydream Nation

Elvis Presley- Sun Sessions

The Cramps- Songs The Lord Taught Us

Pell Mell -Flow

Procol Harum- A Salty Dog

Sibelius- Complete Symphonies

Lou Reed -Coney Island Baby

Meat Puppets- Up On The Sun

The Kinks- Kinks Kronikles

“Hmm....Flow or Star City?”

Any final words? Closing comments? Anything you wanted to mention that I didn’t ask.

I’ve been involved off and on with the artist Raymond Pettibon for a music project called Supersession. He has made records under this moniker before. This project began in 1990 and stalled for many years. We revived it a couple years ago. I play bass. Raymond wrote many pages of words and lyrics that he passed to the band, encouraging us to write music behind them. It’s different from Raymond’s other records because it is not improvised. Rick Sepulveda, our guitarist is a great songwriter and he wrote music for Raymond’s words. Rick sings a bunch of the songs because Raymond loves his voice. We did a NYC performance in November that was really fun. So now of course, I’m thinking we should play monthly in L.A. We are nearly finished with the album that we recorded at Casa Hanzo, the San Pedro studio Mike Watt owns with Pete Mazich. Raymond is a brilliant man; fun and inspiring to work with. When I practice with Rick, he’ll often break into a cover song deep in the recess of memory. Like John Cale’s “Hanky Panky Nohow” ,Kevin Ayers’ “Oh Wot A Dream” or the Doors “Wishful Sinful”. We may cover a Harry Toledo song. It’s a blast. I hope to have the album finished in July.

Tav, Bobby, Pell Mell and Ray

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zukofenty · 4 years

Text

Day 4: bad decisions

➜ The one where Katara (might) be in love with the campus drug dealer.

“So why won’t you go out with me? Is it because I’m a drug dealer?” Zuko’s mad, twisting the rings on his fingers while impatiently waiting on her answer.

“Not exactly,” Katara quips, averting her eyes from his fiery gaze. “It’s mainly because you don’t tip when we go out to eat.”

➜ Genre: Modern!AU, humor, teeny bit of angst, DrugDealer!Zuko

➜ Words: 5.3k

➜ Warnings: I love DrugDealer!Zuko more than I love myself 😩

AO3, Zutara Month Playlist, @zutaramonth hi i love u!

➜ Notes: hehe listen to “Bad Decisions” by Miss Ari! life changing!

“Zuko’s dead? ” Katara nearly screams into the phone. She pulls on one of his hoodies and is scrambling to find her slides and keys.

Toph sighs. “We all knew this would happen. The sky’s blue, Beyonce needs to stop forcing her boyfriend on us. Basic facts. Get it together , Katara.”

“Toph, how does your disdain for Jay-Z make it into every conversation you have?” Suki wearily states. “All we know is that a dealer got shot near the frats today. So in conclusion, Zuko’s dead.”

“Donezo.”

“Bitch is gone .”

“God bless his beautiful ass.”

“A moment of silence for his fake Chanel blouses.”

Katara does her breathing exercises. “ Enough .” She hears a knock at the door, and immediately grabs her expandable baton. “Oh my god , someone’s at the door.” She whips out the baton to its full length.

Toph gasps. “Bitch, it’s 2 in the fucking morning. Are we getting a two for one deal tonight?”

Suki cheers. “I call dibs on her Fenty highlighters.”

“Oh hell fucking no ! You do not have the range for Trophy Wife, whore!” Toph shouts right into the microphone. Katara winces, and takes out an Airpod. She’s heaving, nervous at who could be at the door. Toph and Suki were trying to negotiate with each other on who was getting Katara’s brand new Hydrating Foundation when she takes an experimental glance out the peephole. Her gasp reverberates through the phone.

“She’s died, Suki! She’s died!” Toph wails, her screams nearly unintelligible.

“ Zuko? ” Katara screeches at the top of her lungs, launching herself at him so violently her other Airpod pops out.

He chuckles when she locks her legs around his waist, his arms coming out to support her from underneath her ass. It’s domestic, and he relishes in the attention. “Hello to you, too.” She’s smiling at him and it’s beautiful and soft and everything he wanted to see after the shitty night he’s had. Dealing in college was an easy route to Balenciaga and bitches. Everyone did it, it was as easy as catching HPV at your school. Yet, Zhao, the Kingpin of dealers, just had to get his side-chick pregnant and then just had to get shot by his girlfriend. Even if he did get shot up because he was a slut (#FreeZhao), the campus dean had called the cops and was in the process of launching an extensive campaign to fuck up any current dealers. Even if you possess the slightest hint of addy for your ADHD, you still had to haul your ass to the campus police station. It wasn’t fair though. Coke is what makes college campuses around the world run as smoothly as they do.

“You promised me you’d stop,” she’s murmuring in his ear, curled up beside him in her cramped twin bed. Her roommates went back home for the weekend, so it makes it just that much easier to pretend you two could be like this. Lost in the sheets, hopelessly in love with her head on his chest.

“If I didn’t, I probably wouldn’t have been able to get you this,” Zuko whispers in her hair. He slides a ring on her finger and she smiles lazily back at him, placing a tender kiss on his cheek. God, is this what love feels like? If she accidentally got pregnant with Zuko’s spawn she wouldn’t immediately reach for Plan B? The ring was a simple thing, just plain silver because she wanted one to be “edgy,” obsessed with rings after playing with the handful that adorn Zuko’s fingers. After making sure she was sound asleep, he lets himself smile. Finally , he’s getting somewhere with her.

Seemingly a too perfect, impenetrable forest, he’s finding himself finally being let into her world. As corny and lovesick it sounded, Zuko understood how easy it was to love someone when he laid eyes on you. All those damn John Green books were right, he begrudgingly admits ( Eat shit John Green.) She truly could not do one wrong thing in his eyes, her soft giggles as she attempted to explain commas and semicolons and gerunds or whatever the fuck he doesn’t quite remember because he was busy being infatuated and trying to make her laugh. They’d met freshman year, and have remained in this weird limbo ever since. Where he would call her to remind her to eat when she was stressed, and he could plant kisses in her hair when he’s showing up to her apartment at night, cuddling her without her pulling away because it always felt right. At the same time, Katara felt so unattainable, so out of reach. It’s never progressed past simple, flirtatious touches. Yet, being with her feels different than any other relationship he’s been in, as though his heart was permanently and solely hers.

It was easy to fall in love. Katara was so kind, yet so dead set in her ways. Never detracting her focus from school, she had no time for anything else in her life. Her older brother Sokka had raised her when their parents had disappeared shortly after producing the “accident” child. They handed Katara off to him, who hadn’t spoken to them in years. While Sokka was in college and attempting to care for Katara at the same time, he had struck gold with recording labels interested in his music producing work. Soon, he was making songs you could regularly hear on the radio and not just on Soundcloud, and the royalties were ensuring Katara got the best. The best schools, clothes, life. Even if her brother was obsessed with flexing his regular Bugatti purchases on Instagram, she wasn’t nearly as preoccupied. She was always in oversized hoodies that once upon a time ago belonged to Sokka before he decided on dressing like a 30 year old hypebeast Instagrammer still trying to hold onto their youth. Always volunteering her time and doing things rich people had time to do to make themselves feel good about their tax breaks.

It made Zuko feel jealous in a sense, with his uncle struggling to make ends meet his whole life. He ran a small fried chicken and tea shop (Iroh was convinced about this combo) in his neighborhood, and he hated to admit that he was ashamed. That he dreamed of shoving Chanel anything up his ass. He would take the perfume sample cards from the mall that said Givenchy , pinning it to his wall as inspiration for what he would buy in the future. It didn’t make sense to him, when Katara had all this money and couldn’t care less. She penny pinched when she didn’t need to, wore clothes from Forever 21, as though Sokka wouldn’t drop thousands for the Fendi boots she always talked about.

“Damnit, you’re dick sick, aren’t you?” Toph sends her a look that screamed pity. Katara tried to fix the frown, but her eyes always revealed everything. So she nods in agreement, and Toph wraps her up in her arms. Zuko had invited her and Toph to a quote unquote “exclusive party” thrown by the rich kids whose parents owned the university. The Olivia Jades of the world. Schmoney shmoney . It didn’t help that she felt so out of place, circling all throughout the frat house before settling on the cleanest couch near the one window that wasn’t broken. She wanted to be a part of Zuko’s world for a night, see where he was disappearing to on the weekends.

Although Toph spent the better part of the evening prepping her hoe fit, Katara stuck to an uneventful long t shirt (Zuko’s shirt, of course) paired with thigh high boots. She had planned on only staying half an hour, tops. She didn’t drink, smoke, it just wasn’t her thing. Her worst fear was contracting herpes from a wax pen. Even when she was a college freshman and people were busy coming back upchucking all over the communal dorm bathroom, she instead dutifully held hair back, and changed drunk girls’ clothes. She quickly learned the tricks of the trade after cleaning up Sokka’s messy weekend self during his quarter life crisis phase. Admittedly, she was boring . So, she reasoned 30 minutes gave her enough time to walk around the place and see Zuko schmoozing with rich kids, and then leave to have enough time to do her skincare before bed.

“More like sick. He deals coke now! Coke! That’s a prison drug, ma’am. The real deal,” she whimpers into her tits. She had caught Zuko in one of the trust fund babies’ enormous rooms in the frat house, daddy’s credit cards and student IDs out and about with lines of something she’d only seen in movies. Since all the dealers were on the low with the campus crackdown, and since it was midterms season, the demand amongst the student population was unbelievably high. Zuko was the only brave stupid enough to keep selling. Katara had burst into the room to alert Zuko that Toph and her were about to make a dramatic exit without him to go back to her place and watch John Tucker Must Die instead of studying.

She had expected a lot of things, hell even coke (maybe). What she didn’t anticipate was seeing a girl in Zuko’s lap, kissing up his neck, wearing practically nothing. He had an assertive hand on her thigh, massaging it, manhandling her like Katara wished he would do with her. He’s talking and acting like he belonged with the assholes of your school. Like he wasn’t the gentle guy who Katara always saw in sweats always talking about his half sister, or memories of his uncle’s restaurant. She had made eye contact with him and promptly shut the door, feeling as though her heart would burst any second now.

So Toph and Katara go back to her place, calling up Suki who Ubers over, ready to rag on her (sort of) mans. Both Toph and her were in Suki’s t shirts that she “gave” to the duo. Both girls ignore her protests when she shows up and demands for them back. “Hey, that is premium Aliexpress Yeezus Tour shirts! They don’t sell fakes like these anymore!”

Katara was eating Target generic brand ice cream out the container, her heartbreak palpable, especially to Toph. The two girls were best friends after becoming roommates freshman year. Katara’s a sweet thing, too sweet in Toph’s opinion. Always remembering little things, people’s birthdays or favorite brand of instant Udon packages. She was always the one defending Toph against those who found it too easy to take advantage of her. Toph, in turn, was always there to mend her big heart after no one remembered her birthday freshman year. In many ways, Katara won a permanent place in Toph’s heart. She was always the one showing up to her dance performances, even if they were a two hour bus ride away. Always making sure to take off her makeup after recitals when she was too tired to move. It hurt her to see Katara like this, in pain.

“All I’m saying is that he uses you to play house. It’s time to cut the cord. Don’t be Beyonce, don’t keep letting a man bring down your worth. Plus, you don’t have the range to come out with Lemonade in the middle of all this heartbreak and betrayal.”

She scoops Vanilla bean into her mouth, eyes downcast. “What do you mean? Just because he comes here and sleeps over all the time?” She settles her head in Toph’s lap when she sees Suki begin to straighten her back, prepping for the rant she was about to deliver.

“Katara, sweet, pure, virginal Katara.”

“Hey!” Katara yelps.

“I’m going to be honest with you, and it’s going to hurt. Like pap smear at the gyno hurt.” Katara nods, interest piqued. “Do you see you on his Instagram? Do you? Any posts, any tagging done when I know you took this photo of this overpriced matcha soy latte?” Suki tries her hardest not to break her tough girl role when she sees hersad fucking eyes. Why are they built like that? Like she could break her heart with just a watery glance? “Tell me, who do you see on Zuko’s Instagram and Snapchat?”

“Hotgirls,” she jumbles the words in her haste.

“Louder!” Suki shouts.

“ Hot. Girls. ” she admitted defeat. Toph strokes her hair gently to try to comfort her.

“That’s the thing with guys like Zuko, ok? They want the hottest girls on campus to suck and fuck, but they’re even more cruel with girls like you. Girls who are meant for dating to marry and cute gender reveal parties and pastels and shit. He knows that you guys aren’t meant to be together, the universe says so. But he’ll still play with your feelings because he likes pretending he deserves you. Pretending that in this world, girls like you and guys like him can be together and make it work.”

Katara’s jolting her head out of Toph’s lap in protest. “Well, what if I want to be a slut? What if I want to be the kind of girl that Zuko wants?” She was tired of being the cute girl who looks like she goes to volunteer at the community center regularly and is destined for some picket fence with a balding, accountant husband and loud, undisciplined kids. She wanted sex, hell she wanted to wear skimpy clothes without worrying what Zuko was going to think about how her tits looked, or if her pants showed enough of her ass to be considered hoe. Katara wanted the confidence of those girls Zuko would put on his social media, she wanted to be them. Being with Zuko felt like being with someone who got her, and she liked, hell loved the attention he gave her. As though she felt pretty, and not adorable. He was someone she just couldn’t get out of her head, someone that was so dangerous to her because she was feeling herself change for him. Is it wrong that she liked it? The way he called her gorgeous when he comes over, or how he lazily grinds against her ass when he’s half-asleep, hands on her hips grounding her.

Suki squeezes her chipmunk cheeks between her musty hands, and interrupts Katara’s protest about an acne breakout. “Even if you try changing everything about you to become exactly what he wants, do you really think he’s going to treat you the same when it isn’t on the down low?”

Ouch.

Suki’s honesty still stings, but it was the cold hard truth. She was willing to change herself, be someone for a guy promising her trips to Paris when he could never meet when the sun was up. Suki’s words hurt as bad as the dress Toph was squeezing you into. “You wanted slutty, I’m giving you waist trainer, Insta model slutty!” She had convinced Katara to go on a date with some guy who was “perfect” for her. Code for boring, she was sure of it. Probably an engineering major who didn’t know how Twitter worked.

Even with all of Toph’s efforts, Katara decided all the shapewear in the world wasn’t going to contain her “post depression ice cream for all three meals” belly. So, she decided to keep it simple with her “knock-off Ariana” outfit as she calls it. Pairing just a pair of thigh high boots with a long sweatshirt.

“Look, I know you secretly get off to the thrill of dating a lame drug dealer, knowing the cops could bust down your door and cause a scene at your apartment. I know you live for the drama. But I promise, this guy will be good for you. Let’s just have fun for one night. Please put the dress back on? I know you haven’t washed that hoodie in a week,” Toph pleads with Katara.

She just rolled her eyes while Toph reapplied a layer of gloss to Katara’s lips. Deep down, she just knew in her heart there was no getting over Zuko. At least immediately. But, it didn’t hurt that Jet was cute, harmless fun. He was taking her out to a diner near her apartment, frequented by students at their college deluded by the aesthetic photo ops, and not too concerned about how the restaurant was serving up microwaved Mac n cheese. He showed up looking exactly like his Instagram photos and in a well ironed H&M button up. She could feel Toph hiding behind her futon, snapping clandestine photos for Suki, who was in the bathroom with the Taco Bell shits.

“ How dare you?! ” Jet screeches, dropping a cold fry in disbelief. “You’ve never watched anime?”

“Ok, a scream was not what I was expecting. I just asked if Teen Titans counted. Sue me.” Katara’s laughing, and hates to admit that it was fun being with Jet. He’s nerdy and sweet and most importantly so, so tall. A good guy.

“It doesn’t! ” he huffs petulantly.

Katara juts out her lip. “How can you ever forgive me?”

“Hmm. I guess a second date. Maybe an anime sesh will have to do. Your place, and we’re pulling an all nighter.”

“Why not your place?” she questions.

“I live in a living room, and I don’t have a mattress. But why not? My place it is!” His aggressive thumbs up makes her laugh so hard it sends her into a choking fit.

“So, we’re watching Teen Titans first, right?” she teases, pounding at her chest to stop the coughs.

His smile reaches his eyes. “You know, I was kinda scared going out with you tonight. No offense, but you have, like, no pictures on your social media. All Toph promised me was ‘you’re really pretty and heartbroken as well. ’ And, not to try to win any brownie points on this date, but I have to agree, you’re really pretty.” Katara rolls her eyes, and he blushes.

“I was expecting something along the lines of ‘ Goddess like,’ but I guess ‘really pretty’ works, too.” She’s laughing along with his obnoxious giggles, and she feels almost lighthearted. Not quite ready to fall in love again, but considering the possibility. “Let me guess, she cheated on you?”

“Worse. Walked in on her with...drumroll please!” Katara lightly began drumming her fingers on the dining table. “You guessed it! My brother!” he sheepishly admits, bringing out the jazz hands and everything to emphasize his point.

She audibly gasps. “That’s some Kdrama shit right there! Please tell me you started a fist fight with him, kicked a nut or two.”

“Nah, I had an essay due. No time for that shit, you know? I just shut the door, banged out my paper, and haven’t spoken to either of them in about four months.”

She takes a sip of her milkshake. “That’s healthy!” Jet tilts his shake in Katara’s direction in agreement, before taking a long gulp from the cup.

He quirks a perfectly shaped brow towards her. “So, let me guess. Your guy saved his side chick’s name as Chick-fil-a in his phone, you found out and tried to strangle him with his belt, and he pressed charges?”

“Oddly specific, but sadly no. Let’s just say he had the biggest heart. Big enough for bitches on the side as well.” Jet makes a grunt in disapproval. “It wasn’t like I could be mad, anyways. We weren’t in anything official. But it felt like it could’ve been something, you know?”

It was like an unspoken agreement, an energy that the two felt when they met each other. A “my heart was just shattered into a billion pieces but hopefully a rebound will lessen the pain just for two hours tonight” kind of vibe. It felt good with Jet, like the two of you guys had known each other forever. He serves her with corny joke after joke, and she lets herself laugh. She hated being around men, and besides, Sokka threatened any that even made eye contact with her for longer than 20 seconds. Aside from Sokka, Zuko, and Aang, the kid she babysat, Katara was afraid to let any other men in her life. Three was already enough emotional labor.

They both go out for boba afterwards, and Jet makes sure to pay for their drinksand then drop his change into the tip jar. He knows that Katara swoons immediately. It always works. That’s why 30 minutes later, she’s slamming him into her futon. Soon after, he’s shirtless, pressing at her core with impatient fingers. She’s grinding helplessly in his lap, his moans egging her on. He insisted she keep the boots on.

“I was not raised to leave my shoes on in the house. That’s just vile ,” she protested. Jet silences her with a gentle kiss, and a press of his throbbing cock against her.

“Please, baby. Make an exception for me tonight,” he whispers against her lips. Her shorts and underwear are suddenly missing. When the fuck did he do that? She’s dizzy and horny and so full when he starts fingering her. His fingers so fucking long and is making her whimper and ready to have his kids. She closes her eyes because staring at Jet’s fucked out ones made her want to combust. She was focusing on the feeling of being stuffed while trying to tamp down on the fear of losing her virginity, because that seemed like the logical course of action with how the night was playing out. Damnit, what if it hurts like a pap smear ? She thinks pathetically. In the middle of all her inner monologues, she’s suddenly shoved off of Jet’s warm body, tumbling on the ground. She opens her eyes to see Zuko pummeling Jet to a pulp.

“Not the face, Zuko! Not the fucking face! He’s too pretty for this!” Katara yelps, shoving Zuko’s muscular frame off of Jet. Jet sends her a sad smile before slipping his shirt over his head and heading out the door.

She’s fuming, too angry, too confused. “What the fuck was that ?” She’s at maximum screech levels tonight, much to her neighbor’s dismay.

“You tell me!” Zuko cards his hands through his hair. “You’re fucking some other guy? Don’t know if you’ve forgotten, Katara. But this,” he gestures between the two of them. “Did you forget about us? Forget about me? What the fuck?”

“Hold up, Walter White.” She’s sticking a hand out in his face. “We are a situationship, at best. Don’t you dare accuse me of whoring around when we aren’t even official.”

“I thought what we had, what we were...I don’t know? It’s different,” Zuko rubs at his neck awkwardly. “Did you not feel the same way? Why do you care about all these labels all of a sudden? Why didn’t you fucking tell me you wanted us to make it official?”

“It’s because you’re supposed to know! You’re supposed to know that I hate what you do, that I hate loving you, because it hurts me.”

“So why won’t you go out with me? Is it because I’m a drug dealer?” Zuko’s mad, twisting the rings on his fingers while impatiently waiting on her answer.

“Not exactly,” Katara quips, averting her eyes from his fiery gaze. “It’s mainly because you don’t tip when we go out to eat.”

“Bullshit!” he howls.

“You need to tip at least 20%!”

“Katara.” He takes a deep breath in. “Why don’t we just make this official?”

She’s worrying at her lip. Trying desperately to remember the breathing exercises her therapist had recommended before she started crying and did something crazy like suck his dick because he looked hot when he was angry. “Zuko, as much as you’d like to keep pretending that we could ever be a thing, I can’t. I can’t keep holding onto this fucking unrealistic dream. These unrealistic expectations! What do you want me to do? Pray for the day you get bored of dealing or hanging out with the rich kids or making out with sorority girls so you could come back to me at night? Because I’m fucking pathetic and let you back every single time?”

She sees him spluttering, trying to desperately hold onto a solid response that could sway her decision. “Katara, you know how much I care about you. But you would never get it! You would never get someone like me!”

She scoffs. “Try me. What don’t I get about you, Zuko?”

“That being with those people, and dealing makes me feel like more than just a poor kid with no parents and no fucking future.” Zuko huffs out the confession as though he was holding it in for a millenium.

“I get it, ok I understand but-”

Zuko steps back from her, as though she’s slapped him straight across the face. “No, Katara. You don’t. You don’t fucking get it. You get to cosplay as poor. Pretend that you have to budget when Sokka could easily handle everything if things go wrong.”

Katara’s angry, angry at herself. For hurting Zuko with her careless words, for looking so fucking stupid. “Ok, fine. You’re right.” She surprises even herself at her confession. "I don’t get it. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be fucking worried about you? That I’m terrified about what could go wrong? One wrong move and you could fucking die! You think the dean is going to let any of those rich assholes take the fall for anything? No, they’re going to blame it on the disposable kid on Financial Aid,” she wails at the top of her lungs.

She searches his eyes for any understanding, for any reaction to what she was saying. His jaw is set in a determined look, the kind of look she knew was unwavering, was unable to be changed no matter what. She sucks in a breath of air, praying for any sort of strength. “How about you do you, and I do me?”

“Yeah, sure,” Zuko squeezes out. He’s rushing out the door, slamming it on his way out.

“I knew I could smell the cock on you! You rode that dick like a stolen car, didn’t you?” Suki bellows, cackling.

“Please, I will fucking block you,” Katara wearily threatens, without any might behind it. She’s, predictably, in one of Zuko’s old t shirts from when he played soccer in high school, slapping on moisturizer before she could retire to bed. “Zuko stopped anything from happening when he came in and went 'New York after Hottie said she looked like Beyonce' on his ass.

Toph grunts over the line. “So what’s the deal with you guys? He’s dealing you drugs and dick now? You’re fucking the weed man for weed? Or are you fucking the dick man for dick? At least you’re not fucking the tweet man for tweets.”

Katara pauses in patting in the cream on her face. “How does this make any sense to you? Like do you not hear yourself speak?”

“It makes perfect sense to me, slut.”

Suki jumps in before low blows could be dealt and the girls start making fun of each others foundation not matching. “You know what, I bet Zuko’s selling whole ass cilantro and/or oregano and no one says anything because he’s fine.”

Katara pauses in applying her lip balm, a call from Zuko popping up threatening to end her call with her girls. “Zuko’s calling?” she questions.

“This late?” Toph is in between bites of her pepperoni Hot Pocket.

Suki sighs. “Listen, Katara. Girls don’t win when it comes to love, we never win. Maybe you should take a break from all this Zuko mess, and I don’t know. Pick up a hobby. Go back to therapy.”

But Katara knew something was wrong. She could sense it, just feel it inside her. Something was inherently wrong. As though the universe was whispering this to her, pleading with her to listen. “I’ll call you guys back, ok?”

“This is the future Stephanie Meyer wanted. For girls to be pathetically in love with pale, emo guys,” Toph miserably whimpers after Katara leaves their call.

Katara heart felt like it could fall out of her ass and then jump back in her mouth with how loudly it was beating. She’s running, clad in only the t shirt and her slides. They were threatening to slip off at any second from how fast her feet were forcing them to pound at the pavement. Word of the wise, don’t fucking run in slides.

“Don’t fucking hurt him!” She screams, expandable baton whipped out and ready to pummel any bitch dumb enough to hurt Zuko while she’s around. A few guys were standing around Zuko’s limp body, about to lay another painful blow against his bruised visage when she starts wildly beating them with her baton. She’s shrieking at the top of her lungs, scaring them enough for all of them to disperse. They all ran off before they had to deal with whatever the fuck Katara was doing. Crazy wasn’t in their agenda that night, only beating up good looking dealers.

“Oh, Zuko.” Katara immediately lets go of the weapon, dropping down to her knees to look at him.

Turns out, everyone wants a shot at the king.

She sits herself down and gently cradles Zuko’s head in between her hands before placing it in her lap. He closes his eyes and musters the strength to give her a small smile.

“Thank you, Katara.” She’s trying her best to hold back her tears. The gravel is scraping unforgivably against her legs, the cold causing her throat to begin to itch. She’s shivering as she types in “911.”

Zuko lifts a battered arm to swat quickly at her fingers. “Can we just Uber to the hospital? I don’t want to drop two racks on an ambulance.”

“Zuko!” Katara squeals. It works, he’s got her to smile in spite of all the drama, all the tears. It’s so easy for them to be like this together. Just enjoying the moment, just being themselves. “You know, I’m sorry for ever saying you look like an angry snake. You still do, but I’m sorry.”

“I hate you,” he says without any commitment to the spite.

“You don’t.”

“I know.” He lets her finish ordering the Uber before speaking again. “I love you.”

She runs her fingers in his hair. “I know.”

“Say it back, please?” He has the audacity to pout despite being beaten nearly half to death.

“I’m scared,” she can’t bring herself to break eye contact with his intense gaze.

“I know.”

“Zuko! What happened?” Iroh’s running as fast as he can, still clad in his sleepwear. He sees the pretty girl that the nurses warned has refused to leave the boy’s side for the past few hours, never letting go of his hand. She’s even had the gall to snap the nurses who would show up to their shift a few minutes late.

He sees his nephew rub comforting circles in the girls’ hand with his thumb, looking at her before he could make eye contact with his uncle. Right when he’s about to say something, he’s interrupted.

“He was protecting me. We were walking in a bad part of town because I really wanted to get ice cream, and...we got mugged.” She finishes lamely, whispering the last few words. “They hit him first and then were trying to steal my purse. They got even more mad when he started yelling ‘don’t hurt her!’ He jumped in front of me before they could do anything.”

The two share a look and a smile. Zuko’s grip on Katara’s hand grows impossibly tigther.

#zutara #zutara fanfiction #day 4 zutara month #katara #Zuko #zuko x katara #zutaramonth #zutarafic

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kingofthewilderwest · 5 years

Text

Useless Fiddleford McGucket headcanons because I’m bored and sleep deprived and want to talk about my favorite so NYEH sue me

Fidds is the baby of a large family, something like the second-to-youngest out of seven kids. I mean, he doesn’t have the backbone an older sibling would have. More older brothers than older sisters (four bros, he makes five boys). He’s got one younger sister, but other than that, he’s the youngest. He’s even young when taking cousins and extended family into account.

He’s got a MOB of cousins. There’s still a hoard of McGuckets back in Tennessee.

He started the chewing tobacco habit in his early teens.

He was always the most interested in banjo of the musical instruments and started that around eleven. But he also knows a fair amount of folk percussion elements (musical spoons, hamboning, etc.) and learned a little fiddle by proxy. As in, he never TRIED to learn the violin, but he had a cousin or friend who played, and they showed him a few things.

One time someone in college mentioned that Fiddleford should’ve been a fiddler, and McGucket mentions he DID pick up “just a little. sorta.” When they put a violin in his hands, he cranks out a few heavy bluegrass bars that are legitimately good, and everyone else in the room is like, “I hate you.”

He didn’t learn to read music until he was in college, though. Encouragement from Ford. He’s still not good with reading music.

McGucket started post-secondary at a community college because of tight finances in his family. He transferred to Backupsmore as a junior, and for him, that was a legitimate step up. Four year out-of-state university!

He lived in the dorms his entire stay at Backupsmore. This was the one period where his “early to bed, early to rise” lifestyle got strained. He still went to bed earlier and woke earlier than most students, but he was busy enough it could get late. He’d unwind by playing banjo, which quickly made him That Annoying Person UGH in the dorm community... he learned to go outside, play the instrument in a nearby clearing/parkish area on campus, where he wouldn’t bother others.

Fiddleford is two years older and two grades above Ford. They had lots of class overlap because Ford started taking upper level courses early.

Fiddleford majored in mechanical engineering and figured a Bachelors would suffice. He looked at schooling from more a humble and practical perspective: he’d rather apply his mechanical knowledge in the real world than sit in abstract academia. But Ford convinced Fiddleford he was brilliant enough he should go for grad school, and he did (at Backupsmore, too, naturally).

Fiddleford and Ford have taught a class together. Initially, the teaching assignment was just for Ford. But Fidds suspected Ford wouldn’t get the human element down right in class (Ford would just lecture at a board, he’d do the bare minimum because he’d rather focus on his own research, he’d make coursework too tough because he had skewed ideas of what was feasible, he wouldn’t have the right Touch or interpersonal skills to talk to students worrying about grades, etc.), so Fiddleford suggested he slip in as a second instructor.

There were still more than a few... rough patches and learning moments... with that class.

McGucket married in his early 20s his senior year of undergrad.

Statistically unlikely as he knows it is, Fiddleford still buys scratch tickets and loses money from it.

Ford was the DM for the Dungeons Dungeons & More Dungeons group. All male group. Of everyone, Ford had to twist Fiddleford’s arm the most to play. Fiddleford was the person who attended the group the least (out on dates with Emma-May and such), but he did end up liking the game and coming without Ford cajoling. Admittedly he was more in it for the math than the fantasy.

That same group of people came up with the KBPS measurement (Knee Bounce Per Second). A bunch of hard scientists teasing McGucket about being twitchy turned into creating an official measurement for said twitchiness.

There has been at least one incident where Ford’s been stumped on an advanced physics problem for months and months, and Fiddleford looks at it and solves it in two minutes.

Fiddleford has published papers under “Fiddleford Hadron McGucket,” full name, despite the middle name being unnecessary to distinguish himself (ergo why he introduces himself like that in Society of the Blind Eye).

He’s had problems with people not believing that’s his real name.

His dialect used to be a lot thicker - phonetically, syntatically, etc. A combination of people being mean to him about it, peers not 100% understanding what he said, and the education system saying he spoke “wrong” made him focus on trying to change it in his early 20s.

Fiddleford followed the early development of video games, but tried to downplay his interest in the topic.

He can solve that Cubic’s Cube in less than thirty seconds.

He’s not as much of a lightweight as you’d think when it comes to drinking. He can’t hold his liquor like a champ, but it’s not one-beer-and-he’s-out, either. When he’s had a little too much to drink, his social inhibitions drop so he’ll potentially say or do slightly embarrassing things (and Ford feels the second hand embarrassment BURNING. Especially when Fidds starts dancing. Oh yikes. It’s bad.)

McGucket is VERY DEAD without his coffee, and wanders around like a zombie in the morning until he gets that caffeine. You could almost put a yodeling bear inside the house, and he’d walk by it without blinking or realizing it’s there.

Fiddleford has a boring taste pallet and doesn’t like experimenting. He eats Fairly Standard “American” food, doesn’t diverge much outside that. Not into spicy foods, etc.

Fiddleford believed in ghosts long before he learned about Ford’s paranormal research or moved to Gravity Falls.

Fiddleford called Emma-May regularly when he was in Gravity Falls, first working on the project with Ford. The lack of contact made his wife realize something was up. The combination of his disoriented state, and a fear to not bother her or let her see him like this, meant he didn’t reach out for help when he should have. She was the one who went up to GF to see what had happened. I’m not going to go into all of how I think THAT went down, but the divorce decision happened fast enough that that’s why McGucket went straight from the office to the motel - he wouldn’t be staying with her anywhere.

I’ve toggled between several possibilities trying to explain to myself why Tate ended up in Gravity Falls when logically Ms. Dixon would have had sole custody over her son. One possibility is she raised Tate in California, so Tate didn’t see his father for most of childhood. If so, it would’ve been his own choice to go to GF as an adult. He had mixed feelings about his father, a lot of bitterness, some fears, no shortage of embarrassment, but just enough nostalgia to see what would happen if they reconnected. Ultimately it didn’t turn out great. But I feel like there’s a reason that, as soon as McGucket reached out to family at the end of the show, Tate not only accepted his father back, but moved in with him. For all their issues, Tate always did internally want his dad back.

One of the reasons Tate hides his intellect and avoids using it is because he doesn’t know why his father crashed and doesn’t want to risk following suit. Another part of it is distancing himself from the embarrassment he feels about Fiddleford.

Old Man McGucket doesn’t go to Gravity Falls events because of the planned activity. Half the time he doesn’t even know what the gathering’s for. He’s there because it’s a way to squeeze into human interaction. He doesn’t care if it’s a dance party for kids with music he wouldn’t listen to - it’s a way to be among other people.

This is 80% of the reason why he went through ALL that anime with Soos.

#and I'll stop right there because that's already enough and already shows I'm a pathetic sap #blabbing Haddock #GF #Gravity Falls #Fiddleford McGucket #Young McGucket #Old Man McGucket #non-dragons #long post #Tate McGucket #Emma-May Dixon #Ford Pines #Stanford Pines #one time he tried to give up coffee for Lent #and that backfired spectacularly #just as badly as that one year I tried to give up sugary desserts....#Lost Time

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southparkhighrpg · 6 years

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Michael - Accepted

Congratulations, Xo! Welcome to South Park High! Remember to send us your account within 48 hours of acceptance! If you ever need time extension to make the account, message the mods.

1. Mun information Preferred Name: Xochitl Age: 21 Pronouns: They/Them Timezone: CST Activity Level(Scale 1-10): 8 Discord: Password: Eric Cartman is a fatass

2. Muse Information Muse’s name: Michael Age: 17 Birthday: 13 November Height: 6’ 7" Sexuality: Constantly questioning Gender/Pronouns: Cis Male; He/Him 3. Personality (two paragraph) Michael is just as much of an asshole as he was in his childhood. He never has cared much for being popular with his peers just as he’s never cared much for anything. His apathetic and stoic attitude has made it difficult for him to form any close relationships outside the goths, or any sort of relationship for that matter. He has a disdain for anyone he considers to be followers of the “conformist agenda”, whatever the hell that means. Essentially, the school’s elite and most liked are at the very top of his shit list and while it is possible to get Michael to change his opinions, it’s extremely difficult. He’s immensely stubborn so much to the point that it has no doubt gotten on even his closest friends’ nerves. On the opposite end, however, Michael does have his approachable days. To those he considers friends, he isn’t as stern and even tends to dote on them, much like a mother. He’s thoughtful, honest but thoughtful. He doesn’t particularly like being an asshole to those he truly cares about. With the goths, he’s overprotective and affectionate in his own way. He would never go out of his way to purposefully hurt them. He’s deny this if it was brought up, however. His pride still reigns over everything else. 4. Appearance (two paragraph) Michael stand’s at 6’ 7", a very tall boy but not too unusual considering his family is one of the more “vertically blessed” in town. While he was known for his cachexic physique as a child, the goth has grown into himself. He isn’t the most jacked dude in town but he has toned up, more than would be expected give how slender he is. Even disregarding his height, Michael is a very lengthy person. His fingers are elongated and skeletal, and his legs are much longer than his torso, giving off the appearance that the boy is 80% leg. [A bit of a reach but you get the drift.] He’s very easy to pick out in a crowd. His complexion is pale and slightly yellow, like very aged parchment. His eyes are dark, piercing, and judgmental. He has a very attractive face: slender, high cheekbones, blemish-free, and mature. Model-esque, in it’s own way. He wears long dark coats—some simple, some extravagant—and never leaves the house without the comfort of makeup and jewelry. All of the rings, earrings, and necklaces he wears are custom made, handmade by himself of course. No matter where he goes, even if it’s just to grocery shop, Michael is dressed to the nines. His most casual pieces of clothing, that aren’t specifically pajamas, are dress shirts and slacks. His nails are always neat and manicured. His eyebrows always groomed and highlighted with makeup. His hair is never less than perfect. Again, he is a very prideful man and it reigns above everything else.

7. Name at least 5 headcanons

✞ If there’s one thing Michael will put a ton of effort in, it’s his appearance. He wakes up earlier than normal to make sure he is presentable even when staying in. He has a collection of high-end makeup and hair products that he uses on the daily. He also takes great care of skin and uses a variety of moisturizers, cleansers, exfoliators, etc. His daily routine usually takes around 2 hours to complete. He even goes to a fancier salon to get his hair cut and dyed professionally.He buys a lot of his clothing online and will often have it tailored because of his height. ✞ His home life and relationship with his family isn’t the best. His mother and father are constantly fighting and separate usually every other month. His parents usually take their frustrations out on him since he is the one who intervenes in a majority of their fight. They’ve gotten into a habit of kicking him out every so often. He is currently homeless due to this and is staying at the local motel. He also has two older siblings [who can be seen in the background photos in Michael’s home in Dawn of the Posers]: a sister and a brother. The three of them have a tight bond because of how awful their relationship with their parents is. Michael is very protective of his older siblings, and vice versa. ✞ He’s very much a dick and won’t be very nice to a majority of the characters. He is a bit nicer to the Goth Kids but he’ll still pick on them. He sees the other goths as family and will be overly-protective of them to point where he’d be willing to batter someone for hurting them.

✞ Speaking of which, Michael is a brute. He’s very violent when it comes to his fighting style. He won’t go picking fights unprovoked though, so stay on his good side and you’ll be fine. He still suffers from anger issues but he’s managed to push down his rage save for a couple of touchy subjects. ✞ A lot of his interests revolve around horror, the macabre, and things that are generally considered taboo. This, of course, includes horror movies, urban legends, the occult, the supernatural, mythology, demonology, cults and even serial killers [though he does not romanticize or idolize murder]. He’s also big on conspiracy theories. He loves hearing about them even if they’re the most outrageous thing ever. ✞ A secret interest of his is that he’s super into Angels. He knows a lot about them for someone who is not religious in the slightest and dabbles in doing angel readings and contacting them. He finds both demons and angels absolutely fascinating. ✞ He’s also a pyro and is almost always setting random crap on fire. He has a huge collection of Zippo lighters that he uses for this task. He hasn’t started any major fires since the Hot Topic, though. ✞ He still writes poetry. He’s also taken a liking to photography and metal-working. He’ll often take photos of his friends of when he’s just walking around with his Polaroid camera. He learned how to work metal on his own and usually just makes jewelry and charms.

✞ Michael works two jobs to support himself and his bearded dragons. After having been regularly kicked out by his parents in high school, Michael decided to find his own place the moment he could afford. However, the bills soon began to overwhelms him and he had to drop out of college his first semester to take on another job to keep him and his scaly children alive. He currents manages a record store during the day and bartends during the night.

8. Write two decent sized paragraphs that shows how you would portray your muse

May 26th. The end of the school year is merely days away. The senior class of South Park High School are all ready to graduate and move on with their lives. Universities, technical schools, and careers have all been planned and the students are ready to set them into motion. And while his classmates are chattering about move-in dates and fall schedules, Michael still hadn’t locked in on an after-graduation plan. He didn’t have much of a choice. It was either work or school and neither of those appealed to him. There was always travel but one needs money for the expenses and ,in turn, a job or two. It was depressing to think about how he would be the one to be trapped in the frozen wasteland that is South Park, Colorado. While Michael had his heart set on one school in particular, he had never heard back from them. In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have only applied to one school, kept his options open. Maybe then he’d relate to his classmates’ conversations, even if he only managed to get into Denver U. He wouldn’t still be an outcast. But traditional schooling was never for him, higher education or not. Michael knew what he wanted from a young age. “Pratt Institute or bust” was his mentality but that dream was closer than ever to being shattered. It has now been months since acceptance letters were sent out and Michael had gotten nothing, not even a notice of rejection. He was just about to give up on the idea until he noticed something on the kitchen island: an envelope addressed to him. His breath hitched in his throat the moment the signature yellow insignia that read “PRATT”. Skeletal fingers trembling, the goth opened up the envelope with a such a painfully slow pace that even the world’s laziest sloth would become impatient. Why was he so nervous? There was only two possible outcomes and he had already mentally prepared for rejections months ago. And even if he did manage to be accepted, there was no way he’d be able to afford the travel expenses, much less tuition. Still, he held a sliver of hope in his dark heart that he’d spend his future days far from the mundane world of the small mountain town, living life to the fullest in New York City, as cliche as that thought was. Michael Nguyen-Darbi, Upon review of your application… He could feel his heartbeat resonate in his head. The goth’s vision was becoming hazy. His nerves had completely taken over, making him sickly. Stop stalling and finish reading the letter, Michael. Don’t be a bitch. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, readying himself to finish. As soon as his eyes shot open he read the rest of the line. …we are glad to offer you acceptance to Pratt Institute. In that moment, all time seemed to stop. It was surreal, reading those words. He did it….he actually fucking did it. Michael’s breaths were ragged, labored and audible. The euphoria he felt was overwhelming, so much so that he stumbled back from loss of balance, grabbing onto the kitchen counter for support. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, growing from the a tiny upwards curl to a bright, toothy grin. Michael took a deep breath, trying to calm himself before letting out a loud “Yes!!” God was he glad no one was home. But he wished someone was. He needed to share this news. Fumbling around in his pocket, Michael searched for his phone. He swiped through his contacts before calling the one under the name ‘Assmunch ☠’. Rising. Riiiiing. “Pete? Guess what I just fucking got..” 9. Any additional information you would like to add That’s it!

#accepted #michael #submission

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exysapphics · 7 years

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Is it possible to get a fluffy college AU with Antigone and Georgie for your Fanfic February please? It would make my day!

February 21. 967 words.

Georgie has had four jobs in the past year, and none of them have stuck. Here's the thing: she's a hard worker, she's been good at every part of the jobs she's tried, and she's willing to put in the hard work to get herself through college, but none of them are what she's looking for. She has what she considers to be an epic resume, and getting jobs isn't an issue for her.

What is an issue for her: she is a very broke college student, her roommate is horrendous, and her only real friend is her ex who has a boyfriend now that he won't shut up about. Actually, Eric wouldn't shut up about Rudyard even she and him were dating, but now it's all lovey-dovey instead of fueled by hate.

Georgie needs a job, and she needs something interesting.

She's bored.

College students are not supposed to be bored.

Eric's boyfriend, the mysterious Rudyard whom she's never met, needs help with his job. Georgie is... wary, but intrigued. She knows that both Eric and Rudyard run funeral homes, and what kind of job would she be needed for at a funeral home?

It turns out, there are lots of jobs to be done. In the first hour she works for Funn Funeral Home she is overwhelmed with work. It isn't boring.

She figures Rudyard is just really far behind holding up the half of the business that he owns. The other half is owned by his sister, who she has yet to meet. She hopes Antigone Funn will be as strange as her brother.

Georgie would describe Antigone as strange. She would also describe her as a lot of other things, among those: beautiful, funny, talented, and interesting.

Antigone also has a cold sense of humor, and generally a dark air about her, which what else would one expect, considering how occupation? She's only three years older than Georgie, and she's tall. So basically, Antigone Funn is the result of Georgie taking an online "what is your perfect girl" quiz.

She's surprising, as well. Sometimes she says things that are caring, and generally has a sharp jab to go with them, but the meaning still remains. Georgie knows she's a softie underneath.

Okay, Georgie might be crushing on her boss.

Except she isn't, not technically, because Rudyard hired her and it's Rudyard she's been working for. Antigone has her shit too together to need help with her side of the business, for the most part. Georgie's willing to help anyway.

It isn't so much that Antigone rejects Georgie's advances, it's just that she doesn't seem to understand them. She's not a social person. In some ways, that just heightens her appeal to Georgie. She's like the strange lady who lives at the end of the street that the kids think is a witch, except attractive. It's intriguing.It's frustrating when Georgie is just trying to flirt. Antione doesn't get flustered, she just gets... puzzled.

That's why Georgie has a Woo Antigone Funn Plan now.

It's not as much a plan as it is just her trying to be up front enough about her feelings that Antigone won't mistake her flirting for anything else. That isn't really Georgie's strongest attribute.

She needs to get this off her chest.

Antigone is already at the funeral home when Georgie gets there. They're always the first two there, because apparently it takes Rudyard longer to walk over from Eric's place across the street than for Georgie to take an Uber from her campus ten minutes away.

It's a quiet morning. There are no sounds other than Antigone turning the pages of her book and Georgie typing on her laptop. She stops typing to stretch, and can just feel Antigone staring at her. These are the moments that are the most frustrating, when she thinks that it's likely that Antigone wants her, but neither of them are doing anything about it.

"I've...got to run an errand. I'll be back later."

Georgie looks up just in time to catch the sight of Antigone's back as she rushes out the door. She adds this to her mental list of the things that make Antigone strange. She tends to avoid leaving the places where she feels safe and social contact in general, then she does something like this.

Antigone came back an hour later.

"Rudyard, I'm stealing Georgie."

"No you are not! I need her. She's busy."

"I think I can spare a second, Rudyard, really."

He turned back to his desk and continued to grumble. (You'd think he'd be in a better mood, considering he's the only one of the three of them getting laid regularly.)

Georgie followed Antigone into the hallway, and Antigone pulled something from behind her back.

A bouquet of flowers.

(Another item for the "Antigone Is Strange But Lovely" list.)

She offered them to Georgie.

"I think this is how people do these sorts of things. I'm not very good at it. Georgie, I... care about you more than I care about most people. Oh, I'm not saying this how I want to. What I mean is..."

"Antigone, I love the flowers. Thank you."

"I know they're your favorite color..."

"You remembered?"

"Of course."

"Antigone, can I kiss you?"

Antigone beat Georgie to it and kissed her first.

"They're better not be any indecent activities going on out there. This is a professional establishment."

Georgie laughed against Antigone's lips.

Later, they would talk about this more.

Later, they would go on a nice date.

Later, Georgie would really thank her girlfriend for the flowers.

But right then, kissing to the background sound of Rudyard slamming the door (hopefully to go make out with his own significant other and relieve that tension, Christ help him) was enough.

Send me prompts for Fanfiction February!

#wooden overcoats #still don't know their ship name #my fics #fanfiction february

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idunazccarlynqp79insurance-blog · 5 years

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Toyota Venza Cheap Insurance

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Toyota Venza Cheap Insurance

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amtushinfosolutionspage · 7 years

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Cole Anthony Wants to Revolutionize Basketball (And Play Zelda)

“Come on, Cole!” It’s a sticky Saturday night in a rec center on the Upper West Side, and Cole Anthony, the most talented high-school basketball player in New York City—and arguably the preeminent point guard in the entire county—has just missed his third straight jump shot.

His obvious disappointment is quickly masked by unwavering energy and focus. Anthony nails a series of step-back threes with instinctive precision. His T-shirt, which was light gray 45 minutes ago, now resembles a gushing raincloud. Another exasperated cry echoes off the gym’s wall like a clap of thunder. “Short!”

A handful of middle-school-aged boys are dribbling around below two hoops that flank Cole’s basket. Each one pretends to ignore the sound, but not staring at its source —a blur of green shorts and white Nikes—would be impossible for anyone.

Anthony is as likely to toss a self-alley-oop off the backboard as he is to orchestrate a surgical half-court set. His game is capricious in the best possible way, with physical and mental characteristics that can’t be learned studying film or living in a gym (both of which he does fastidiously). He’s an immediate learner with a voracious appetite for information, and the older he gets—Anthony has played up a level in the AAU’s 17-and-under division for the past couple years—the more complete his game looks.

As the session strings through shooting drills aimed to quicken his release and attack in various ways out of a pick-and-roll, DJ Sackmann, a skills trainer who regularly works with some of the top high-school players in the country, asks Anthony if he wants to go a little longer than they originally planned.

He spins his head as if the question was “Would you like a piece of cake?” then trots to the corner and fires up another 10 minutes’ worth of jumpers. Once that’s over, Sackmann directs Anthony to stand about four feet behind the top of the arc. The postscript to this workout’s postscript is for him to make 20 NBA-range threes.

“20 in a row?” A devilish grin slides across the high-school junior’s face. He swishes eight before a misfire—short!—but eventually reclaims his rhythm. The ball doesn’t hit the floor. Instead, it flies from Cole’s fingertips through the nylon net to Sackmann’s reach below the rim…then back to Cole. I think about how long we’d be in the gym if anyone else in it had to sink 20 shots standing about 24 feet from the rim. Anthony wraps it up in under a minute.

“He has a different mindset as far as his work ethic is concerned,” Sackmann says a couple weeks later. “He’s very receptive to criticism and he’s willing to take everything in and try to work on his weaknesses to improve his craft. You don’t see that from any high-school kid, let alone a top-10 kid. He’s already a Division-I point guard.”

Two or three of the kids who were dribbling on the side have stuck around to watch Anthony wrap things up. Each has turned his basketball into a makeshift chair along the baseline, a few feet behind the net Cole’s jumpers are eviscerating. Free front row seats to watch a teenager who’s all-around flair and technical skill suggest he’ll someday compete in the NBA’s Slam Dunk and Three-Point contest.

Ray Lego

Coming off a summer in which Anthony dominated several circuits, invite-only camps, and AAU tournaments—all overflowing with the best prospects in the nation—the young point guard has begun to treat the present as daily preparation for what very well could be a lucrative future doing what he enjoys most.

“I think he has a chance to be the prototype for how the point guard position is played at the highest level,” says Greg Anthony, Cole’s father and a former NBA player turned basketball analyst for Turner Sports. “He’s what I call a natural basketball player. He’s not methodical. He sees it before it happens and that’s a special trait that all the great players have, is the ability to see things two, three steps ahead.”

Anthony’s days start at about 5:15 AM, when he arrives at a recreation center a couple blocks from his home. Andre Charles, an assistant coach from his PSA Cardinals AAU team will guide him through drills via FaceTime from Staten Island if he can’t make it in person.

Anthony is 6’2″ and is still growing. His primary goal heading into next season is to bulk up his trim frame, so before he ventures down to his building’s basement for an hour-long calisthenics workout, he chases a peanut butter sandwich down with an Ensure. Before he leaves for school, Anthony will inhale a plate crammed with pancakes, eggs, and bacon.

After school, he’s back in the gym to hoist some more shots up, then home to focus on his academics—according to a mandate from his parents, if he doesn’t maintain a B average, he can’t set foot on the court—before he climbs into bed by 8:00 PM every night. The routine hardly sounds sustainable for anyone, let alone someone who celebrated their 17th birthday a few months ago, but in addition to his unparalleled talent and surreal athleticism, it’s Anthony’s innate drive and discipline that will soon allow him to play basketball at whichever college he wants.

Ray Lego

“He truly loves the game every bit as much, if not more, than I do. I think the better he’s gotten, the more he’s wanted to improve,” Greg Anthony says. “It’s been a fun journey to watch thus far.”

Indeed, Cole’s future feels filled with endless possibility. As he sees it, “[The NBA] is really not that far ahead. If I play my cards right, do what I need to do, I’ll be in the NBA in probably three or four years? I’ve just got to keep my head on and stay focused.”

On the court, Anthony is simultaneously cerebral, steady, and relentless. He anatomizes defenders with ease and can already attack in myriad ways from all three levels. Duck under a screen and he’ll stick a pull-up jumper. If a defender steps up to take away the shot, Anthony, who first dunked when he was 14, will slip by and deliver a teeth-rattling finish. In June, he was named Co-Most Outstanding Player at the Pangos All-American Camp, an honor once awarded to James Harden, John Wall, and Harrison Barnes. The subsequent weeks were filled with impressive performances at an array of invite-only camps and tournaments.

“He’s a top-five-in-the-country athlete,” says Terrance Williams, Anthony’s head coach on the PSA Cardinals. “But he doesn’t rely on his athleticism.”

Towards the end of the summer, Anthony had the opportunity to meet Boston Celtics point guard Kyrie Irving while his family vacationed in the Hamptons. According to Anthony’s mother Crystal McCrary, the four-time All-Star flipped the script and told Cole how much he loved his ability.

“He actually said he was a fan of my game,” Anthony says. “It was awesome.”

Ray Lego

Anthony is nestled near the top of just about every prospect list there is (For the Class of 2019, ESPN currently has him ranked sixth and Rivals.com has him fifth), but instead of worrying about who’s in front of him or what schools are rumored to have interest, he instead studies his peers at every position, reading scouting reports and absorbing film to get a solid understanding of those likely to become his friends and foes at the next level. All other elements of the process—contact with college coaches, scheduled visits, etc.—are controlled by his father.

“You want to feel good and be proud of the program and all it has to offer, not just on the court but off it,” Greg Anthony—who helped shepherd UNLV to a National Championship in 1990—said. “That stuff is really important because that becomes your family. And that’s gonna be a part of your family your entire life. So all that stuff will play a role and we’ll look more at it as he develops more.”

Thanks to his dad, Anthony can forget about college recruitment and zoom in on all the ways he can improve as a person, player, and student. Anthony enjoys playing hide-and-seek with his four-year-old brother, and sometimes wakes up at 3:00 AM to play video games for an hour or two before his day begins. His favorite, he says, is Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild. “I beat that game like three times already,” he adds.

There are few distractions in his life, and his family, which constantly demands humility, help prevent his ego from creeping in and becoming an antagonistic force. He feels no pressure outside that which he sets on his own shoulders. He doesn’t care about the simmering belief that he can be one of the most exciting guards to ever emerge from New York City, and comparisons to his dad don’t stress him out in the slightest bit.

“He is my dad and I’m his son,” he says. “There’s really been no disadvantages for me. Everything’s been an advantage.”

Ray Lego

Anthony hears his name whispered when he walks down the hall at school, receives complimentary DM’s from fans all over the globe (most recently from someone in New Zealand), was once recognized while on vacation in the Bahamas. Spike Lee, a family friend, is in his cell phone. The taste of celebrity is nice, but Anthony’s self-awareness and head-down concentration keep his priorities glued in place.

“[Popularity] is not something you can fall into,” he says. “I didn’t make it yet, so I can’t get accustomed to that.”

Though he may very well find himself shaking NBA Commissioner Adam Silver’s hand on draft day in the not-too-distant future, right now Anthony is driven less by NBA dreams than he is by a pair of crushing defeats he suffered in recent months. In early spring, Anthony’s high-school team lost in the Catholic High School Athletic Association championship by two points, with Anthony missing what would’ve been a game-tying bucket in the final seconds.

A few months later at Peach Jam—a Nike sponsored AAU tournament that pits the nation’s best programs against one another—Anthony led all scorers in an event that also featured Duke commit and future NBA lottery pick Marvin Bagley Jr., but his PSA Cardinals failed to make it out of pool play, losing in the final seconds to a team that went on to win the whole thing. (“That’s gonna be in the back of my head until I win Peach Jam, which we’re gonna do next year,” Anthony says.)

“How he handled defeat was really telling,” Greg Anthony tells me. The elder Anthony then imparts some wisdom he’d gleaned from Pat Riley, his former coach whose legendary idioms have become gospel among basketball fans. “[Coach Riley] used to say there are two things in competition: There’s winning and misery. And you have to embrace both. And the guys that embrace the misery oftentimes are your best winners because they know what it’s like not to win, and they’re gonna do everything in their power to not feel that misery.

Ray Lego

Since Cole was a small child, the act of competition was a minute-by-minute way for him to validate his supremacy at everything, but especially the most mundane activities—whether it was dashing past his sister into the bathtub before she could climb in, seeing which of his siblings could eat dinner the fastest, or brush their teeth the quickest. When he was still tiny, a foot race against a nine-year-old first taught him to hate losing. Anthony came up short by an inch; he was inconsolable.

“We were thinking ‘Oh you did such a great job. What an effort,’ and he was just crying and crying, and we were like ‘Why are you crying? You did such a great job!'” McCrary remembers. “He said ‘My feet are supposed to be faster than his. I was supposed to win.’ He was three years old.”

Anthony was born in Portland, Oregon, while his father was a backup point guard for one of the best teams in Trail Blazers history, then moved to Manhattan when he was still a toddler. (Greg and Crystal divorced over ten years ago.) He could throw a wiffle ball before he could walk, and as he grew it became clear to his parents that their son had uncommon agility. Competitive juices around the game of basketball started to bubble up right before he entered the fourth grade, when Anthony would frequent local parks and look to prove himself in pickup games.

He’d patiently wait for his turn on the sideline, eager to square off against kids that were five or six years older. At first they were amused: Look at you, little guy, little Cole. Anthony’s response was fiery: I’m not little. Stop calling me little Cole!

“He has dog in him, as they say,” McCrary laughs. (The one trait Anthony admires most in an NBA point guard is Russell Westbrook’s tenacity.)

Shortly after, he joined his first AAU team. At that age, Anthony’s talent level didn’t stand out relative to his peers, but he played with irrepressible emotion and a level of aggression that bled over from his desire to win at anything and everything.

“I used to call him the Charles Oakley of fouls, because when he fouled somebody, he fouled them,” Billy Council, the team’s coach, says. “So if you had beat Cole to a spot or you beat him to the basket, you best believe he was gonna chase you down and foul you hard so you won’t do it again.”

Ray Lego

Though his passion shined under Council, Anthony truly came into his own in the fifth grade, when Steve Harris—an established figure in New York’s AAU scene who also mentored NBA All-Star Kemba Walker—became his coach. After Anthony’s first game with his new coach, Harris, going off a gut feeling, told his newest player he could be the best kid in the country as early as next year—course-altering words that awoke a confidence inside Anthony that he didn’t know was there.

“He looked at me like I was crazy,” Harris says. “The next year he was the best kid in his class.”

That team utilized Cole at every position, in every role imaginable: On the wing, down low, at the high post. 25-point performances were the norm; he was the hub of their entire system. In one game against the top team in his region, Anthony’s squad entered as a 25-point underdog. Harris remembers how worried he was before the opening tip, until Anthony walked by and looked up at him, as if to say, Coach, keep your head up. We got this. We’re gonna beat them. We’re gonna run them out the gym.

In the end, Anthony’s team won by 25.

“When he steps on the court, you can see his whole facial expression change,” Harris says. “Like, he’s a lion. I see my prey, I’m going to kill it. I’m going to eat today…I talk about it with my kids to this day: ‘You gotta be strong-willed like Cole.’ That’s what separates him.”

As Anthony was about to start his freshman year at Archbishop Molloy High School in Queens, he decided to switch over to the PSA Cardinals, an AAU club that competes in the Nike-sponsored Elite Youth Basketball League (EYBL). The move allowed him to cut his teeth beside and against some of the best players in the country.

During that first year he was one of the youngest players in AAU’s oldest age group, on a team that featured several NBA prospects slated to play for Division-I schools this winter, including Mohammad Bomba at the University of Texas and Brandon Randolph at the University of Arizona.

Anthony still started every game while averaging double figures in points, then blossomed into the tip of PSA Cardinals’ spear this past spring. Not only did he become the first sophomore point guard to be named Defensive Player of the Year in the EYBL, but he also grew to embrace the expanded leadership role his coaches and father have urged him to accept. He’s conscious of how his body language affects those around him, and understands that each teammate is wired differently.

“I think his ultimate strength now is he’s learned how to lead individually, where he can understand and define different guy’s trigger points,” Williams says. “He knows one guy needs to be yelled at where another guy needs to be coddled; another guy needs a phone call. So he’s been able to expand his knowledge of leadership.”

Ray Lego

Anthony’s living room is spacious enough to fit several couches and a glass coffee table that’s neatly concealed by enormous books on Michelangelo, Diego Rivera, and The Image of the Black in Western Art. He lives with two siblings, his mom and stepfather Ray, an investment banker at Citigroup who played basketball at Harvard. Between towering windows that overlook Central Park, the walls are adorned with paintings by William Johnson and Norman Lewis that make the room feel like it belongs in the Smithsonian American Art Museum. A black baseball bat autographed by Derek Jeter rests in a glass case on a mantel above the fireplace.

“Cole is a child of privilege,” McCrary says. “What we constantly remind him is ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’ This could all be taken away in any number of ways.”

Given his surroundings, it’d be so understandable for Anthony to behave as if the entire world revolved around him. But his support system is wound by unbreakable cable. Everyone around him is there for a reason.

“It’s pretty unique,” Williams says. “It’s holistic. His situation is so pinpoint that no one gets into the other person’s lane. So like his dad has a role, his mom has a role, his step-dad has a role, AAU has a role, he has a role, even high school for a certain amount of time has their role, and then no one steps on each other’s toes but everyone is connected.”

Ray Lego

Impending fame separates Anthony from a vast majority of people his age. But he has also grasped his own good fortune. He has a selfless streak.

“He’s definitely learned compassion and appreciates his life and his upbringing,” Greg Anthony said. “And that in order to truly be the kind of person he wants to be, you have to be someone who’s willing to be generous with your time, whether it be to teammates or friends or those less fortunate.”

Over the summer he was given free shoes, shorts, and t-shirts as a participant of adidas Nations. Instead of keeping the free goodies for himself, he gave everything to an 18-year-old assistant coach who’s headed to college in the fall. “It just shows that Cole is mentally mature, that materialistic objects don’t trigger him,” Williams said. “And that’s a little different for his age group. Most guys enjoy that stuff.”

Anthony’s munificence applies to people he doesn’t even know, a reflection of the belief his family has instilled in him: To whom much is given, much is expected.

“I joke with him, like, I see him on social media and he gives away his sneakers,” Council said. “If a kid wants his sneakers he’ll tell them to hit him in his DM’s. He’s got more sneakers than a sneaker store, and he’s just a good-hearted individual.”

Last year, Anthony took a self-imposed six-month break from social media. “I just felt like it was a distraction,” he said. With over 53,000 followers on instagram, Anthony has a link on his page to a GoFundMe he started to help those in the Houston area who were affected by Hurricane Harvey. It was an idea that started after a conversation with his sister and mom.

“I see a lot of people on Twitter, on Instagram, just say ‘oh pray for…’, alright thanks for that,” Anthony said. “It’s not really doing much. I wanted to actually go make a change. I know I’m not physically there, but see if I can do something that’ll physically help them.”

There’s no way of knowing what the future will hold for any person (let alone an athlete) as young as Anthony, no matter how dominant they are or how much better they project to be. Guarantees do not exist in the world of sports. But reasonable optimism surrounds Anthony, whose ascendance is only accelerating.

“If Cole didn’t make it to the NBA, I would say it’s gotta be a bunch of politics or he just simply didn’t want to be there,” Harris said.

Again, so much can go wrong between now and then. Immense odds are stacked against each and every individual who wants to earn millions of dollars playing a game. But Anthony’s foundation foreshadows a happy ending; it’s admirable how well he balances confidence and wariness as the stakes around him start to rise.

Back in the gym, Anthony and Sackmann are working on a few advanced separation moves. In one fluid motion, he stabs the ball into the court, sidesteps back and to the right, then, without losing his balance, rises up a few feet to stick a jump shot. He gets the ball back and does it again. And again. And again.

Cole Anthony Wants to Revolutionize Basketball (And Play Zelda) syndicated from http://ift.tt/2ug2Ns6

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flauntpage · 7 years

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Cole Anthony Wants to Revolutionize Basketball (And Play Zelda)

"Come on, Cole!" It's a sticky Saturday night in a rec center on the Upper West Side, and Cole Anthony, the most talented high-school basketball player in New York City—and arguably the preeminent point guard in the entire county—has just missed his third straight jump shot.

A handful of middle-school-aged boys are dribbling around below two hoops that flank Cole's basket. Each one pretends to ignore the sound, but not staring at its source —a blur of green shorts and white Nikes—would be impossible for anyone.

Anthony is as likely to toss a self-alley-oop off the backboard as he is to orchestrate a surgical half-court set. His game is capricious in the best possible way, with physical and mental characteristics that can't be learned studying film or living in a gym (both of which he does fastidiously). He's an immediate learner with a voracious appetite for information, and the older he gets—Anthony has played up a level in the AAU's 17-and-under division for the past couple years—the more complete his game looks.

He spins his head as if the question was "Would you like a piece of cake?" then trots to the corner and fires up another 10 minutes' worth of jumpers. Once that's over, Sackmann directs Anthony to stand about four feet behind the top of the arc. The postscript to this workout's postscript is for him to make 20 NBA-range threes.

"20 in a row?" A devilish grin slides across the high-school junior's face. He swishes eight before a misfire—short!—but eventually reclaims his rhythm. The ball doesn't hit the floor. Instead, it flies from Cole's fingertips through the nylon net to Sackmann's reach below the rim...then back to Cole. I think about how long we'd be in the gym if anyone else in it had to sink 20 shots standing about 24 feet from the rim. Anthony wraps it up in under a minute.

"He has a different mindset as far as his work ethic is concerned," Sackmann says a couple weeks later. "He's very receptive to criticism and he's willing to take everything in and try to work on his weaknesses to improve his craft. You don't see that from any high-school kid, let alone a top-10 kid. He's already a Division-I point guard."

Two or three of the kids who were dribbling on the side have stuck around to watch Anthony wrap things up. Each has turned his basketball into a makeshift chair along the baseline, a few feet behind the net Cole's jumpers are eviscerating. Free front row seats to watch a teenager who's all-around flair and technical skill suggest he'll someday compete in the NBA's Slam Dunk and Three-Point contest.

Ray Lego

"I think he has a chance to be the prototype for how the point guard position is played at the highest level," says Greg Anthony, Cole's father and a former NBA player turned basketball analyst for Turner Sports. "He's what I call a natural basketball player. He's not methodical. He sees it before it happens and that's a special trait that all the great players have, is the ability to see things two, three steps ahead."

Anthony's days start at about 5:15 AM, when he arrives at a recreation center a couple blocks from his home. Andre Charles, an assistant coach from his PSA Cardinals AAU team will guide him through drills via FaceTime from Staten Island if he can't make it in person.

Anthony is 6'2" and is still growing. His primary goal heading into next season is to bulk up his trim frame, so before he ventures down to his building's basement for an hour-long calisthenics workout, he chases a peanut butter sandwich down with an Ensure. Before he leaves for school, Anthony will inhale a plate crammed with pancakes, eggs, and bacon.

After school, he's back in the gym to hoist some more shots up, then home to focus on his academics—according to a mandate from his parents, if he doesn't maintain a B average, he can't set foot on the court—before he climbs into bed by 8:00 PM every night. The routine hardly sounds sustainable for anyone, let alone someone who celebrated their 17th birthday a few months ago, but in addition to his unparalleled talent and surreal athleticism, it's Anthony's innate drive and discipline that will soon allow him to play basketball at whichever college he wants.

Ray Lego

"He truly loves the game every bit as much, if not more, than I do. I think the better he's gotten, the more he's wanted to improve," Greg Anthony says. "It's been a fun journey to watch thus far."

Indeed, Cole's future feels filled with endless possibility. As he sees it, "[The NBA] is really not that far ahead. If I play my cards right, do what I need to do, I'll be in the NBA in probably three or four years? I've just got to keep my head on and stay focused."

On the court, Anthony is simultaneously cerebral, steady, and relentless. He anatomizes defenders with ease and can already attack in myriad ways from all three levels. Duck under a screen and he'll stick a pull-up jumper. If a defender steps up to take away the shot, Anthony, who first dunked when he was 14, will slip by and deliver a teeth-rattling finish. In June, he was named Co-Most Outstanding Player at the Pangos All-American Camp, an honor once awarded to James Harden, John Wall, and Harrison Barnes. The subsequent weeks were filled with impressive performances at an array of invite-only camps and tournaments.

"He's a top-five-in-the-country athlete," says Terrance Williams, Anthony's head coach on the PSA Cardinals. "But he doesn't rely on his athleticism."

Towards the end of the summer, Anthony had the opportunity to meet Boston Celtics point guard Kyrie Irving while his family vacationed in the Hamptons. According to Anthony's mother Crystal McCrary, the four-time All-Star flipped the script and told Cole how much he loved his ability.

"He actually said he was a fan of my game," Anthony says. "It was awesome."

Ray Lego

Anthony is nestled near the top of just about every prospect list there is (For the Class of 2019, ESPN currently has him ranked sixth and Rivals.com has him fifth), but instead of worrying about who's in front of him or what schools are rumored to have interest, he instead studies his peers at every position, reading scouting reports and absorbing film to get a solid understanding of those likely to become his friends and foes at the next level. All other elements of the process—contact with college coaches, scheduled visits, etc.—are controlled by his father.

"You want to feel good and be proud of the program and all it has to offer, not just on the court but off it," Greg Anthony—who helped shepherd UNLV to a National Championship in 1990—said. "That stuff is really important because that becomes your family. And that's gonna be a part of your family your entire life. So all that stuff will play a role and we'll look more at it as he develops more."

Thanks to his dad, Anthony can forget about college recruitment and zoom in on all the ways he can improve as a person, player, and student. Anthony enjoys playing hide-and-seek with his four-year-old brother, and sometimes wakes up at 3:00 AM to play video games for an hour or two before his day begins. His favorite, he says, is Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild. "I beat that game like three times already," he adds.

There are few distractions in his life, and his family, which constantly demands humility, help prevent his ego from creeping in and becoming an antagonistic force. He feels no pressure outside that which he sets on his own shoulders. He doesn't care about the simmering belief that he can be one of the most exciting guards to ever emerge from New York City, and comparisons to his dad don't stress him out in the slightest bit.

"He is my dad and I'm his son," he says. "There's really been no disadvantages for me. Everything's been an advantage."

Ray Lego

Anthony hears his name whispered when he walks down the hall at school, receives complimentary DM's from fans all over the globe (most recently from someone in New Zealand), was once recognized while on vacation in the Bahamas. Spike Lee, a family friend, is in his cell phone. The taste of celebrity is nice, but Anthony's self-awareness and head-down concentration keep his priorities glued in place.

"[Popularity] is not something you can fall into," he says. "I didn't make it yet, so I can't get accustomed to that."

Though he may very well find himself shaking NBA Commissioner Adam Silver's hand on draft day in the not-too-distant future, right now Anthony is driven less by NBA dreams than he is by a pair of crushing defeats he suffered in recent months. In early spring, Anthony's high-school team lost in the Catholic High School Athletic Association championship by two points, with Anthony missing what would've been a game-tying bucket in the final seconds.

A few months later at Peach Jam—a Nike sponsored AAU tournament that pits the nation's best programs against one another—Anthony led all scorers in an event that also featured Duke commit and future NBA lottery pick Marvin Bagley Jr., but his PSA Cardinals failed to make it out of pool play, losing in the final seconds to a team that went on to win the whole thing. ("That's gonna be in the back of my head until I win Peach Jam, which we're gonna do next year," Anthony says.)

"How he handled defeat was really telling," Greg Anthony tells me. The elder Anthony then imparts some wisdom he'd gleaned from Pat Riley, his former coach whose legendary idioms have become gospel among basketball fans. "[Coach Riley] used to say there are two things in competition: There's winning and misery. And you have to embrace both. And the guys that embrace the misery oftentimes are your best winners because they know what it's like not to win, and they're gonna do everything in their power to not feel that misery.

Ray Lego

"We were thinking 'Oh you did such a great job. What an effort,' and he was just crying and crying, and we were like 'Why are you crying? You did such a great job!'" McCrary remembers. "He said 'My feet are supposed to be faster than his. I was supposed to win.' He was three years old."

He'd patiently wait for his turn on the sideline, eager to square off against kids that were five or six years older. At first they were amused: Look at you, little guy, little Cole. Anthony's response was fiery: I'm not little. Stop calling me little Cole!

"He has dog in him, as they say," McCrary laughs. (The one trait Anthony admires most in an NBA point guard is Russell Westbrook's tenacity.)

Shortly after, he joined his first AAU team. At that age, Anthony's talent level didn't stand out relative to his peers, but he played with irrepressible emotion and a level of aggression that bled over from his desire to win at anything and everything.

"I used to call him the Charles Oakley of fouls, because when he fouled somebody, he fouled them," Billy Council, the team's coach, says. "So if you had beat Cole to a spot or you beat him to the basket, you best believe he was gonna chase you down and foul you hard so you won't do it again."

Ray Lego

Though his passion shined under Council, Anthony truly came into his own in the fifth grade, when Steve Harris—an established figure in New York's AAU scene who also mentored NBA All-Star Kemba Walker—became his coach. After Anthony's first game with his new coach, Harris, going off a gut feeling, told his newest player he could be the best kid in the country as early as next year—course-altering words that awoke a confidence inside Anthony that he didn't know was there.

"He looked at me like I was crazy," Harris says. "The next year he was the best kid in his class."

That team utilized Cole at every position, in every role imaginable: On the wing, down low, at the high post. 25-point performances were the norm; he was the hub of their entire system. In one game against the top team in his region, Anthony's squad entered as a 25-point underdog. Harris remembers how worried he was before the opening tip, until Anthony walked by and looked up at him, as if to say, Coach, keep your head up. We got this. We're gonna beat them. We're gonna run them out the gym.

In the end, Anthony's team won by 25.

"When he steps on the court, you can see his whole facial expression change," Harris says. "Like, he's a lion. I see my prey, I'm going to kill it. I'm going to eat today...I talk about it with my kids to this day: 'You gotta be strong-willed like Cole.' That's what separates him."

During that first year he was one of the youngest players in AAU's oldest age group, on a team that featured several NBA prospects slated to play for Division-I schools this winter, including Mohammad Bomba at the University of Texas and Brandon Randolph at the University of Arizona.

Anthony still started every game while averaging double figures in points, then blossomed into the tip of PSA Cardinals' spear this past spring. Not only did he become the first sophomore point guard to be named Defensive Player of the Year in the EYBL, but he also grew to embrace the expanded leadership role his coaches and father have urged him to accept. He's conscious of how his body language affects those around him, and understands that each teammate is wired differently.

"I think his ultimate strength now is he's learned how to lead individually, where he can understand and define different guy's trigger points," Williams says. "He knows one guy needs to be yelled at where another guy needs to be coddled; another guy needs a phone call. So he's been able to expand his knowledge of leadership."

Ray Lego

Anthony's living room is spacious enough to fit several couches and a glass coffee table that's neatly concealed by enormous books on Michelangelo, Diego Rivera, and The Image of the Black in Western Art. He lives with two siblings, his mom and stepfather Ray, an investment banker at Citigroup who played basketball at Harvard. Between towering windows that overlook Central Park, the walls are adorned with paintings by William Johnson and Norman Lewis that make the room feel like it belongs in the Smithsonian American Art Museum. A black baseball bat autographed by Derek Jeter rests in a glass case on a mantel above the fireplace.

"Cole is a child of privilege," McCrary says. "What we constantly remind him is 'There but for the grace of God go I.' This could all be taken away in any number of ways."

Given his surroundings, it'd be so understandable for Anthony to behave as if the entire world revolved around him. But his support system is wound by unbreakable cable. Everyone around him is there for a reason.

"It's pretty unique," Williams says. "It's holistic. His situation is so pinpoint that no one gets into the other person's lane. So like his dad has a role, his mom has a role, his step-dad has a role, AAU has a role, he has a role, even high school for a certain amount of time has their role, and then no one steps on each other's toes but everyone is connected."

Ray Lego

Impending fame separates Anthony from a vast majority of people his age. But he has also grasped his own good fortune. He has a selfless streak.

"He's definitely learned compassion and appreciates his life and his upbringing," Greg Anthony said. "And that in order to truly be the kind of person he wants to be, you have to be someone who's willing to be generous with your time, whether it be to teammates or friends or those less fortunate."

Over the summer he was given free shoes, shorts, and t-shirts as a participant of adidas Nations. Instead of keeping the free goodies for himself, he gave everything to an 18-year-old assistant coach who's headed to college in the fall. "It just shows that Cole is mentally mature, that materialistic objects don't trigger him," Williams said. "And that's a little different for his age group. Most guys enjoy that stuff."

Anthony's munificence applies to people he doesn't even know, a reflection of the belief his family has instilled in him: To whom much is given, much is expected.

"I joke with him, like, I see him on social media and he gives away his sneakers," Council said. "If a kid wants his sneakers he'll tell them to hit him in his DM's. He's got more sneakers than a sneaker store, and he's just a good-hearted individual."

Last year, Anthony took a self-imposed six-month break from social media. "I just felt like it was a distraction," he said. With over 53,000 followers on instagram, Anthony has a link on his page to a GoFundMe he started to help those in the Houston area who were affected by Hurricane Harvey. It was an idea that started after a conversation with his sister and mom.

"I see a lot of people on Twitter, on Instagram, just say 'oh pray for…', alright thanks for that," Anthony said. "It's not really doing much. I wanted to actually go make a change. I know I'm not physically there, but see if I can do something that'll physically help them."

There's no way of knowing what the future will hold for any person (let alone an athlete) as young as Anthony, no matter how dominant they are or how much better they project to be. Guarantees do not exist in the world of sports. But reasonable optimism surrounds Anthony, whose ascendance is only accelerating.

"If Cole didn't make it to the NBA, I would say it's gotta be a bunch of politics or he just simply didn't want to be there," Harris said.

Again, so much can go wrong between now and then. Immense odds are stacked against each and every individual who wants to earn millions of dollars playing a game. But Anthony's foundation foreshadows a happy ending; it's admirable how well he balances confidence and wariness as the stakes around him start to rise.

Cole Anthony Wants to Revolutionize Basketball (And Play Zelda) published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

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salty-dracon · 7 years

Text

AUAU- Brooke’s partner

Brooke introduces Julien to her brother Grey, but Julien doesn’t understand why Brooke wants to keep the implication that they’re dating out of the picture.

Brooke’s phone vibrated. She picked it up. “Shit, Grey wants to pick me up.”

“Tell him you’ll be fine on your own.“ Julien yawned and leaned against Brooke. “How old’s he again?“

“Thirty.“

“He could be your dad.“

“He’s my brother, and he was twelve when I was born.“

“Right, right. You know, I’ve never met him. You keep talking about how he’s a fucking psychopath, but, like, what if he’s cool?“ Julien giggled. “Like, hot. Aw man, you know how many girls here want daddies?“

“I meant that, Jule. He’s... actually insane.“

“Oh really? What does he do?”

“Forget it, you’re not gonna believe it.”

“No, I wanna hear it! What’s he like?” Julien’s eyes lit up. “Is he hypersexual? Um, does he torture animals? Uh... ” Their face fell. “Does he hurt you?”

“He’s... it’s hard to explain.” Brooke picked up her phone again. “He’s already here. Dammit.”

“Fuck. Can we meet him, then?”

“Sure, why not?”

Julien followed Brooke to the front of the building, where an old blue Camry was waiting for them. Grey, a man with golden hair, waved to Brooke.

“That’s him.” Brooke motioned to her brother. “Come on.”

“How was school?” he asked as they climbed into the backseat. “Everything work out fine?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” Brooke avoided returning his eye contact.

“Who’s your friend?”

“Enbyfriend.” Julien interjected.

“Jule!” Brooke hissed. “Yeah, they’re nonbinary. Um-“

“Grey, right?” Julien asked. “I’ve heard so much. You’re like, super rich, right?“

“In a way. Um, what’s your name?“

“Julien. They/them pronouns.“

“Julien. Oh, so you’re the girl Brooke talks about. Her friend from her classes.“

“Yeah. And you’re-“

“Jule.“

“-the guidance counselor at the prestigious Alder Creek Academy, home to some of the most intelligent students in the entire country.“

“Yeah. I mean, it’s... um... “

Brooke took a small breath of relief and then leaned against the back of the seat. “I’m tired.”

“We can head straight home then. Does your, um, friend want to come with?“

“Of course I do!“ Julien shook Brooke’s arm and flashed their teeth. “I know just how to cheer her up!“

Grey laughed and pressed his foot against the accelerator. “Do you need anything, Julien?”

“Nope.“

“Understood.“ He began the drive home.

When Grey was sufficiently focused on driving, Brooke leaned over and whispered in Julien’s ear. “Don’t tell him you’re my enbyfriend. Please.”

“Why not?!“ Julien complained. “You said your parents wouldn’t throw you out for it, and ACA’s a pretty liberal school.“

“That’s not the problem.“

Julien smiled teasingly. “Does he loooooove you too much?“

“Don’t make it sound so... stupid. Listen, you don’t understand. Grey is-“

“Is everything all right back there, girls?“ Grey asked.

“Yeah.“ Julien said. “We’re just chattin’.“

“All right. Julien, you’re a senior like Brooke, right? What are you majoring in?“

“Literature.“

“Literature? Are you planning to become an English teacher?“

“Nope! A librarian.“

“Interesting.“

Brooke sighed. Grey caught her bored expression in the back mirror and smiled briefly at her before turning his attention back to the road.

-------

“Julien, hello again!“ Brooke’s father served her two snickerdoodle cookies on a plate. “Are you helping each other with homework again, or are you just hanging out?“

“They do this regularly?“ Grey asked.

“Brooke’s never told you about Julien?“ His father raised one eyebrow. “They’re always hanging out in her bedroom. Watching movies and stuff. They’ve even got this, uh, circle thing in the backyard. I don’t know what the hell they do out there, I just tell them to stay safe, not ruin my garden, and be careful with the matches. They’ve- Julien, I mean- they’ve been friends with Brooke since junior year.“

Grey stared at his father in utter confusion as he walked up the stairs. He sighed, and then walked over to the TV and turned on the news.

“Dude, holy shit.“ Julien slammed their hands out on the table. “I need to tell you about this shitty cop show I was watching last night.“

“What?“ Brooke asked.

“Yeah. Like, god, you know how much I hate cop shows. But the whole thing with that is that, you know, no one’s a lesbian for anything other than narrative purposes! It’s like, surprise! Like, dude, I just want it to be normal, y’know?“

“Yeah, I get it.“

“Like, there were these two lesbians who were dating, and... they kind of made a big deal out of it, where I’m like... no, I want two girls dating to be normal! And then there was the whole enby thing in the episode too, where they were like, disguising themselves as a guy or a girl and it helped them commit crimes and shit. It was so dumb.“

Brooke nodded. “I can imagine. Like, I’ve seen enough Law and Order to be familiar with all the stuff about every black guy being suspicious of the police.”

Julien stared at Brooke with a frown on her face.

“What?“

“Girlfriend? Enby?“

“... Jule... “

Grey unmuted the TV.

-------

“Are you sure you can walk all that way?“ Brooke asked. “It’s like, two miles down the road-“

“Yeah, bitch, it’s fine!“ Julien stretched and hugged Brooke. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, so pick me up, ‘kay?“

“Yeah, we can work on that history project.“

“Sweet.“ Julien waved to Brooke before running down the main road. “Bye!“

Brooke waved wistfully. Grey watched her, a stern look in his eyes.

“Brooke,“ he whispered in her ear. “Come to my room.“

“Why?“ Brooke protested.

He silently pulled her into his room, where he laid down on the bed. Brooke sat in his leather chair.

“Enbyfriend?“ he whispered. “You never told me you were dating someone. Frankly, I’m disappointed in you.”

“Is it wrong for me to have an- to date someone?“

“Yes.“ Grey sighed. “You know how I feel about people like that. I mean, just look at that person. Snake tattoos, dyed hair, that risque personality... They probably worship hell and conjure demons and... what I’m trying to say is that they’ll hurt you. They’ll turn you away from... you know.“ He stood up. “Look past that... enby. Break up with them. I don’t care-“

“Why would I do that?!“ Brooke exclaimed, her face turning red from anger.

“Because I asked you to. Because I know what’s best for you. Don’t you get it? We’re... “ He groaned and stood up. “We’re not like other people. The two of us have a destiny to fulfill. And while I’m maintaining faith to my duty, you’re off with this... enby, and... Brooke, I don’t know what the hell you see in Julien, but she’s... they’re destined to die just like the rest of them.” He leaned over Brooke and touched her chin. “If you love them so much, do it in a way that lets you fulfill your duty. I’m sure Julien won’t notice a little accident on the lakeside until it’s too late.”

“Shut up!“

“Shhhhhhh.“

“You’re just jealous of us!“

“I know. I’m very jealous. My baby sister loves this... enby more than she loves her own brother. How heartbreaking for me.“ He pressed his lips against her ear. “I dream of thee at night, Brooke. I dream of covering thy soft, gentle body in kisses of pure love. I dream of thee cuddling on my breast, begging for thy brother’s protection-“

“Stop.“

Grey moved away. When Brooke finally had the courage to look up at his face, she saw that he was blushing.

“My feelings for you are beyond anything I’ve ever felt, dear sister.“ He pressed his hand against hers. “We’ll unite in heaven. The angels will welcome us together. My love is so pure, Brooke, can’t you feel it? We are of the same soul. I love my baby sister. I want to hold her like when she was so tiny. I want her to laugh at my jokes again, and smile into my eyes-“

“You’re fucking twisted. Leave me alone.“ Brooke stormed out of Grey’s room and threw herself into her own, locking the door behind her and covering herself in her bedsheets.

“Brooke? Brooke?“

She heard Grey knocking on the door. “Go away!” she screamed, throwing a pillow. Grey was silent afterwards. A few seconds later, she heard his footsteps receding.

(AN: In the AUAU, Grey is thirty, and the guidance counselor of Alder Creek Academy. He is Brooke’s older sister. While at first glance he seems like a very kind, passionate, and professional man, he has a secret. He has a messiah complex, which stemmed from a series of vivid dreams he started having when he was around ten years old. Grey believes that he will save mankind by killing every person on earth (or forcing them to kill themselves, thus sending them to heaven). He projects this complex onto Brooke, who he believes is his partner in doing so. While Brooke wanted nothing to do with him ever since she learned about his messiah complex, Grey maintains his obsession with the idea that Brooke will help “save” humanity. He especially misses the feeling of being her big brother, watching her grow up, and protecting her, especially once he went off to college to pursue a master’s degree. He does not lust after her, but is still nostalgic for the days when she was a baby.

Brooke is eighteen, and a high school senior. She’s your average girl, except she has an obsession with the outdoors, especially survivalism. She loves shows like Man vs Wild and Survivor, and is also obsessed with apocalypse prepping. She’s always training in the woods, going camping in her backyard, and learning how to run in high heels. Like in TMX/Feathers, she starts dating Julien, who is genderfluid and a loudmouth with a heart of gold, and befriends Arthur, who is shy and prefers reading to socializing. Grey doesn’t like either of them, as he believes that both of them make her stray from her “duty”.)

#tmx #feathers

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rebelrunnergirl · 7 years

Text

Ironman 70.3 Santa Rosa (Part I)

This race almost didn’t happen for me. I almost didn’t get on the plane for California the Wednesday before the race, even though I had already shipped my bike. The weeks leading up to it were mentally and emotionally draining for me, personally, having little to do with my training, so my heart, my determination, and my energy were definitely not on racing.

A little background--my older son has high-functioning autism. He was officially diagnosed at 7 years old. Fast-forward to now--he’ll be 14 soon. He’s been in therapy this entire time. He’s made progress, LOTS of it, but, to the untrained eye, it may not seem that way. And, more often than I like to admit, even I forget in the moments when he’s having a hard time with a social concept or refuses to participate in school or some change has thrown him off and agitated him. He’s still sensitive to certain sounds, textures, temperatures, and tastes, all things that I have to be constantly aware of in order to potentially intervene before a meltdown may ensue. We have a pretty rigid routine in place because sudden changes are very bad, and he cannot deal with them. His motor skills are still pretty awkward. When his blood sugar gets low, he becomes virtually inconsolable. And, he is wicked smart--his IQ is higher than 99% of the population of the planet. (He doesn’t know that part.) Add to all of this, puberty, and, well, you have the makings of almost daily emotional tornadoes. Things have been really tense at home for a while now.

I do my best to maintain a routine for him and make sure he eats often enough (if he doesn’t, he becomes frantic). We regularly attend therapy, sometimes weekly, but usually every other week. He’s had a meltdown in the past several weeks, which we haven’t experienced in a long while, but, thankfully, it wasn’t a physical one, because, honestly, I don’t know that I’m physically strong enough to manage him anymore. He’s bored with school and doesn’t see the point. He’s depressed and anxious. And then, exactly one week before the race, shit hit the fan at his very small private school (10 students in grades 6-12). He and another student have been butting heads all year, and she also has special needs, though hers are physically evident. The school finally rearranged the class setups about 8 weeks ago to help them avoid one another, and that aspect of school at least became a bit easier for both, or so we thought.

One week before I was supposed to board my flight to California, I picked him up from school, asked him how his day was (“Um, okay”—usual response), and I drove to the bike shop to drop my bike for transport to the race. We had been home for an hour when I received an “incident report” about him and his school nemesis snarking at one another on the way to the restroom, mainly just kid stuff, but, since he has zero filter, I have to constantly remind him how to interact socially, so I asked him about it, and he responded that only part of the report was accurate (turned out to be the truth on his part—plus, he’s a terrible liar, so I knew right away), and then he added, “Plus, I don’t understand why her mom came into the school and yelled at me when I got there this morning.” I was stunned—surely I misunderstood what he said. So I asked him to repeat what he said about the other student’s mom to make sure I had heard correctly. He did, and before the blind rage completely took me, I managed to ask, “What exactly did she say?” I knew that he wouldn’t be able to tell me, because as a defense mechanism, he shuts down during confrontation and has no memory of it whatsoever—it happens when during meltdowns too, and this is perfectly normal for him. But I had to ask before I made my next move.

So many emotions and thoughts overtook me, and then I glanced at my 10 year old (who is not on the spectrum) and saw his face—he absorbs so much of this intensity around him too—stopped myself and said, as calmly as I could manage, “Okay. Let me take your brother to art, and I will contact the director, and we will handle this. Don’t worry about it right now, okay?” My teen said, “Okay,” and my 10 year old visibly relaxed a bit. When we got in the car, my 10 year old simply and quietly said, “I’m sorry, Mama.” He does this all the time when I get upset too—he tries to comfort ME. That killed me, so I said, “Buddy, please don’t apologize. None of this is what you need to deal with, and I am sorry that you have to witness it all. It’s going to be okay. I will handle this, and I will always protect you and your brother. Okay?” He perked a bit at this, and I changed the subject to his day while I drove him to art. He’s mainly a very happy kid, so that helped.

All of my endurance training helped prevent me from doing or saying anything colossally stupid—this is no exaggeration. Otherwise, I might be writing this from jail. On a paper napkin with a dull pencil. When I called the director, it took every last ounce of self-control I had to suppress a stream of profanity worthy of mortifying hardened sailors. Verbally, and in writing, I requested a written report of everything that was said and done by the mother during this incident, which I received later on and insisted that school policies needed some drastic changes regarding parental interaction with students.

This is what transpired that morning, partially from me and partially from the school investigation: I dropped him at school that morning, and I saw the mom and her child waiting outside the school, which never happens, and my gut told me to walk into school with him, but when I mentioned it to him, he said, “No, Mama. That’s embarrassing.” So, against my instincts and better judgment, I told him not to talk to them and to just go to his desk and start his work. She followed him inside, apparently, and, in the presence of at least one staff member and another student, threatened him with bodily harm if he ever talked to her daughter again. (Yes, really.)

When I received this report, I was LIVID and worried. I struggled with wanting to hunt her down myself, with calling the police to file charges, with wanting to hug and comfort a child who hates to be touched, with taking legal action, and with soul-crushing guilt for not having walked him inside school that morning. I reached out to my college tribe for support because I knew that I needed talking down. (My husband was traveling and was unreachable for most of this, and my family is not supportive—they think his diagnosis is an excuse for us to avoid parenting “properly.”)

It didn’t take long before the school requested a meeting with my husband and me. It turns out that whatever he was accused of saying to her daughter had never occurred, and, when confronted with this fact, the mother was unrepentant and refused to apologize for her behavior. The school immediately banned her, and, consequently, her daughter, which is unfortunate for the child. The school staff have been instructed to immediately call police if she appears again. They’ve changed their parent/student interaction policies. They were very apologetic for not contacting us immediately. So, at least that part was encouraging.

But now, before bed, my teenager frequently asks what would have happened if the child’s dad had showed up or if the mom returns. I reassure him that we won’t let it happen, and that he’s safe. My 10 year old asks about it all the time. He worries for his brother and always has. So, no, I REALLY didn’t want to leave them, even with their dad (who can’t stick to a routine to save his life, except his own), though my husband does okay when I leave explicit written instructions.

This all left me mentally and emotionally drained. I wasn’t sure I had a race in me anymore. Physically, I was ready, but I just didn’t know about my mental and emotional state. I didn’t feel like my heart or head was in it this time. I wasn’t even excited about the prospect of a girls’ trip and race for which I had been training my ass off. A friend finally convinced me to go, reassuring me that she’d help out here if needed. I reluctantly packed, though at the last minute. And I cried most of the way to Fort Lauderdale, but I got on the plane.

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valinor · 7 years

Text

Eglerion - Dream #-1

25/04/93

I am born at 15 minutes to midnight; chubby, blonde-haired and blue-eyed. For the first 10 years of my life I am happy. I laugh with my parents and I smile with my eyes. I draw prolifically, caterpillars and trains in particular. I find the familiar repetition of segmented things comforting. Even at a young age I am wary of strangers.

When I am 4 my brother is born. Having plucked it from the prenatal void, this tiny, alien form gifts me a Transformers toy. In the years that follow I am into Lego and enjoy meticulously creating them according to the exact specifications. What I create, he pulls apart. In many ways we are opposites; where I am quiet he is loud, where I am gentle he is rough. It takes years for us to reach an understanding. We both grow up to be insecure in our own separate ways.

I watch Cardcaptor Sakura on the TV and want to be a magical girl.

At 7 years old it comes to light that I am incredibly short-sighted. I get by in class by copying from the person sitting next to me. One day a boy notices that we have both reached the exact same section simultaneously and comments on it - oh, what a coincidence, I say. When I get glasses I am worried that everybody will make fun of me when I wear them, but they don’t. One day I lose them in the school playing fields and the whole class sweeps the area to look for them. In english class I write stories about astronauts and magic and mysterious other worlds.

When I am 10 I go on a “double date” with my friend and two girls. We see Spiderman in the cinema and I feel as though I have found a place for myself in the social hierarchy. In class we have a spelling test and I admit that I haven’t studied at home for it. I am scolded. I think the teacher believes I am arrogant. I score top of the class with 150/150 and, aside from myself, everybody that did well receives a reward. One of the words was menagerie. I was just trying to be honest.

At 11 my best friend’s mother dies. He becomes violent and angry and it scares me. He lashes out and instead of being a supportive friend I distance myself from him because I am afraid. He loses both his mother and his best friend and thinking about how alone he must have felt is the bleakest, blackest thought. I am so sorry.

The next year he threatens to kill me with a hacksaw in a technology lesson unless I invite him to my birthday party. I don’t have birthday parties after that.

I distance myself from all my other friends and spend my free time for the next year or two playing runescape. I am afraid that all my real life friends will change and hurt me so I make virtual friends instead. I lie about my age to them. I tell them that I am older than I really am. I have a romantic relationship with one of them, a relationship that exists solely in-game. I am nonchalant about the idea that they might not be who they say they are. This is an escapist fantasy, let us be who we want to be. I tell no one. I often wonder what they are doing today. I hope they are well.

At school I construct a personality for myself. Quips and retorts become second-nature to me. I discover that eye-contact makes people feel uncomfortable and that I can unnerve bullies by staring them down. A boy moves to my school from elsewhere in the country and we become best friends. I give him the nickname Pingu, because he walked with an ever so slightly waddling gait and kids can be cruel.

At 15 years of age I become ill. Before then I am physically fit, I swim regularly and I am strong and healthy. I feel powerful. On becoming ill I give it up and never quite manage to be well enough to pick it up again. I get worse and worse and am eventually diagnosed with an incurable autoimmune disease. It is a difficult sentence for a 15 year old to come to terms with. Chronic pain is for the elderly, you think. My body should not be fucking up already, you think. This is supposed to be the prime of my life, you think. It is difficult to get people to understand that you are ill and you will never, ever truly get better, even now.

Every time my friends ask me to hang out I decline because I am ill. Eventually they stop asking. I am sad and alone. I finish my GCSE exams and spend the long summer recovering. I get 11 A*’s and 4 A’s.

Over the summer my best friend introduces me to a girl, a friend-of-a-friend, who is visiting from America. We begin dating despite our differences. At 16 years old she gets involved with her older brother's friends and starts doing heroin. One of her friends overdoses and dies. I am helpless to do anything about it. I can do nothing but worry. In the year that follows I support her through mental hospital and rehab visits but the relationship was a doomed endeavour from the start.

At 17, along with most of my friends, I apply for universities. I decide to do a physics degree, not necessarily because it interests me, but because I am good at it and it seems as valid a choice as anything else. I apply to the University of Cambridge but fail the interview. It is the first time in my life I have failed something. I do a physics degree at University College London instead. Moving from a small town to one of the biggest cities in the world, becoming the littlest fish in one of the biggest ponds, terrifies me.

In the first year of university the dorm I am staying in resembles a re-purposed mental hospital. The people on my floor are all wealthy Chinese students, they only socialise among themselves. I feel trapped and alone. I while away my hours by fervently consuming film, TV, books. I live hundreds of other lives.

Towards the second half of the year I become close friends with somebody on tumblr. She becomes my best friend. We skype and tell each other fanciful stories we record for one another. We make meticulous logs of our dreams. We shape ourselves into immortal elven royalty; human concerns are trivial and of no consequence. It gives me the drive to keep going and for that I am grateful.

The next year I move in with friends. Every Thursday we go to Takeshi’s karaoke at the University of London Union bar. I do not sing. Takeshi favours the physically attractive girls. He considers one of my housemates attractive and the other less so. At the house we order pizza together once a week.

I start to date one of my housemates. It happens organically, in slow-motion, like watching a leaf unfurl. Over several days we sit closer together on the sofa. I believe she dates me only because we spend so much time together. When she goes back home for a week she cheats on me. This doesn't faze me; either I am afraid to truly acknowledge it or perhaps I just want her to be happy. She feels nothing but guilt and we break up shortly afterwards.

A few weeks on I have an anxiety attack, amplified a hundredfold by the medication I take for my illness. I sob uncontrollably. In an attempt to make it go away I walk outside in the freezing cold for hours. When I return I cannot stop shaking. I am all alone and I feel worse and worse and worse. For the first and only time I try to end my life. I fail. Years later, removed from the discomfort, it strikes me as selfish; I was willing to do anything to make that feeling go away even if it meant hurting the people I love in the process.

I make an okcupid account and try online dating. Unsolicited, a girl sends me lewd photos of herself and it makes me uneasy; I don’t know how I am supposed to respond to this. We go on a date and she cries when I don’t feel comfortable holding her hand. I feel awful.

On a date with another girl we talk about dadaism, the surrealists, and continental philosophy. We go to a Man Ray exhibit in the National Portrait Gallery. I see her every day for a week and it feels as though I am perhaps finally the main character in the anime adaptation of my life. I take her to the top of Primrose Hill at night. There is nobody else around and we sit in the grass and look over the city lights. It is still a fond memory. Time passes. Plagued with mental health issues, she lashes out and becomes progressively more abusive over the course of the year. It is stressful. It is not until afterwards, with distance, that I see how poorly she treated. Even with as little self regard as I have I know I deserve better.

I win a prize for the best undergraduate experimental work in physics. I spend a week thinking that the email must be somebody’s idea of an elaborate ruse. At the award ceremony I feel like a fraud and that at any minute somebody will call me out for it.

I become close friends with somebody in the year below me training to be a medic. I spend a night at his dorm and we drink to excess and reminisce over a mutual love of things from our childhoods. I wake up the next morning to find him spooning me. I question my gender and my sexuality. Eventually I decide that I do not care. I will be attracted to whomever I find myself attracted to. I have no strong feelings one way or the other whether I am male, female, straight, gay, bi, or anything else.

In my third year of university I live with a bunch of stoners. In spite of this, my grades don’t suffer. One night a housemate brings back a tyre from the street and it becomes the central feature of our backyard. Another housemate cheats on his girlfriend and for the rest of the year we treat him with an air of cool detachment. We discover that one of our regular pickups is laced with some kind of psychedelic. It makes the walls move and colours shift and I believe for a moment that one of my friends is a completely benign impostor.

I spend that summer working at a particle physics facility in Hamburg, Germany with about 100 other physics undergraduate students. It is the best summer of my life. Every night is drinking and laughing and partying with people that are, at least superficially, not so very different from myself. Surrounded by other physicists in a state of perennial drunken confidence I attract attention in a way that I had never experienced before, and for the first time in my life I feel desirable.

On the very last day I have what might in any other universe have been a one night stand. The next morning is not awkward or uncomfortable; talking feels natural, like breathing. Over the next few months we see each other sporadically until again I am in a relationship. Months pass and one night we do mdma. Amidst the chemical high I tell her I love her. When I am sober I overthink everything. I love her but am I in love with her? How would I know? The thought lingers in the back of my mind.

I am unsure what I want to do with my life. Continuing to coast along, I apply for PhD positions in particle physics, having enjoyed my time at the facility in Germany. I miss most of the application deadlines. I am interviewed at the University of Oxford but they reject me. I accept an offer to do a PhD on a neutrino physics experiment at UCL. The idea of studying “ghost” particles that interact seldom and only weakly seems somehow appropriate. The future feels very far away.

I graduate from my degree with first-class honours. A family vacation booked almost a year in advance coincides with the graduation ceremony and I miss it. I watch my friends’ graduation photos pop up one by one in my facebook feed. It is an anticlimactic ending to arguably the most important 4 years of my life. Sometimes it feels as though I will never truly have closure on that time.

During the summer my partner and I visit Iceland. It is a wonderful experience. We take in as much of the island as possible during our time there. One night, when walking back from one of Reykjavik’s numerous saunas, a vivid green bridge splits the sky in two. It feels as though it is smiling down on us and that from that moment onwards everything will be alright, the sky affirming an ever brighter future.

Real life is hard. In the absence of the long stretches of holiday I had grown accustomed to in my undergraduate years I do not have the time to recover from the spells of illness I experience on a regular basis. I grow progressively more exhausted. All the medication I take is too much for my endocrine system to handle and I am regularly afflicted with kidney stones. I wonder whether it will be possible for me to function in society. I spend a lot of time moping around feeling sorry for myself. I wish I could be normal.

I live with 3 of my closest friends that year. We get along so well that sometimes it feels as though we are taking part in our own private sitcom. One night my housemate plays the 20th century fox theme on a vacuum cleaner. Later on that evening we have an impromptu midnight fashion show, with clothes we have constructed from bits of paper and cardboard. Throughout we are completely sober.

Everything changes. I spend the next year living at the Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory outside of Chicago, Illinois. The United States is a country that is more alien to me than I had anticipated. Without friends I am more alone than I ever. I watch a different film every day, without fail. For a while that regimented schedule is enough to keep me from losing my mind, but I feel a darkness loom over the edges of my psyche. I spend a weekend sobbing into my pillow. I want to go home.

One day a coyote accompanies me on my walk back from the grocery store. We walk side by side and it feels as though I have stumbled into a magical realist picture book.

I start to write about my dreams again. The sense of purpose it brings is a respite from otherwise ceaseless self-reflection. Soon that sense of purpose fades too. Inspired by Édouard Levé’s Autoportrait I take self-reflection to its logical extreme. I set out my life in declarative statements, as void of sentiment as I can manage. I tell myself this is therapy. I wonder if this were truly a dream whether I would consider it a good or a bad one. I wonder what I would think if I were to read this in several years time and I imagine that I would probably be embarrassed.

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