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vergess · 3 years

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@autismserenity said: Your tags are the most American thing I’ve ever read, we are truly so screwed here

May I interest you in a more complete, and more excruciating, explanation of what I spent the last 18 months doing?

It is, I need to emphasize, fucking nasty. Don’t feel obligated, especiallly if you’ve already had A Day(tm).

There’s a lot of disease, a lot of worker abuse including sexual and racial abuse, a fine portion of letting people die for not being white enough for real medical care, all leading to homelessness.

For NDA reasons, because my former employer was just as vile as any tech company has ever been, I cannot be super specific about who I worked for. However, I can say that we handled the records and patient contact for all COVID testing for several states, as well as 2 of the 5 largest metros in the US, and several dozen smaller ones ranging from the approximate population of San Francisco, down to little towns, as well as the testing for several public school systems and at least two government agencies that I am not at liberty to disclose.

I tell you this for a sense of scale. When I say shit like, “my boss was more than happy to let thousands or hundreds of thousands die” I am not exagerrating for effect. We handled hundreds of thousands of tests a week.

Again, I need to emphasize, government agencies. Ones you would know if I named them. Ones everyone in the country knows.

And we were in charge of getting their test results from the already over swamped labs back to the patients, who often were not allowed to quarantine while awaiting results.

The fastest we got our turnaround time to on any consistent basis was about 30 hours. Often it ballooned well into weeks.

There were a number of factors for this, but the big one was always understaffing.

The staff we did have were treated like trash. One of the big selling points of this company is how “trans friendly” it is to work there. That is a lie. Every trans employee on payroll had their dead name displayed to all other staff, and until I personally changed the system setup on my arrival, patient facing trans people’s dead names were displayed to patients.

Remember that thing about “hundreds of thousands of tests a week”?

I was able to change the way patient-facing names were displayed. I was not allowed or able to alter the way internal systems displayed trans people’s names. But I was assured that it’s fine, because once you get a legal name change, you’ll be given new system accounts with your new name!

Your old accounts with your dead name would still be displayed and associated with the new ones though.

This is the “trans friendly” working environment. We were allowed to be out of the closet, as long as we were willing to put up with that. And any attempts to get it altered were the result of those nasty little transgender ingrates not being thankful enough.

Meaning that by asking to use our own fucking names we were already in the disciplinary shitter.

Another big selling point is the ~racial diversity~. The CEO was a man of colour, and so were like four other people on staff!! Wow!!!!!!!

This, too, was laughable.

Once numbers started coming in about the care gap for COVID between English and Spanish speakers, and our Southwestern US service area began to have a separate and brutal backlog just of Spanish speaking patients, my employer encouraged me to interview potential hires who speak spanish.

Fair enough! We all wanted to do our part to help close the already massive mortality gap.

So, I found candidates, did interviews, hired them, trained them, etc. But I don’t speak Spanish. As a result, I appointed 2 assistant managers who do speak Spanish to assist me in managing, you know, like the job name.

So when my super contacted them directly, completely skipping me on the chain of command, and told them to stop all of our Spanish speakers from translating helpful simple messages to send to patients, and instead start translating medical and legal documents, they very reasonably assumed I was in the know and went ahead with it.

TO BE CLEAR, that could have ended my life, theirs, basically everyone involved. Everyone in the company would have been completely fucked. At that point, my subordinates, the people for whom I am wholly responsible, were doing everything from practicing medicine without licenses, to encouraging spanish speaking patients to enter contracts that no one on the fucking executive tier could even read.

The moment I found that out, I and the A.M.s immediately started trying to get actual medical translation services to do our documents. We collected them in a neat folder. We queried translation services. We got quotes. We contacted my super and the CEO, about this over and over again for months. In the late autumn, we received approval for one of the translation services.

The CEO decided at the last minute that having people with no medical or legal training draft medical and legal forms was fine and good actually, and refused to sign the contract or send the documents for translation.

The excuse I received was that the COVID emergency HIPAA relaxations would protect us.

That’s not how that works.

Throughout all of this, Spanish speaking employees were told to either keep doing medical and legal translation work, or lose their jobs.

Oh, did I mention everyone was working between 30 and 80 hours a week, and all of us were marked as “contractors” so the employer could tax evade? Don’t worry, we filed complaints with the labour bureau.

So the entire department was let go, and “rehired” as temps through a temp agency, which because it was a temp agency could keep them marked as contractors regardless of the facts.

This change was presented to all of us, myself included, as the company getting a new accountant to handle payroll.

So if you’re keeping score, we’ve covered racism, queerphobia, medical negligence, fraud, and a frankly uncountable number of deaths.

Let’s talk about the sheer negligence towards employees ourselves. If you’ve worked in near-death medical care before, or any number of emergency services really, you know that the standard benefit suite includes either a dedicated therapist for your staff, or access to peer support groups with other emergency and medical servants through your employer’s benefits program.

Do you know what our mental health benefits were for this company?

The CEO got on a fucking zoom call with us all one (1) time, and said that if we were feeling suicidal or traumatized by the work, to talk to him about it, and he would be our therapist.

Do you know how many people per fucking day we had to contact only to be told they had already died because our understaffing delays killed them? He doesn’t. He never listened when we told him.

But let me put the cherry on the “Oh baby, you can talk to me, oooh” sundae.

Anyone who “looked” or “sounded” female, regardless of actual or assigned gender, was subject to constant flirtations and slimy, overly personal compliments about our appearances. Fortunately, at 3 levels removed from the CEO (Executives > Department heads > Managers > Employees), most of the people under my management had relatively little contact with him.

I was not nearly so lucky.

The CEO of this company has a watersports (urination) fetish. I know this, because he told me so and attempted to get me to join him in it. I have no idea how many other people in the company he did this to. I mean, what the fuck was I supposed to do, risk losing my job to find out? I have a fucking family to support, people.

Not that it mattered.

Eventually, all of these abuses became too much for my subordinates. Productivity fell off a cliff. Delays were getting worse and worse. In a medical emergency like this, delays=deaths.

So, like a fucking idiot, when the department heads reached out to me to ask what they could do to improve productivity, I shot down their frankly insulting suggestion of raffling a $20 amazon gift card to patient facing employees, and instead suggested a very simple, “enroll us with a peer support group, every single person in this department has PTSD from working in this pandemic.”

They were confused by my assertion of PTSD. I was asked to compile a document of complaints, concerns, and weaknesses in our patient facing services.

I and the A.M.s did so. It was roughly 40 pages long, with each page given a known problem, the reasons why it was a problem, and some potential solutions that might inspire further solutions or be able to be implemented. We submitted it. There was no response.

A week passed.

I had been working 80 hour weeks for most of a year. I hadn’t even been able to take weekends. I took my first sick day, in a company with “unlimited vacation days.”

I received a call at 3PM.

I had been fired for “differences in communitcation.” If you’ve ever seen that “Problem Women of Color in the workplace” chart? Yeah.

So had most of my department, including every transgender member of the department, and several of our extremely limited in supply Spanish speakers, who were presumed to be “on my side.”

Some of them, I barely even knew beyond the formalities of the job, and they were punished anyway.

I lost my insurance, and as a result I lost access to my medications.

But the real problem? I lost my house. And not due to lack of payment.

I lost my house, because when I got the job we waited 6 months for stability’s sake, and then readied to move out of the area. I got a mortgage on the basis of my employer’s written guarantee to the bank that I would continue to be employed for the next year at a minimum.

With the mortgage approval in hand, we entered a sales contract on our existing home.

We got and accepted an offer just days before I was fired. To keep our house meant paying a 25,000 dollar broken contract fine. We didn’t have that. We had a 10% down payment for a modest fucking place in a cheaper area, which is less than half that.

But without a job, my mortgage approval was also voided, meaning we couldn’t buy a house either.

All of a sudden, we were homeless during the plague, because my employer wrote and signed a letter to a bank guaranteeing my future employ, and then changed his mind when too many people died due to his own negligence.

Oh yeah, one last thing: the job paid less than Pandemic unemployment Assistance.

...After that, well, it’s homelessness until just last month. I... if you’ve never been homeless it’s.

It blurs. Everything is happening constantly, except for all the ways in which you are endlessly, mind breakingly bored. Bored, overloaded, and always uncomfortable.

Obviously my health would have declined regardless. Malnutrition, stress, everything.

But I was also unmedicated.

It was hell. I was in hell. I don’t know if I can recover from it, to be honest.

I bounced back from being homeless as a child. Children are as resilient as they are stupid, and the monstrosity of homelessness was little more than a vaguely remembered loathing and a panicky fear that it would ever happen again.

A child who is dying is worthy of sympathy, even if it is meaningless coos from passers by. If they have family, they may be able to rely on them too.

An adult with the indignity to die homeless and crippled, according to the average passer by, is worthy only of disgust and perhaps even punishment for being such a worthless waste.

My reward for nearly killing myself in a desperate bid to help stem the tide of COVID was the destruction of not only my life, not only my entire family’s lives, but the lives of every single family of every single employee who worked with me.

And you know what’s worse?

Each one of us still did more to limit the lethal impact of COVID than the entire united states government.

It breaks something in you, going through that.

It makes you realize that hope is a fool’s game.

But, I have ever been a fool, and so, I continue to play.

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tessatechaitea · 4 years

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Justice League #1 (1987)

This is actually a more impressive line-up than I remember.

I'm pretty sure this line-up is a huge scam. I don't remember Doctor Fate interacting too much with this group and I think Shazam bows out fairly quickly. Batman probably does that thing where he acts like he's leader (even if Martian Manhunter actually is) and only helps out every sixth mission. So at that point, the line-up is already decreasing in strength and intimidation factor quickly. Adding Fire, Ice, and Booster Gold later won't really improve the team much. But I'm getting ahead of myself. My impressions from this initial cover were "Wow! Pretty interesting team!" and "What asshole fucking decided on the shit stencil font for the title?" Sorry, I cuss a lot when I'm writing on the Internet and trying to seem like a bad-ass. The issue begins with Guy Gardner calling the other Green Lanterns jerks and suggesting, to himself, that he should be the Commander-in-Chief of the new Justice League. Some people would read this first page and think, "What an arrogant fucking asshole." But my stomach got all queasy and I giggled a little bit and I muttered quietly under my breath, "I love him."

I'm not saying it isn't composed of some truly ridiculous aspects but Guy still has the best costume in the DC Universe.

I don't love everything about Guy Gardner because most writers at the time didn't truly understand him. They made him a jerk that nobody would like because they were too cold-hearted to see the brain damaged cool guy that he really was. Guy Gardner often needed to be written by somebody who loved the character; it would have done him a world of good. He could still have been that abrasive jerk. But written deftly, those who actually cared to take the time would see his true self. Sure, that would also be an abrasive jerk! But a little bit more likable!

Stallone was pretty sensitive in a few scenes in Rocky IV!

Black Canary is second to arrive, after which Mister Miracle and Oberon show up. I never quite understood how Oberon fit into the Justice League. Wasn't he like an agent or a manager? Did Batman and Martian Manhunter need Oberon to sign off on every mission or else Scott Free would have to remain behind? I bet he was included just so Giffen and DeMatteis could make dwarf jokes.

Why would Guy choose Sneezy?! Oberon's breathing has been impeccable since he arrived!

Normally after some kind of cynical prediction about the comic book that immediately is proved true, I'd write, "Grandmaster Comic Book Reader!" But it doesn't feel right to say it in this case. I mean, Oberon is present for four panels before he becomes the butt of a joke based on his diminutive nature. And by Guy Gardner, no less! Is this why I loved him so much at sixteen?! What a terrible and typical sixteen year old white heterosexual male I was! Black Canary (whose costume I'm just now noticing is really fucking weird) responds to Guy's awful behavior by saying, "Dozens of GLs around and we get 'Rambo' with a ring!" That's unfair to Rambo! I'm also unsure who in this story (including the writers of this story) have actually seen First Blood. Gardner is more like the authority mad Sheriff Teasle than the sensitive green beret John Rambo! Rambo should be admired as a hero, battling back against corrupt cops who think they have the right to use as much force as they want for any stupid fucking reason! It's possible they were talking about the Rambo from the second film who gets to kill more than one person because the people he's killing are Russians and Vietnamese. He does get a bit murder crazy in the second film. Or maybe they're talking about Rambo from the third film which wasn't actually out yet so I don't have to read up on it. Next to arrive are Captain Marvel, Blue Beetle, and Martian Manhunter. Martian Manhunter proves to be a buzzkill, reminding everybody how the old series ended in total death and disaster.

His view of the media is pretty spot on though.

J'onn calls up the files of Steel, Gypsy, Vixen, and Vibe before purging them completely from the Justice League computer. That's probably a good idea, like deleting old joke tweets on Twitter that were a bit racist and also boring. Meanwhile Maxwell Lord IV watches from a distance, doing that Ozymandias thing where you watch dozens of televisions at once. I think it proves you're a genius whose done the research and contemplated all sides of an issue before making up your totally rational and logical mind about any issue. As opposed to us losers who simply use compassion and empathy to almost immediately understand the correct and most ethical path to take. Maxwell Lord IV watches all of this television and decides the correct course to take is to leave the "America" off of the Justice League of America this time. Oh, and also the "of".

Maybe this is why I liked Guy so much: because he knew the saying was "you've got another think coming." Look, I'm going to be desperately finding good reasons to have liked Guy Gardner so much when Giffen and DeMatteis are this determined to make him a huge and unlikable jerk.

Look, I was sixteen! Hardly the best time in a young man's life for qualities like compassion and empathy and fashion sense and hair styles! I'm also fairly certain it wasn't this comic book that made me like him so much. I'm pretty sure he gets knocked out by Batman with one punch before the year is over and I remember loving that scene. So I probably despised him like a good reader of Justice League was supposed to do. Hopefully he'll have some character moments during this series that will show why I wound up liking him so much as a character. Right now, he's just a complete and utter asshole. The five panels following the one I just scanned consist of Guy once again calling Oberon "Sneezy" and then suggesting Black Canary is going to want to fuck him soon enough. Martian Manhunter tries to break it up and just winds up part of the chaos.

Okay, I'm starting to get why I might have liked him at sixteen, even after the first few pages. To a sixteen year old white male, mocking Martian Manhunter with a "Ho-ho-ho" trumps ableism, sexism, and, with this attack on J'onn for his inherent physical Martianness, almost certainly racism as well.

Guy continues to play the role of Squeaky Wheel for another page or two. I suppose if you want more on-panel time than the other heroes, you've got to be a raging asshole. I can't say I'm not entertained by it!

Captain Marvel earns a little of my love with this line as well. No shame in drinking warm milk at night!

This is only nine pages into the first issue and Guy has completely derailed the formation of the new Justice League. Was this blasphemy to previous fans of the Justice League where the team may have had some minor squabbles about various things and Batman would quit every six issues but mostly they didn't break out into brawls whenever they got together? Or were internal struggles and arguments a regular plot point? I have no idea because the only Justice League comics I read previous to this title were the terrible months where everything was breaking down and then Steel betrayed them and Vibe was killed off and Martian Manhunter felt like a huge failure. Although was Aquaman leading the team at the time? I dislike Aquaman so much, I'm just going to believe he was leading the team and that's why everything completely fell apart. He sucks. Once per day, I think about that lousy meme trying to prove Aquaman wasn't useless by using the image from New 52 Justice League where he controls a bunch of great whites to breach and kill a bunch of parademons and I hate everybody who actually thought that was a cool moment. Batman and Doctor Fate arrive in the middle of the Justice League brawl (which even Martian Manhunter, the only adult in the room, is taken part in) and shuts shit down The Batman way.

I guess heroes are also a cowardly lot.

Meanwhile, Doctor Light winds up being held hostage with the rest of the United Nations by some white terrorists. I felt I needed to say they were white because a lot of racist assholes can only envision terrorists one way. Also, I should always describe people as white when they're white since I don't want to be an accomplice to maintaining a world where we assume a person mentioned is white, male, and heterosexual unless they're described more fully. Doctor Light was given a Justice League emergency beeper by a mysterious figure some time previously. This isn't revealed but I just read Justice League Spectacular #1 so I know Maxwell Lord gave her the device so that she could alert the Justice League when the United Nations was taken hostage by terrorists that Maxwell Lord IV paid. It's all about getting some early press! There's an advert for the new Flash which I'm surprised I didn't pick up since the advert shows him having some kind of accident in a sperm bank.

Ew Flash is right!

The Justice League head over to stop the terrorist attack. At some point, Doctor Fate disappears to go do something else and I think he never comes back? Is that why I barely remember him as a part of this league? Was he just there to look cool on the cover and fool all the lovers of DC magic users? The League storms the UN, murdering several terrorists.

Look. Manhunter either phased their heads into the solid ceiling or he smashed their skulls straight through the roof. Either way, I don't see a high percentage chance of their survival.

The Justice League capture all the terrorists and then Batman has the building evacuated, leaving just the leader of the terrorists alone in the United Nations building threatening to kill himself so that the bomb attached to his heart would detonate and kill them all. He does kill himself but the bomb doesn't detonate. And the thing is, Batman realized during the mission that the bomb was almost certainly a bluff. So he left the man alone to kill himself. Later we discover the man had a history of mental illness. So this, to Batman, is justice? Batman almost certainly realized the man was being manipulated and that he'd definitely kill himself to blow the bomb and Batman let the man do it. Batman is a fucking monster. After the event, the media points out that the terrorists were mostly composed of 60s radical groups like the Weathermen and the Black Panthers. Which is odd because there wasn't one black terrorist in the bunch. The issue ends with Max Lord talking to himself and admitting to being the one who staged the terrorist attack. He also knew the leader was unstable enough to kill himself for the cause and he sent him in with a bomb that definitely wouldn't blow. So he's a fucking monster as well. And Martian Manhunter is a monster, not because he's a weirdo martian, but because he basically popped the heads on a few of the terrorists. No way will I believe those guys hanging from the ceiling by their necks survived! All in all, Guy Gardner is starting to look like a rational member of this group! Justice League #1 Rating: B+. A better than average start to the new Justice League, building some intrigue and conflict right from the start. Who is Max Lord? What are his plans for the Justice League? Why is he acting like it's his group? Will Doctor Fate ever return? Will Oberon poison Guy Gardner? Will Black Canary and Doctor Light become best friends because they're the only women in the League? Will Guy Gardner and Batman ever come to blows? I can answer that! They will not! They'll just come to blow. One punch by Batman. And that one punch causes some severe psychological trauma to Gardner and nobody thinks he should get medical help simply because he starts acting nicer. They're all fucking monsters!

#Justice League #Kevin Maguire #Keith Giffen #J.M. DeMatteis #Terry Austin

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imagine-loki · 4 years

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Atlas: Space, Mercury

TITLE: Atlas: Space

CHAPTER NO./ONE-SHOT: 2/12

AUTHOR: fanfictrashdump

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine narrating episodes of Loki’s life with the Avengers based on the songs from Sleeping At Last’s “Atlas: Space” album.

RATING: T-M

NOTES/WARNINGS: Welcome to my Sleeping At Last’s Atlas: Space challenge, aka Another writing project I do not have time for, but my brain insisted on doing.

This series will be less like a multichapter fic and more of a one-shot compendium, but that they all interconnect in one way or another. It will revolve around Loki and Becca’s relationship (Taking Turns, Glow, Helmet Heists–don’t worry, more Loki-Charlie stuff will be along) and I will use those one-shots as reference to the timeline. Each chapter will be one song, used as inspiration for the story.

Warnings include: language, maybe, and morally grey debates about killing bad guys, angst (so much angst), and a thoroughly confused Loki.

Chapter 2: Mercury

Summary: Becca did not expect to feel this way after her first official mission. Loki did not expect to care how she felt, one way or another. Takes place after Helmet Heists.

“Heya, Lokes. How’s it going?”

Loki looked up, brow furrowed in a calculating expression. Tony Stark was not one to casually strike up a conversation with him unless it was of the utmost importance and he had no other choice. Therefore, the almost cheery way he had plopped himself down beside him on the couch was a matter of extreme curiousness.

Loki was having none of it.

“What is this?”

“I only asked how you were?” Tony sounded unsure, put looked all around innocent until he let out a long puff of air that made his cheeks inflate. “OK, I wanted to ask you how Becks was.”

Loki rolled his eyes and turned the page on his book, his attention now on the tight script before him. “I daresay she’s your employee, Stark, not mine. Why would I know?”

“Maybe because she’s the only person you talk to, and you’d be able to tell if she were OK. And the fact that you’ve been sticking to her like glue since we got back from the Hellhole. I don’t know, it gives me the inkling that you do, indeed, know.”

Stark wasn’t wrong.

Rebecca was the only human that Loki seemed to find bearable most of the time. She wasn’t loud or brash or mindless. Her taste in literature wasn’t half bad, either.

But she was human. And mortal. And beneath him.

For the longest time, he had tried not to get too attached, but this last mission certainly became a turning point in their relationship. It wasn’t bad, per se. They understood each other’s body language in a way that only two introverts could, and they worked together well as a team, but… she was so soft and innocent and everything he was most certainly not. Loki tended to scoff and ridicule humans such as this, not attempt to ensure their safety and their ongoing wellbeing, even after the fact.

Those eyes, though…

“Lokes?” Apparently Loki had been silent for much longer than was considered normal. He tended to do that a lot, as of late, always in relation to that dreary mortal.

Loki shifted uncomfortably at the memory of Becca’s eyes on the jet ride back. “I would say she takes issue with the moral ambiguity of killing an enemy. Regardless of whether or not they deserved it.”

Rows of houses Sound asleep Only streetlights Notice me

He nearly wanted to laugh at himself. Taking issue was probably the understatement of the year.

More than once, while he was doing his nightly walks, he would find Becca on the roof, staring at the world below–at the forests, the darkness, at the nothingness. She would stand, shivering in the night air, as she tried to make out shapes in the inky black abyss. It would take him two or three mentions of her name to rouse her from contemplative stupor. And, even then, Loki could tell she was not all there.

She always smiled, pushing through the oppressive chaos in her head and ask him about his day. As if she had not been fixing to fall apart a second before.

Damn her and her empathy.

I am desperate If nothing else In a holding pattern To find myself

I talk in circles I talk in circles I watch for signals For a clue

More than once he had swallowed whatever irritation would bubble to the surface in an effort to get her talking. Instead of his usually acidic demands for her to get on with it, he simply nodded in what he hoped was an encouraging manner and waited for her to spill her thoughts, as repetitive as they were. Not that he could blame her.

He remembered the first time he had killed something. He was seven. It had been a rabbit while on a hunt. He cried for three days, afterwards, until an Einherjar had scoffed and told him that was how life worked and he needed to accept it. Loki hadn’t cried when that particular soldier did not come home from a siege in Vanaheim a hundred years later. Nor for the hundreds that had been lost in battles, since. What was the point? Creatures lived and died, sometimes by his blade. That was life.

How to feel different How to feel new Like science fiction Bending truth

“Why do you keep asking that, Loki?” She had whined, pulling the edges of his cloak, which he had laid over her bare shoulders to shield her against the wind. He had asked if she was doing alright. “You know I’m physically fine. You made sure of that.”

He had not meant to inquire after her physical well-being, and Becca very well knew that. She also knew that he would die a fiery death before insisting “but, how do you feel?” Loki had made an annoyed noise and stormed off with the intention to hide in his room. He had doubled back, halfway there, only to watch her wipe away tears from the corners of her eyes when she thought herself alone. He still went back to his room, but he felt like a rock was lodged in his stomach all the way there.

“Could you do me a favor and keep an eye on her? She’s been really jumpy and anxious at work, but she keeps telling me she’s fine.” Tony sighed. “I just worry about her, man.”

Loki offered a sympathetic look, despite his initial reaction to sneer back at the Iron Man. Breaking old habits was hard. “I know. I will.”

No one can unring this bell Unsound this alarm, unbreak my heart new God knows I am dissonance Waiting to be swiftly pulled into tune

The Asgardian prince had found his friend in a hidden corner of the library. It looked like she had started to read one of the many tomes on Asgardian technology he had lent her, before her mind betrayed her. Becca was staring straight in front of her, brown eyes empty of any emotion yet full of doubts and insecurities.

“Rebecca.” His whisper clapped like thunder in the eerie silence of the library.

She snapped out of her trance and offered him a smile. “Sorry, did you say something, Lo?”

Gods above, help me.

Loki sighed, pulling a chair beside her and sinking down. Even seated, he was still significantly taller than her, but she found that she felt a little less nervous when he tried to get on her level. It was a kindness, she knew, but the concern buried deep in his gaze did little to make her feel better. If anything, she felt worse. If she had stayed in the jet, if she had followed directions, who would she be today? Could she be able to sleep? Could she stop waking up in cold sweats at all hours of the morning?

“Dearest, talk to me.” The use of pet names were few and far between with Loki. He much preferred calling anyone “hey, you” or “imbecile come here”. So the use of a term of endearment…

Did she really look in that dire a state?

“Tony sent you, huh?” Becca thought she might as well deflect until he felt uncomfortable. That usually worked.

“No, I sent myself,” he assured, frowning. The expression he received in exchange screamed you’ve gotta be kidding me. “Though Tony expressed interest in also knowing how you were,” he admitted and Becca rolled her eyes. Swallowing whatever shard of emotion that was attempting to convince him to let the whole thing go, he craned his neck until his gaze could easily fix on hers. “You cannot go on like this, you know it. You cannot keep replaying scenarios in hopes of finding a loophole to villainize yourself with.”

I know the further I go The harder I try, only keeps my eyes closed And somehow I’ve fallen in love With this middle ground at the cost of my soul

Becca groaned, the sincerity in his voice making the pit in her stomach grow larger. The edges of her perfectly crafted calmness began to fray and she was sure that the god could easily feel it unraveling under his stare. “It can’t be this simple, Loki.” She couldn’t live her life without feeling guilty, she meant. Surely, she had to spend the rest of eternity purging herself of these demons before she could allow herself even a morsel of comfort. If not, was she not just a monster?

Loki chuckled drily, placing a hand on her shoulder and its weight felt like a welcome balm to her shot nerves. “Who said anything about simple? You took lives. Nothing about that is simple. Believe me, I understand. But, on rare occasions, the ends do justify the means.”

Her head fell, hanging between her shoulders in a sign of defeat she should have never had to deal with. Stark shouldn’t have asked her to come on the mission, but she saved ten of the two dozen from dying in battle due to faults in their equipment. She saved him from what she thought was certain death (and might have been). Her heart was too good for this dark, sludgy world of his, he knew.

He wanted to hate it, to scoff at her naivety, at her hopefulness for the rotting lump that was her world. He couldn’t. He craved it, instead, and wondered how he had ever lived his thousand plus years without that little beacon of hope.

His chest hurt. Loki supposed that was the place his heart was meant to be, and the phantom organ had clenched at her tears, once she had managed to face him again.

She sniffed. “I don’t know if I can live with that.”

Yet I know, if I stepped aside Released the controls you would open my eyes That somehow, all of this mess Is just my attempt to know the worth of my life In precious metals

“I can,” he said simply. The surety of his voice and the clear lack of remorse made her something inside her feel warm like lava, rather than a fireplace’s hearth. She shuddered at his set expression and the glimmer of bloodlust in his stare. “I would have killed a hundredfold more, if it meant bringing you back safe. I will never live to regret that.” Loki was surprised to find that none of these words were a lie. He didn’t want her dead. He wanted her to thrive. He wanted her not to feel this gnawing emptiness that followed the taking of life. “You are my friend and you’re worth many more than that.”

“I don’t think that’s true, but thanks, anyway,” she muttered.

“Would I lie to you?” Never in his life had he wished for someone to ignore his nature and reply in the negative, than he did right now.

Becca’s mouth twisted in a reluctant smile. “Absolutely.” His heart clenched again, and this time there was no doubt about it. “But I don’t think you are.”

A long stretch of silence encompassed them.

“I want to return.”

“Return?” He frowned.

“To the field.” She sighed, pulling her shoulders back and sitting up straight. He had seen that pose before, when she was resolute to solve an issue or dissect a conundrum. He saw it when she had run from the jet and skidded to a stop beside him. “The reason I’ve been feeling so miserable is that fact that I feel awful about what I’ve done, but I can’t ever leave you guys out there alone, again. Not after what I’ve seen. And I’ve never felt this conflicted.”

“It’s what we signed up for, dove,” he assured, tucking a strand of her long brown hair behind her ear with incredible gentleness. “You needn’t worry about us. We’ll be perfectly fine as long as you’re there to greet us back.”

“That’s like telling me I don’t have to worry about the sky suddenly turning green. I’m going to do it, anyway.” Becca wasn’t sure why, but she followed up his silent question. “I’m going to get my training certifications back up-to-date, log in some time on local raids, and I’m joining missions.”

“Darling, you don't–”

“I’m going back! That’s final!” Becca snapped so loudly that Loki jumped, startled, and leaned back ever so slightly.

He blinked a few times to live down his surprise and offered her a nod. “Then, I will dutifully follow.” He smirked, nudging her side playfully. “Someone has to keep you alive.” Lest I attempt to destroy this pathetic planet, once more.

He hated that this was his first thought, but he knew he would follow her to Helheim and back to see her through. He needed to protect that light, that shine, that glow.

I’ll go anywhere you want me

#Loki #Angst #Others #Submitted fic #submission #atlas space #mercury #Fanfictrashdump #chapter 2

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pomegranate-salad · 6 years

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Seeds of thoughts : Wicdiv #36

Hello everyone ! Sorry for the lack of SOT last month. What happened was… I didn’t know what to say about the issue that hadn’t already been said. Sorry. Happens to the best of us. Anyway, we’re back with an issue that’s practically begging to be analysed, so that’s good. And just a reminder, if you’d like to help me not be broke, you can make a small donation here.

Thoughts and spoilers under the cut, you know the drill.

THROUGH METICULOUS ANALYSIS OF HISTORY

As expected of our wonderful fandom, some of my fellow bloggers (hi, @twatd and @myfirstsearchengine) have already started doing god’s work and untangle the absolute deluge of information we get in this issue. Bless their souls. But for me as always, especially when it comes to formalist devices, I find myself more interested in how things feel than what they say. That doesn’t mean we should bypass the analysis of the construction to get directly to a resulting, all-encompassing feel of the issue (otherwise, what would be the point of these posts ?) but I think it’s always a good start, especially with information-rich issues like this, to wonder what may be the big picture that’s so painstakingly painted through this abundance of individual elements.

So, how do we emerge from this issue ? Of course, everyone’s feel will be different here, but I think one popular realization will be just how fucking long six millennia actually is. On first read, as I flipped through the first half of the issue with increasing speed, I kept reading dates so far away from anything I could conceptualize they meant nothing to me until we thankfully reached the Anno Domini part of the program and I regained footing in time. Add to that the fact that I would be unable to point on a map to a good dozen of the places mentioned and you get… a recipe for emotional detachment. Of course, one of the joys of this issue is to go back and pick out the multiple details hidden in each panel, to cheer every time Persephone retaliates, to unravel patterns, to marvel at the outfit design and background changes, all these elements that actually allow us to connect with what’s going on. But as always, the interface between a reader and an issue is its whole and not a sum of its parts. Our emotions express themselves faster than our thoughts, meaning when we go back to identifying those parts, our connexion to the issue is already formed. As it happens, this connexion is to a gallery of nameless, often headless figures that have nothing in common if not for the pattern they’re repeating, and not to the individuals that form this pattern. A state of mind that’s probably very similar to the one Ananke entertains during all those recurrences. A state of mind she HAS to keep in order to maintain her own pattern.

Is the message this repetition has to impart us just that, a form of numbness to these killings, the taste of an endless battle and the suspected pointlessness of it all ? I think there’s a bit more going on here. Let’s try to connect the first half of the book with the second one. A priori, they seem disconnected. But the fact that Mothering Invention’s device seems to be the juxtaposition of past and present storylines means the creators are trying to establish some sort of echo between the two. In issue #34, the creation of the head sacrifice is paired with its discovery by the main characters in present time. Issue #35 is a study of two Minervas, and the circle of plotting and murder they’re trapped in. Issue #36 is the study of two monsters.

Is the wheel page in the middle of the issue describing Ananke or Baal ? The ambiguity is definitely not accidental. And if the construction of the two halves seem to be complete opposite, that probably not a coincidence either. The most obvious mirroring are the red pages, an entire page for a death, compared to the first half which crams six or more deaths per page. But really, that’s just the beginning of the parallels. The first half is made of a regular grids of small panels in which you can barely distinguish faces, while panel disposition in the second half is as irregular as they come, but focus on large, detailed panels, with Baal’s figure in particular blown out and dominating each page. The first half is all variety of colours and tones, while the second one is painted in an overpowering red. In the vast majority of panels, Ananke is depicted from the side, entirely focused on her task, while Baal is always facing the reader, sometimes almost as if he was addressing us directly instead of Persephone. But the most textual opposition is of course how much justification and explanation there is on Baal’s part, while Ananke, past the first page, doesn’t say a word. In his first apparition, Baal is even doing the Hamlet routine of holding a skull before starting his monologue. These two characters seem like they couldn’t be more different, yet the comic links them through this middle wheel page. Baal is all justification and self-aggrandizing, Ananke seems content with her selfish motivation. Baal gives an entire page to the weight of taking each life, while Ananke rarely expresses anything. Which is better ? It doesn’t matter, I think is the takeaway here : they’re both killers. And if you peel off the surface, they’re both exactly as selfish, cruel and inexcusable.

This doesn’t say great things about Baal. But I don’t think it says great things about Ananke either. Baal is arguably being manipulated into killing – does anyone buy the reality of the Great Darkness at this point ? – and is not nearly as jaded as Ananke is after six millennia. Is the only thing separating them time and experience ? If we come back to this first half, many people have noticed that Ananke seems to be consolidating some techniques and get more efficient overtime. But is that really true ? I’ve pulled the numbers : in the first third of her career, Ananke screws up about 13% of the time ; in the second third, 18% ; and in the last third, 9%. Those are remarkably similar odds. Can we even say she’s getting better at this ? Even if that’s true, the present recurrence seems to demonstrate that she’s never safe from a major setback. Nothing separates her from junior murderer Baal. She would have Minerva – and so, herself – believe that it will always be okay. That she’ll always win, in the end, even when she fails. But that’s simply not true. When she’ll fail for good, she’ll be done, just like Baal. And then these millennia of deaths, hers and Persephone’s, will mean nothing.

It’s remarkable that both Ananke and the comic would have us looking for more than there is in this litany of murders ; dumping truckloads of apparent information on us and inviting us to raid them for parts. And there is a part of me that definitely wants to do that. Because information and particularity gives meaning, it hints at more explanations, as a way to make sense of it all. But deep down I know that there will never be enough meaning in those panels for me to be satisfied.

Through this issue, it’s as if the comic is pulling all the stops on itself : it doesn’t matter how much it goes back in time and gives us fragments of this “big mystery” it’s set over the course of the previous arcs. Because it can give us everything, every recurrence there ever was, and all those murders will never mean more than what they are : murders. It doesn’t matter if it’s your first, your tenth or your sixty-fifth. It doesn’t matter if it takes you a whole empty page or get crammed into one-sixth of one. It’s still murder and you are still a murderer. And when you fuck up, everyone will cheer. And if you know it, that doesn’t make you nobler or more experienced, it just makes you an even bigger asshole.

I said one thing about this issue was how much it gives us ; yet, at the same time, it’s the comic’s admission that it gives us nothing, or at the very least not what we’d really want, because it doesn’t exist. What we see is all there is. The only thing separating Baal from Ananke is that they are fooling themselves in a different way. And again, there’s a part of me that’d really want to fool myself with them. With almost ten issues of Wicdiv remaining, I feel bad for giving it an early conclusion, but here it is : whatever is “really” going on, whatever the bottom line is, it doesn’t matter and never has. All there ever was is a desperately, cruelly simple tale of scared people. It doesn’t make them excusable. But it certainly makes them human.

WHAT I THOUGHT OF THE ISSUE

As I said, this issue stands out by how rich and poor in content it simultaneously is. As is often true of high concept issues, in terms of analysis, it immediately gives you something to discuss, but it doesn’t necessarily give you much more than what you first saw. What’s good about this issue is also what limits it, and makes it a nice, but also kind of one-note experience. As such, it compares unfavourably to other highly formalist issues like issues #14, #23 and especially #27, all of which were more evenly structured and solid in concept. I almost wish this issue had taken its premise further, and given us a cover-to-cover wall of Persephones. The parallel with the Baal scene is thematically rich, but it does give the feeling that the main storyline is stumping a little bit, and that the main reason we’re getting all those flashbacks is to artificially lengthen the comic.

That said, I’m not particularly disappointed by this issue either. It always takes a Wicdiv arc a bit of time to find its footing, and with the high concept flashback out of the way, the rest of the arc should set about its cruising speed. Plus, you can absolutely feel the amount of work that went into those pages, and while the result should be able to stand on its own, I really don’t feel like badgering on what was clearly hell on earth to build. Yes, it’s a borderline masturbatory nerdfest that saw the point of diminishing returns and blew it at full speed while laughing maniacally, but I think we can allow at least one of those in the Wicdiv run. It’s the kind of issue that I don’t see myself forming a strong attachment to, but I’m still glad it exists. And for what I’ve seen, aside from isolated opinions, that seems to be the general wisdom.

So let’s turn to the one part of the issue that DID attract the wrath of the Tumblrdom : Laura’s pregnancy. Boy, did you kick the hornet’s nest with this one, guys. I find it funny that as the fandom’s resident grump, the first big outcry we get about the Wicdiv run is one in which I find myself standing firmly with the creators. And since it seems I’m kind of alone on this one, allow me to make the case that as a story development, Laura’s pregnancy is… OKAY.

Let me first be clear : I’m not saying I’m happy with this development. Until we get the full picture of how it’s been handled, I’ll really have no opinion on the matter. What I do believe is that at this point, there is no reason to condemn Laura’s pregnancy as an inherently wrong move for the comic. I absolutely get why there was such a knee-jerk reaction from the fandom : it’s so, so very rare for a pregnancy storyline to be well done, to say nothing of a teen pregnancy storyline. For every one of us, the very mention of peeing on a stick is enough to bring back to mind dozens of female characters ruined by such a creative decision. So I get why people are being cautious ; I am too. But on the other hand, I find it really premature to set ourselves for outrage and disappointment.

From what I can tell, a lot of “oh HELL NO” reactions are rooted in the belief that this twist diminishes Laura’s characterization and strips her of agency. But personally, I see this development as completely in line with her character as previously established, and I don’t think she’s less of a subject for it.

For a start, we have to consider how much has been going in Laura’s life aside from her pregnancy. We don’t know how long she’s known about it, but reasonably it should have been around the end of January. She did a LOT of shit in-between, and none of it played as a direct consequence of her being pregnant. The way she describes her state is almost tangential, a Colombo-esque “oh, and one more thing”. Rereading her actions in light of her pregnancy doesn’t mean we should interpret it all as revolving around it ; if we do that, we are the ones stripping her of agency.

@immoralitea made another interesting argument : that the pregnancy was cheap cope-out to Laura’s suicidal behaviour by giving her a reason to live, thus derailing her entire battle with depression that’s been established as key to her character ever since the first act. That’s a compelling point, but I read Laura’s pregnancy completely differently : as another profoundly self-destructive behaviour. And I don’t know if that’s controversial to say, but in my opinion many storylines would benefit from addressing head-on how much self-destructive tendencies are a component of teen pregnancy. Pregnancy will put your body through the grinder, alter the course of your life, and alienate you from many people. And that’s if you’re lucky. If you aren’t, it’s also going to saddle you with an abusive partner or make you dependent on exterior resources for many more years. The last thing to get you through a depression is pregnancy. Of course all of this would be moot if the author didn’t realize it, but I think he does : nothing in Laura’s behaviour indicates she’s willing to change it for the sake of her potential child. On the contrary, she’s endangering it and herself by engaging in more self-destructive behaviour. That’s also why I think the “some of you will hate me for it too” line that also got some readers upset shouldn’t be read as the author’s opinion that Laura is to be shamed for her pregnancy ; for me, it reads as Laura’s opinion about a behaviour she sees for what it is : another way to destroy and hate herself. And just like she said before, she wants people to hate her ; it validates her suicidal behaviour. She’s doing everything she can so we will hate her, including getting pregnant.

Another clue in that direction is the way she discloses her state to Baal : when she says she “wants to live” it isn’t because she’s pregnant, but because every person battling with depression is torn between compulsions of life and death. And I may be mistaken, but I don’t think she wished to reveal her pregnancy to Baal at all ; I think she’s simply appealing to his “man of the house” self-image in order to be spared. From beginning to end, this is about her. Hell, she still has over two months to decide if she wants the baby at all.

Now I’m not going to lie, I’m not a fan of the over-symbolism of the goddess of death and rebirth being both suicidal and pregnant. And yes, if you ask me, I’d much rather have Laura get an abortion, because I don’t see how carrying her pregnancy to terms would benefit her in any way. But if Laura’s previous characterization taught us something, it’s that characters in Wicdiv rarely do what we want them to do and what’s objectively better for them. The gods have made the wrong decisions on drugs, cheating, dating, killing, trusting, overworking, and everything else under the sun, and we went with it, even if we weren’t happy about it. As I see it, pregnancy shouldn’t be over the line just because so many hacks have poisoned the well.

Again, maybe this storyline will develop for the worst and all I’ve said here will read as ridiculous wishful thinking in hindsight. But as of now, this plot development is simply this : a plot development, one that’s believable, in character, potentially interesting, and I think we should give it a chance. And if I end up being wrong… I promise I’ll write the mother of all takedowns.

#wicdiv #seeds of thought #oh look i'm early

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islandpcosjourney · 3 years

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Hindsight

29th December 2020

3 years ago, after a lovely family Christmas and a crazy few weeks beforehand redecorating the kitchen & dining room, I was enjoying some down-time. Facebook reminded me today that we were removing my fireplace in town – a big job involving big hammers and lots of sweat, on hubby’s part anyway ;) I had also just said goodbye to my Dad for the last time, although I didn’t know that. My final words to him were “Please go see a doctor” as we had noticed that he wasn’t himself while he was with us Christmas week. If I’d known in hindsight that I’d never see or speak to him again, I’d have never let him go. For the last 3 years I’ve punished myself for that. But in all honesty, I’m glad I didn’t know, despite the shock of his untimely passing, as I spent no time trying to cling onto something I wouldn’t have. He was just my Dad, it was just an ordinary Christmas, we were just hammering concrete out of a fireplace, as per usual and it was his time to go.

This year. The year of COVID. The year of cancellations. The year of worry. The year of unknowns. The year of excess screen time. The year of FOOD! This was the year of a fresh start. A chance to really sit down and think, quietly about anything and everything. In a year where our health has been debated so much in the press and in the community, I chose this year to sort it out, head on. Or rather, this was the year that my body chose, to WANT to sort itself out.

Many of you will have read before of the trials and tribulations that my PCOS gives me daily. It’s a vicious circle of physical and mental symptoms caused by external and internal factors. But before this year, although I’d done tons of research and I knew everything I could about my difficulties, I still couldn’t solve them. Something was always stopping me and that was indeed me.

We are what we eat. I truly believe this and always did but mentally I was always being drawn to the wrong foods. I still am, I am human after all but while most people had a kill switch to stop themselves from eating junk, my switch was broken, or so I thought. I understood the theory behind what foods would be good for me but putting it into practice is always the hard part and I’m sure many of you will have faced this before yourselves!

During lockdown, like many others, I was forced online to work. It wasn’t long after that I started noticing daily headaches, getting worse and worse. After a while, it was debilitating, and I was at the point (when in normal circumstances) where I’d have run to the GP for some stronger pills! But this wasn’t really an option this time and it forced me to think alternatively. I was convinced it was screen time to blame so I took a wee break and combined my teaching days/hours to make sure I had a long weekend away from the computer to recover each week. Around the same time, I was also experiencing buzzing in my ears – one Sunday thinking I was going insane hearing somebody strimming in their garden, when of course nobody would do that up here on a Sunday! Kevin definitely thought I’d gone mad and I was certainly believing I was! We figured out it was tinnitus or something similar and deduced I’d just have to ignore it, along-with my headaches. Fast forward to June when I finally decided to move a huge pile of recipe books from the landing upstairs. I can’t remember why they ended up there in the first place but rather than putting them back downstairs again, they’d just sat there in a tall pile for months. It was at this stage that I came across Jason Vale’s Turbo Charge Your Life in 14 Days book. A book I’d had at college and had used to lose weight before my degree’s final recital in 2009. I remembered losing 7lbs in 7 days. I sifted through all the pages and got swept back through memory lane and my tastebuds started to remember the taste of some of the juices. Mmmmmmmm yummy. Especially the Turbo charge smoothie – Pineapple, apple, lime, spinach, cucumber, celery & avocado. The ONLY form of avocado I would eat as I hated its taste but seemed to love its creaminess in a smoothie! Avocado being an essential fat that I KNEW I should be eating with my PCOS…… So, the next shopping trip I decided the buy the ingredients, dig out my juicer and before I knew it, while planning a week away to see my Mum & brother, I also planned a detox! AND it timed in perfectly with Jason’s BIG juice challenge between 6th – 12th July! Perfect, all meant to be.

So now, let’s cut a long story very short. I returned a week later totally rejuvenated, hadn’t eaten a single morsel of chewable food in 8 days and I’d lost 8lbs – here, something was working! I felt amazing, my headaches had gone, my skin was glowing, my teeth were whiter, I had tons of energy and I no longer had any ringing in my ears – all after just one week. Ok, so let’s continue! Nearly 6 months later incorporating juicing into my daily diet and I’m 30lbs down (It was at 33lbs, but Christmas was far too good hahahaha). I’ve set myself a target of 100lbs but the biggest reason for this dietary change is not to lose all the excess weight I’m carrying, although of course that will help, its to always put my health first and live the healthiest life I can. In a year where health has never been more important, I am finally on top of mine. I have finally found a way to control my symptoms and my cravings, naturally. I know it probably all sounds ridiculously obvious, but we are what we eat. My body was consuming junk therefore I was junk – I was overweight, chronically fatigued, had oily/acne skin, excess hair, moody, depressive, stressed, dull, no fun – the list is endless. I will now consume, in an average juicy week: 7 pineapples, 56 apples, 7 limes, 28 celery sticks, 28 asparagus spears, 7 courgettes, 2 bags of spinach, 1.5 bags of kale, 3.5 cucumbers, 3 broccoli stems, a few bananas, massive handfuls of mixed berries, beetroot, 7 pears, 7 avocados. Safe to say I am now bright, bubbly, happy, positive, glowing, full of energy, no back pain or headaches, smooth skin everywhere and best of all, I am reducing my PCOS symptoms massively. I’ve been at this weight before; I remember how I felt at this weight before. My weight has nothing to do with this feeling. The food I am eating is directly responsible. Finally, an answer to all my troubles. I know it sounds obvious but how many of us will turn to medications or look for other factors to blame for our chronic conditions? I did! As soon as I was diagnosed, I continuously went running back to the GP/consultant for more and more pills. One to sort that, one to sort this, another one to counteract the last one etc etc. I KNOW categorically that the medications were intoxicating me and that the fuel I put into my body causes the relevant energy output whether strong or weak. I know that if I wake up in the morning and feel tired, a juice will sort me out, not caffeine. I know that if I’m tired at night it is because of the incorrect fuel I’ve put into my body earlier that day, for whatever reason I decided to consume it. I am seeing a direct long-term result of it all too.

From previous blogs, you will know that I DID NOT have a menstrual cycle without medical intervention. As of Boxing Day this year, that is no longer true. It may have taken since July to regulate my hormones naturally, but it has worked. Obviously, time will tell if I’m going to restore any kind of regularity to it but in all honesty, that’s not a concern right now as I can’t remember having a regular cycle since I was a teenager, so we’re talking around 20 years of hormonal disruption to be reversed and Rome wasn’t built in a day! Interestingly the last “natural” cycle I had after stopping years of medication also appeared on Boxing Day, in 2016 ;) In August this year, I was convinced “mother nature” had come to visit but she only said a very brief hello in a socially distanced way for a day so this time with the COVID restrictions lifted a little she was able to come to stay with gifts of stomach cramps, carb cravings & headaches as a way of getting us reacquainted again. Needless to say, she was made very welcome and I’ve never been happier, especially by hugging a hot water bottle.

Not everything is quite sorted but as you can imagine, its well on track! I now choose my food wisely, looking for naturally wholesome options as is humanly possible and just being more conscious of what I am eating (of course I eat treats ocassionally but I’m doing it consciously). Would you put dirty fuel in a car? Of course not. Would you put dirty oil in during an oil change? Of course not. That’s what I believe medications do to chronic conditions – they throw dirty oil into an already dirty engine. Our cars need servicing each year where they get an oil change, where the filters are cleaned, where essential maintenance is done, so why don’t we do that when we’re chronically sick? Why do we turn to pills to sort a condition we’ve developed rather than look to what we’re fuelling our body with and give it a good clean out? Of course we need medicines for acute conditions but chronic ones can be reversed if we clean out the “filter” and do an “oil change”. I’ve seen tons of documentaries recently where I’ve learned of people curing their Asthma, Eczema, Psoriasis, Diabetes etc I’ve even seen a documentary where cancers have gone into remission for dozens of years through eating raw food alone. I know it’ll sound very “out there” for some people and it would’ve done for me too had I not gone looking for Functional Medicine (using food to heal) research after years of understanding the theory behind it but not finding the right way to put it into practice. But, never in my whole life and in spite of a worldwide Pandemic, have I felt more alive or healthier than I do right now. I may have turned the clock back 3 years on my weight but energy-wise I feel about 15 years younger which is far more important than any number on the bathroom scales.

In hindsight, do I wish that I’d reached these dietary conclusions earlier? Not at all. It wasn’t the right time. In hindsight, I can see that all of the information that I have been armed with over the years, are the tools that have set me up for the success I now have. Like a fine wine, I needed time to breathe, time to mature to become the best I can be. No point in opening it early, you’ll just be disappointed. A good teacher is somebody who’s struggled themselves and I’m a better, stronger person for having had my major struggles. There’s probably many still to come. Life is never boring!

Now that I’ve written this, I logged into Tumblr to copy this blog across and to see when I last posted and to my amazement it was Boxing day last year! I love coincidences of dates & Boxing Day seems to have cropped up a number of times. I said that my goal was to increase my energy levels as I really struggled this time last year. I had said regarding Christmas day:

“I want to be able to, one day, wake up early to make the breakfast, open stocking presents, get dressed inc. make up, cook a Christmas dinner, watch a bit of Christmas TV, play some board games, do the washing up and still feel like a proper woman – not some shadow of one who can only do one or two tasks a day.”

Well I did all those things! I’d totally forgotten that I’d even set that goal (for one day!) but I reached it a year later and more. I never thought I’d be sizes smaller than a previous year as my pattern has always been to be one size bigger each year ;) I recently ordered a few jumpers for the harsh winter, one a size 16-18 and one a size 14 for the future. Well, although a stretchy material, I’m in the size 14 jumper and had to send back the other as it just hung off me! Considering I was a size 20 last year, ballooned to a size 22 by the middle of the year and now I’m back to the size I was 3 years ago, I’m delighted. I also don’t get the violently ill episodes when I eat gluten/dairy now that I did before when I religiously followed a PCOS diet and ocassionally slipped up. I honestly think fruit & veg is healing my gut, my hormones, my skin, every organ in my body! There’s a lot to say for eating a plant-based diet, not only for my health but also the purse-strings but there’s also lots to say for eating balanced nutrition and listening to one’s body for what it really needs. My ears are wide open now.

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ohgoddard · 4 years

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Fist of Fire: Omega.1.4.

Heroes dying is nothing big, unless they were big of course. They die all the time, the villain arms race pulling ahead for but a few minutes. However, its never for long. A villain can never stay in power for long. Unless they’re in congress. I did my fair share of damage to those guys too, believe me. I hated those bastards. In my quest to achieve a quiet head, I had to pop a few. Some were heroes. At least they called themselves that.

Making the honor “hero” a job is up there in the stupidest things humanity has done. No one signs up to be a hero, they are intrinsically one. This is where you get people like the Ultra-Knight, and the race riots of Carson City after his ‘crusade against crime’ ended three dozen lives. Three dozen black lives. The agency covered for him, laying a marvelous case out that pointed to some law infraction in each of the persons lives, calling it all probable cause. Even the fourteen year old who happened to be carrying eyeliner she accidentally didn’t pay for. You can imagine how the case was received.

I was fed up with it. Not with the case specifically, however I was in those crowds in Chicago, but with Heros in title only. People who saw life saving as a paycheck and not the obligation that comes with their job or circumstance. I detest hero academies, hero schools, the whole agency. They may call me an abomination of the costume, a terrorist, but I am more of a hero than they ever were or will be. Because I knew when the “hero” wasn't a hero at all. I’ve been pulling on your chain recently doc, so i’ll give in just this once. Then it's back to the usual lunacy. Celerity of mind only comes once in a while, I hope you understand.

Fantasma was my first. Not my first killing, that was done a few months before hand. Some pimp in a brothel with kids. No, Fantasma was my first hero killing. This might surprise you, because the official cause of death was ‘blunt force trauma by result of duty’. I was that trauma. Fantasma was a sick man. He used his powers of invisibility to get blackmail and perv on the people. He used his office as a way to escape consequence. No one is going to believe you, that a hero would blackmail you? Watch you while you sleep and shower? Record you in your intimate moments? Preposterous it would seem.

No one had proof. How can you, when the very man you claim to be stalked by cannot be found. The police most likely knew, but did not do anything. They used him to go beyond the 4th amendment, search a perps home without them knowing. Had I known what he was doing sooner, no doubt would I have done the same. It would have saved lives. I know all too well of the suicides he has caused. Some of them were at his insistence for some sick game. I found all of this in his files he kept on every single person he blackmailed. For someone so great ta breaking in, he kept a surprisingly lax protection for himself. But I am getting ahead of myself. I do that sometimes.

Did you know Fantasma watched you too, doctor? I am surprised as you are. I thought I remembered your name when I heard it. I read it in those files of his some time ago. You must have been traveling in the city at the time. He hadn’t the time to confront you I suppose. Not like he had anything worth knowing on your file. You were gone too quick. Count yourself lucky, doctor. He did awful things to the women he liked. Anyways where was I? Yes, right.

The voices told me about Fantasma. I heard his name countless times but ignored it, much like every other hero name I heard that wasn't my own. However this one managed to get past me, I could not tell you why. Perhaps it was because it was a cry for help. A cry for help from someone to stop Fantasma. In my usual speed, and backed by an increasingly rare curiosity into the problems of the public, I went over. Stopped a car wreck, a mugging, bank robbery on my way there. No one ever talks about those. Always the bad, never the good. I made my way to the cry, but I could not find it. It had stopped.

My search revealed the body of a young man, no older than 22. Three gunshots in his chest. A Polaroid resting on his wounds, covered in his blood. It was a clear shot of him and another man, being very… close with another. I found his body in an alley, in between two tall brick buildings. Dozens of people walked by, yet few could tell me if there was even an alley there, let alone if they heard a gunshot. This boy called out Fantasma’s name before he passed, before someone shot him. Now I am the last person to tout my investigative skills, but even the most fly-brained of private eyes could figure out where to go from here. But I needed proof. Not because I was going to go about this in a legal way, mind you. No, I needed to know for myself. I didn’t care then for the politics between the agency and the public, I still do not. However, there are plenty of people that steal the identities of heroes. I do not want to execute an innocent.

I still haven't, by the way. I only take care of the crooks.

Around this time people still thought I was the real Omegaman. I still by birthright, technically. You get what I mean. So strolling into the Chicago branch of the hero agency was a piece of cake. Now you may have a hard time imagining this building because its been destroyed a few times in its lifetime, so let me paint you a picture. Think of the most beige and sad administration office ever. Lifeless grey cubicles lay beyond the pretty receptionist in the lobby. Filled with a few dozen hard-working pencil pushers who kept up with hero jobs, categorizing them, and other boring maintenance tasks. A farm of human life and effort. Truly, the realest evil is the ones we cannot punch away.

Anyways I walked in, costume in full, and just walked into the records room. Omegaman was not to be questioned. His duties were beyond that of Ted Bizby, hero accountant. The records rooms were old school. This branch had not caught up to the modern day, and it made things a variety of easy and difficult. Easy in the sense that everything I needed was kept in one succinct file, easy to read and handle. Downside, the sorting system of the past century seemed to have also evaded the Chicago branch of the agency. With my super-speed and with great effort given to cover my tracks, it took me seven hours. Over nine-hundred heroes in the city, I know in my broken mind the identities and weaknesses as documented by the agency by heart. I also found Fantasma. Frances Garcia-Hernandez. Aged 39, lived in a four room home on the outskirts of the city. No wife and children. God has little miracles for us all. Attached in the file was a picture of him, visible. A thin goatee went around his flabby face. His body was not made for fighting. It would make things easy for me.

What made it even easier was the forty five page complaints against this hero. Every single one followed the same story. Blackmail. Each complaint was flared on the paper, “investigated; dismissed”. I took his file and left the agency. While flying back to my home at the time, a woman’s homeless shelter, I pulled up my phone to check the police database.

Every person who complained on that list is dead. Natural causes. Varying from falling A/C units, debris from nearby hero fights, stray gunshots from gang fights, you name it. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to know this is bullshit. It seems impossible, of course, that any one person can do all this. But not any person is invisible.

It was three days after I made my discoveries that I flew to his home. Crime never sleeps, but I need to. He lived in a very small gated community beyond the city boundaries. Fantasma seemed to live in irony, being someone who breached others security, kept lax home security, but at the same time wanted the very best money could buy. A man of very puzzling interests. Shame that many of them were illegal. His home was a modest one, two rooms per each of its two floors. I came as Kiara that day. It was very easy to get into the gated community, apparently Mr. Garcia-Hernandez had many young women callers. You can imagine why.

Can you see why not all my murders were bad? I even hesitate to call them murders. More like the removal of cancerous tumors. Or de-leeching.

It was early evening when I knocked on his door. I had dressed in a hoodie and jeans to look as normal as possible. It made it all the more sickening when he opened his door and smiled at me. He stood about my height, but luckily packed exactly as much danger as I expected. He was dressed ina wife-beater and boxers. His teeth were a disgusting yellow, and his balding head managed to actually cap it off with peak creep. He said to me, “Why, I don’t remember having an appointment today. But my memory is spotty and I could always use the company.” His breath reeked of alcohol. The hero of the people indeed. He put his long and controlling arm around me and beckon me into his home, and I took note of the speed he locked the door behind me. The first time he has done that.

This was not the first time I had been in his home obviously. I had been here before, in the room upstairs filled with industrial servers where he kept gigs of blackmail. But he didn’t know that. And now I had him trapped. This is where the agency’s official deah report differs. It reads that a villain had found his identity and infiltrated his room and killed him in his sleep. What happened was I beat him with a chair leg. Brutally. He had no chance. I rendered him the first stage of human evolution, the sludge he truly was at his core. I spent hours beating him. I tore him apart with my hands after the chair leg broke. He was long dead before hand but I didn’t care.

He would feel all the pain he caused.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“That will be all for today, thank you.”

She sounded much more strained today. I turned my head to look at the doctor, doing my best not to intimidate. I asked her with genuine sincerity ,”Doctor was I too descriptive today?”

“No,” she replied. “No, you were good today. I think we are making progress. By.. by getting you to open up about your problems we are closer to fixing what is wrong with you.”

She was lying. She is not ok. Something about her heartbeat. Her sweat. She is scared. But this isn't the fear of me, no I know what that feels like. It's the fear of.. Oh i'm an idiot.

“Doctor, don’t worry about your information getting into the wrong hands. I used his servers to smash him into pieces. He had no back ups. You and many others are safe from copycats.”

A slowing of the heart, a strained smile. “Thank you for your reassurances, Kiara-”

“Omegaman.”

“Omegaman. But I am ok, really. These sessions are about you.”

I flash her my gayest smile. “If you still feel scared, I can escort you to safety.”

It had the intended effect, the heightened heart rate and the blood rush to the cheeks. Her usual professionalism took over, sadly.

“Miss Ki- Omegaman. This is a professional environment. That is all for today.”

I laughed as they carted me back to my room. I still need to sell the crazy look.

#original #original writing #original character #original story #creative #creative writing #creativewriting #original female character #superhero #superhero story #FoF:om

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7livky · 4 years

Text

Dionysus - Park Jimin

CHAPTER 9

Baby, it's okay if I get drunk I'll drink you in deep now Deep into my throat The whiskey that is you

Kiss me on the lips A secret just between the two of us Deeply poisoned by the jail of you I cannot worship anyone but you and I knew The grail was poisoned but I drank it anyway

- Blood, Sweat & Tears by BTS

Diona's POV

With a resting pulse of probably over a hundred beats per minute, I was now standing in front of my lecturer.

I felt beads of sweat forming on my forehead as she watched my huge work. I closed my eyes before I started cursing. "This is all your fault."

"Pardon?"

We exchanged glances so I started to laugh hysterically. "Ah, ha hahaha ha" ,I pulled my hair back, "I mean everything is my fault. I knew you wouldn't like it."

Jimin, I hate you.

Rolling her eyes, I could feel the sweat under my armpits.

„Ew." I quickly put my hand over my mouth. This time she sighed loudly as she examined Medusa's snake hair.

I never thought I'd be someone like this someday.

A 20-year-old woman who based on a few...

A few?

Okay... who based on dozens of videos, has mutated into a fifteen-year-old girl who would get down on her knees for these seven men just to fulfill their every wish. Only two days since I haven't seen them, and in those 48 hours I haven't tried to make my painting look perfect, no. I've tried to stop myself from falling in love with every single one of BTS. And not just because of their stunning looks.

BTS are the angels on this planet who would give everything for Armys happiness, Armys wishes and just.. for Armys lifes. And by everything, I really mean everything they have.

Also-

"So Mrs. Park. Good organization of the picture surface, striking arrangement and colorfulness of the figure with the snakes, correct lighting. But the painting technique and brushwork..."

Can someone bring me my whiskey?

"..could really be those of a true artist."

She then winked at me, took a sip of her bitter coffee and typed something on her computer. "Full score. Now get out of my way, there's a new Cutie on probation!" With her shoulder, she pushed me aside and left me in her room.

What the fuck did just happen?

"Four meters to the right and you're at your destination."

I turned on my heels to see who?

Right, the pain in the ass who had to find me of all people on this earth.

"Oh, there you are!"

I crossed my arms and couldn't believe him. "How did you find me? In this huge, mazy university."

"Not with an app that hacks your phone and tells me your location! I swear to God!" He shrugged his shoulders while scratching the back of his head. How could he still look cute in his thick, black leather jacket and hot body?

"Did you get your results yet?" He pulled me out of the room before I could see my finished work lying on the table for the last time.

" Yeah." I murmured.

He stopped, showing me his sad face. "Failed?"

Nodding my head, I threw myself into Jongsuk's arms. I rolled my eyes as I inhaled the female scent when he stroke my head.

"Fuck it, shorty. Next time, just draw me and my beauty will blind them. Who the hell is Medusa?" ,he spoke up to make me laugh.

"Thank you Jong-suck suck. But..." ,I looked up at him while still hugging him, "Should I hear one more time" ,my sweet voice changed in a second, "that you hacked my phone to haunt me, then I'll boil your little eggs and make scrambled eggs out of them."

Disgusted, he looked down at me. "Why must your punishments always be so nasty?"

"Perhaps my predecessor was a goddess who enjoyed nasty punishments?"

After my answer, he let go of me and walked with big steps to the elevators. He waited for me until I was inside too and pushed the button. "Don't give me that shit again" ,he replied ten years later.

"What do you mean?"

"With the Gods" ,he answered whereupon we sat in the lobby, full of comfy sofas.

"Remember how you laughed at me when I said I met Jungkook?" ,I teased him.

He looked away in annoyance, " Yeah well, I should have believed you. But wait a minute?"

I tried to take a few sips of my canned whiskey without getting caught.

"Doesn't that mean that the old rich pedophile kookie monster is actually Jungkook?!"

He stared at me while I nodded. "Now the thousand dollars finally makes sense. The richest guys in South Korea found my best friend. Great!"

I ignored his sarcasm by opening up my Twitter. My entire home page was filled with BTS. Does that surprise me? I don't think so.

Beep.

new message (1)

from kookie-monster95

I just had five hundred butterflies thrashing around in my stomach.

hi!

can you come over to our place tonight?

"What? Why are you grinning like an idiot?"

Of course I can come over and bite your dimples off...

"Diona."

And paint your muscular body on your own wall at home.

"Oh my God! Is that Park Jimin?!"

What did he say?

"WHERE?"

Now my phone was in his hand. "I see. So that's how it is. Tell me, are you getting disloyal?"

I tried to hit him, "Give me that! And to whom should I be disloyal?" ,I growled.

Beep.

I could hear it vibrating in his big hand.

Jongsuk raised his one brow, "He wants you for something else? This is going too far! I'm coming too!"

I punched him in the chest, "What did he send?!" His arms were too long to be stopped.

"He doesn't want you there for the picture" ,he declared angrily and suddenly typed something.

"Jongsuk please stop!" I screamed as everyone stared at me. "Please!" I fidgeted in desperation.

Beep.

"Hey Jongsuk." He immediately turned around to see one of those college sluts. I took the opportunity to run away with my life in my hands. I immediately read the previous message.

from kookie-monster95

but not just for the painting..

from diona7

for what then you rabbit?

"Oh my God Jongsuk I will kill you!"

new message (1)

from kookie-monster95

Well, don't you think you should apologize to Jimin?

Absolutely not!

Flashback

"And then I witnessed your fist hitting his beautiful face."

Or do I?

- And here I was again. At the entrance of a heavenly ancient mansion.

Can anyone finally rid me of this dream? No common sense would ever be able to handle seeing BTS in private, would it? Can someone finally tell me that this fact can never be reality?

How can I ever face it? I want to finish this painting as soon as possible and never have to come back here again.

After my self-talk, I decided to make a next appointment with my therapist and got out. I dragged my heavy bag to the gate, looking at my trembling hand. "I should have drunk more" ,I murmured as the door suddenly opened by itself.

Great, now I had to deal with ghosts, too.

"Hello?"

I came in and moved my stuff in. I closed the door and stood on the mosaic floor I had fallen in love with.

"It's me, Diona." I looked around, but no one was there. And this time it was totally different. Knowing that two or three members lived here didn't take my nervousness away at all.

Knowing that Park Jimin lived here..

I put my hand on my chest and tried to keep my heart from popping out.

But I wanted to see more. More than the unpainted wall and the entrance hall. When I headed into the direction Jungkook was heading that day, something unexpected happened there.

The whole appearance, the building, the architecture was no longer the same as in the entrance hall.

It was a secular building of the Renaissance and Baroque at the same time. A palace that served as a residence, as a noble residence for rich and privileged families. But there was always an echo of an ancient Roman villa, with mosaic floors, hermen pilasters and grotto work, which surrounded me like a spring sanctuary.

I nodded decisively the more characteristics I recognized.

A strong beam shone in my eyes that belonged to the sun. I took my eyes from the window and followed the light coming from above. My eyes widened.

"Wow..." ,I whispered after I saw the ceiling. A pastel ceiling painting by an unknown artist. Depicted of people, with the assumed form of angels, helping two wingless people floating on clouds. When I lowered my head, I saw Corinthian columns decorated with animal heads.

The endlessness of the heavens.

As the sun set, the countless golden decorations sparkled throughout the room and all the small crystal chandeliers turned on.

I looked around immediately. "Is anyone there?" My stomach cramped up. With big steps I walked on before I stood in front of a big staircase with a wide marble staircase.

I left the first hall to climb the shiny steps. My small steps were the only disturbance that could be recorded. It was soulfully calm.

No way.

A large gallery of mirrors in thousandfold shapes on huge mirror walls with reflecting parquet flooring and a beautiful crystal chandelier that increased the light of countless candles.

With my inner concern, I ran towards my mirror images. Looking at my wavy hair, which took on a golden colour under the crystal chandelier, my yellowish light-brown eyes found me from all sides as I turned in circles. A hall that consisted only of mirrors.

Before I would see any other face than mine, I crossed this hall as fast as I could. I put out my cell phone to write Jungkook, but without success. I had no network. No wonder it takes him an hour to open the front door when he has to go through so many halls.

A cold breeze brushed against my skin, so I stroked my arms. I noticed a stream that probably seized me from the following hall. Coldness, an increasing echo and another sequent hall in front of me. Without even looking behind me, I hurried to the other side and was ready to see something sensational-

and not a hand in front of my eyes.

"Shhhh.."

I lost the ground under my feet and felt the fear down to my last pore. I opened my mouth slightly, but I could not speak, because my throat was closed. Raising my hand I felt the other hand under my fingers.

"Kill me softly.."

And there it was again. That melodious voice that sounded like velvet and warmed me.

"Close my eyes with your caress."

Jimin's words enveloped me like soft singing, awakening the desire in me to open my eyes so that I could see him.

My ears sensed sound waves of music with a slinking tempo as if the melody was flowing through my body and even touching my heart. My sense of sight was full of brilliance and silver shimmer. Transparent warm timbres that gave me a natural serenity.

I felt a deep trepidation when his other hand lingered at my waist and slowly moved me forward. On soft knees, he slowly followed me as he dragged me to a place.

I could hear someone snapping their fingers to the music. The next moment I heard a snap from the other direction, too, which matched the timbre of the song perfectly.

He removed his warm hands so that I could perceive everything again with my eyes and not just my hearing.

Flashback

But the most beautiful thing on his face was his cat-shaped eyes. They reminded me of the eyes of a predatory cat. To be more precise, he had the same of a desert lynx, as he had very dark and dense lower lashes, just like a eyeliner.

"Welcome, Diona. I am Taehyung." He winked at me with his broad smile as his hand floated in front of me.

"Pleased to meet you." I shook his hand, with which he later brushed through his turquoise hair. Then he sat down on the sofa to my left.

"So a rabbit then?"

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I turned to look to my right to see Jungkook lying on a beige sofa with his left leg resting on the backrest. With his legs spread, he pierced me with his eyes.

"That wasn't me, that was my friend Jongsuk. I'm sorry."

A door was shut behind me, which made me start up. I lowered my head to the side and stopped at my shoulder. I could already see him from the corner of my eye. With his back against the door, he watched me all the time.

"Isn't there something else you should be apologizing for?"

Every time he spoke, my nerves were strained to breaking point and I hated it. I turned on my heels and watched Jimin biting his lip. I counted every second his bite lingered on his lower lip and forgot everything I had learned. I gazed down at his crossed arms.

"Huh?" he almost complained.

Just another moment and I already sensed his dark aura around my own, over which he had seized power.

"Sorry that I hit you."

He lifted my chin so I could look him in the eyes. "I'll only forgive you," he licked his lips, "if you bear us company tonight."

He took his eyes away from me and looked at the boys behind me. I then heard a glass being filled with liquid.

"I'm just here to paint. Not to entertain you."

His smile didn't disappear, no. Instead, he smiled even stronger. "Oh.. But you already have been entertaining us since you came into this room, my beautiful."

My teeth clenched. I saw red with rage while he watched me amused.

"He's tipsy, don't listen to him" ,Jungkook spoke from the side, drinking his wine before sitting up.

Before anyone could say anything else, I left the room. "My beautiful" ,I imitated him as I stomped through the dark passage. "You can stick it right up your a-"

I heard a loud grunt.

"You'll regret this" ,Jungkook laughed as he passed me when I gave him my look of death to the back of his head. "Otherwise he'll drown you in booze."

I observed his trained back, which you could see through his white shirt but immediately turned around when he stopped to look at me. "I'm sorry if I come off bad too, but I've been drinking too. But actually.." He smiled shyly. „Actually I'm the cutest guy in the whole group, you know."

A soft clucking escaped me. "How is an international playboy supposed to be cute?"

He stared at me in shock when we arrived at the mirrors. "You... Where from? How-"

I rolled my eyes, "Yes Jungkook, everything you say is recorded and saved by millions of Armys as an insider. Good morning."

He just scratched the back of his head and ran down the stairs with me. I almost took a wrong turn, but he helped me right away. When we arrived at my place, I picked up my bag to get ready.

"I hope I don't faint again and can't start the painting a second time."

When nothing came up, I turned around as he looked like he'd been caught for a crime. "Ehh... ehehe" ,he half coughed, "scream out my name if you need me." He bowed respectfully before he disappeared from my sight.

"But how are you supposed to hear me!" I screamed after, but yeah.. Nevermind. I sighed in frustration before opening the lids of the acrylic paints. I put on my cape and pulled on the strings that I wrapped around my waist.

That song that just came out of my mouth as I hummed the melody, automatically thinking of his voice.

"Ugh" ,I hissed.

Why wasn't he the same in real life as he was in the videos? So sweet, loving and caring to everyone. Why wasn't he like in my dreams? The most beautiful angel I've ever been allowed to touch?

I digged out my finished sketch out of my sheets and held it in my other hand. Then I approached the wall to finally start with the base. Before dabbing my wide brush into the white paint, I waited. As always whenever the paint was about to touch a surface. Because after that there was no turning back. This kind of paint dried in seconds.

11:17 p.m.

That was my eighth yawn in a short minute, from when I knew I should stop. I put everything on the floor, which I had covered with old newspaper sheets to check the time on my phone.

"Three hours?!"

I shook my head in anger. "These assholes haven't asked once in three hours how far I've come or if I need anything?"

Crybaby.

"Shut the fuck up!" ,I screamed.

My senses suddenly picked up something unexpected. His scented essence. I froze at the sight.

"Yooou.. talk to yourself, tooooo?"

Have I lost my mind? Are my eyes no longer functioning properly?

Or did Jimin have silver streaks in his hair three hours before too?

"Wow!" He ignored me to stare at the wall. "Your hands can work wonders."

"Uh, thanks?"

His giggle sounded like a squeal. Just like I knew him from the videos.

"I should go now. This all has to dry by tomorrow, I can't put anything else on before then." I bent down to wrap everything up while he watched me silently as my nerves fluttered with fear.

"You can't just leave me like this. Not unless I tell you to" ,he said from up there.

Not this shit again...

"Let me guess. Because you're the one and only Dionysus?"

Even before I said that sentence, I already regretted it.

His veins popped out. Fuck.

He quickly pulled me up by my arm before a cold wall touched my back. He raised his hand, licked his thumb and put it against my cheek before he grazed a spot. After that, he showed me his thumb, which was tinted white. My cheeks heated up. God, how embarrassing. I didn't realize my face looked like a clown the whole time.

"You.. will come upstairs with me now and taste my unique wine. Understand?"

Nod. Just a nod that I could give him.

"Thank you, beautiful."

And for the first time, he locked his hand with mine.

Music is the wine,

which inspires new generative processes,

and I am Dionysus,

who presses out his glorious wine for mankind

and makes them spiritually drunk.

- Dionysus

0 notes

andrewdburton · 5 years

Text

The £200 Millionaire: An early retirement story from 1932

J.D.'s Introduction While reading an obscure book about retiring early to a life at sea — Voyaging on a Small Income by Annie Hill (1993) — I discovered a short story from a man named Joseph Weston-Martyr.

First published in 1932, The £200 Millionaire reads like “Mr. Money Mustache at Sea”. It's fascinating. Because today I start a ten-day Mediterranean cruise, I thought it'd be fun to share this story at Get Rich Slowly.

This is a long story. It contains 8001 words, which is 32 printed pages. I've formatted it for web-based reading (I don't think you want to read a 500-word paragraph on your phone!), plus added images and hyperlinks. Please enjoy it as weekend reading!

Some images are obviously meant to illustrate the text. Others are from Michelle at Making Sense of Cents, who graciously agreed to let me use her photos here. She's been living on a sailboat since July 2018.

The £200 Millionaire

My wife and I were sailing a hireling yacht through the waterways of Zeeland last summer, when one day a westerly gale drove us into the harbour of Dintelsas for shelter.

A little green sloop, flying the Red Ensign, followed us into port. She was manned solely by one elderly gentleman, but we noted that he handled the boat with ease and skill.

It was blowing hard, and the little yacht ran down the harbour at speed, but when abreast of us she luffed head to wind, her violently flapping sails were lowered with a run, and she brought up alongside us so gently that she would not have crushed an egg.

We took her lines and made them fast, while her owner hung cork fenders over the side and proceeded to stow his sails. Urged by a look from my wife which said, “He is old and all alone. Help him,” I offered to lend the lone mariner a hand. But he refused to be helped.

Said he, “Thank you, but please don't trouble. I like to do everything myself; it's part of the fun. But do come aboard if you will, and look round. You'll see there's nothing here that one man can't tackle easily.”

We went aboard and found the green sloop to be one of the cleverest little ships imaginable.

Aboard the Green Sloop

It is difficult to describe her gear on deck and aloft without being technical; suffice it to say, therefore, that everything was very efficient and simple, and so designed that all sail could be set or lowered by the man at the helm without leaving the cockpit.

The boat was 30 feet long by 9 feet wide, and my short wife, at any rate, could stand upright in her cabin.

Her fore end was a storeroom, full of convenient lockers, shelves and a small but adequate water-closet. Abaft this came the cabin, an apartment 12 feet long, with a broad bunk along one side of it and a comfortable settee along the other. A table with hinged flaps stood in the middle, while in the four corners were a wardrobe, a desk, a pantry and a galley.

Abaft all this was a motor, hidden beneath the cockpit floor. A clock ticked on one bulkhead, a rack full of books ran along the other, a tray of pipes lay on the table, and a copper kettle sang softly to itself on the little stove.

“What do you think of her?” said our host, descending the companion.

“Before you tell me, though, I must warn you I'm very house-proud. I've owned this boat for ten years, and I've been doing little things to her all the time. Improving her, I call it. It's great fun.

“For instance, I made this matchbox-holder for the galley last week. It sounds a trivial thing; but I wish I'd thought of it ten years ago, because during all that time I've had to use both hands whenever I struck a match.

“Now I have only to use one hand, and you know all that implies in a small boat, especially if she's dancing about and you're trying to hold on and cook and light the Primus at one and the same moment. Then there was the fun of carving the holder out of a bit of wood I picked up, to say nothing of the pleasure it gives me to look at a useful thing I've made with my own hands. The carving brought out the grain of the wood nicely, don't you think?

“Now I'm going to make tea, and you must stay and have some with me.”

Thought-Provoking Discourse

We did stay to tea. And we are glad we did.

For one thing, it was a remarkably fine tea, and, for another, we listened to the most entertaining and thought-provoking discourse we have ever heard in our lives.

That discourse, in fact, was so provocative of thought that it looks as if it were going to change the whole course of our lives for my wife and me.

Said our host, “I hope you will like this tea. It's brick tea, caravan tea. I got hold of it in Odessa, where it was really absurdly cheap. That's one of the advantages of this kind of life, I find. Cruising about all over Europe in my own boat, I can buy luxuries at the source, so to speak, at practically cost prices.

“There are four bottles of Burgundy, for example, stowed in the bilges under your feet, the remains of a dozen I bought at Cadaujac while cruising along the Garonne canal. I bought the lot for less than twenty shillings, and it's the sort of wine you pay a pound a bottle for in London.”

J.D.'s note: I always have to remind myself of British monetary conversions when reading stories like this. To refresh your memory and mine: Twelve pennies (or twelve pence or 12 d.) equals one shilling (1 s.). Twenty shillings (20 s.) equals one pound (£1). So, there are 240 pennies (240 d. per pound. There's more money talk to come, so this info is helpful to know.

“When I come across bargains like that it makes me wish this boat was a bit bigger. It's surprising what a lot of stuff I can stow away in her, but I really need more storage space. If I had room I would buy enough cigars, for instance, in this country where they are good and cheap, to last me over the winter.

“You see, I like the sun, and in two months I shall be going down the Rhone to spend the winter in the south of France, and the tobacco there is horrible and expensive.”

Bread and Tea

“Do you live aboard here all alone always?” exclaimed my wife, making her eyes very round.

“Most certainly,” replied our host.

“Now do try some of this Macassar redfish paste on your toast. I got it in Rotterdam from the purser of the Java Mail that arrived last week, so it's as fresh as it's possible to get it.

“It's really a shame to toast this bread, though. It's just the ordinary bread the bargees buy, but I find Dutch bread is the best in all Europe. Some French bread is good, but it won't keep as long as this stuff will.

“Sailing down the Danube a year or so ago I got some really excellent bread in Vienna, but it was a little sweet and not so good for a steady diet as this Dutch stuff.

“The worst bread I ever got was in Poland. I was cruising through the East German canals and I thought I would sail up the Vistula via Cracow, with the intention of putting the boat on the railway when I got to the head of the Vistula navigation at Myslowitz, shipping her across the few miles to the Klodnitz canal, and then cruising through Silesia and Brandenburg via Breslau down the Oder.

“It was a good and perfectly feasible plan, and I fancy it would have been interesting. But that horrible Polish bread defeated me completely. It was about all I could get to eat, and it seemed to consist entirely of straw and potatoes. So I turned back after passing Warsaw, and fled down the Vistula and the Bromberg canal and on by the Netze to Frankfurt.

“Do have some more tea.”

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

We had some more tea. It was a marvellous brew, as stimulating as good wine, and while we drank it our curiosity concerning our host and his extraordinary mode of life welled up within us, to drown at last our manners and overflow in a stream of questions.

“Do you really mean,” said we, “that you live aboard here always? All the year round? And quite alone? And cruise to Odessa? And Warsaw? And how did you get to the Danube? And the Black Sea? And—? And —?”

Thus we went on, while our host smiled at us – the kind of smile that told us we had made a new friend.

“I'll tell you,” he said, when we stopped at last for breath. “You understand boats and this sort of life, I think, so you'll understand me.

“I've been living aboard this boat for ten years now, and I hope I shall never have to live anywhere else as long as I'm alive. It's a good life. It's the best kind of life a man can lead — or a woman either. It really is life, you see. Yes. And I think I ought to know.

“I shan't see sixty again, and I've seen a good deal of life — of different kinds. I'm a doctor, or was once. And I've worked very hard all my life trying to be a good doctor, but failing, I fear, on the whole.

“I married and we had five children, and it meant hard work bringing them up properly and educating them. But I worked and did it. Then I moved to London to try to make some money. That was the hardest work of all.

“Then the war came, and more hard work in a base hospital. The war killed two of my sons — and my wife. And when it was all over I looked around, and I didn't like the look of the life I saw ahead of me. To go on working hard seemed the only thing left to do, but I found there was no zest left in my work any more.

“My daughters were married and my remaining son was doing well in a practice of his own. I found my children could get on very well without me. So there was no one left to work for, and I found I was very tired.

“I sold my practice and retired to Harwich, where I was born. And there I soon found out that having nothing to do at all is even worse that working hard at something you've lost interest in.

“I did nothing for six months, and I think another six months of that would have been the death of me. By then I feel I should have been glad to die.

“But this little boat saved me. I began by hiring her from a local boatman for one weekend. We sailed up the Orwell to Ipswich and back again. The weather was fine, the Orwell is a lovely river, and I enjoyed my little sail. I enjoyed it so much, in fact, that I hired the boat again. I hired her for a week, and this time I left the boatman behind and sailed alone.

“Of course, I had sailed boats before.

“As a boy I got myself afloat in something or other whenever I had a chance, and my holidays as a young man were nearly all spent aboard yachts. So I found I could still handle a boat especially this little thing in those sheltered waters, and I remembered enough seamanship to keep myself out of trouble.

“I sailed to Pin Mill, and then up the Stour to Manningtree and Mistley. After that I grew bolder, and one fine day with a fair wind for the passage, I coasted along the Essex shore to Brightlingsea. I explored the Colne and its creeks, and the end of my week found me at West Mersea, so I had to write to the boatman and extend the time of hire. While I was about it I chartered the boat for a month.

“You see, I discovered I was happy, and I could not remember being happy for a very long while.”

Freemasonry Amongst Sailors

“The exercise and the fresh air and the plain food were all doing me good, too. I'd been getting flabby and running to fat, but the work on the boat very soon altered all that. I would turn into my bunk every night physically tired, knowing I would fall fast asleep at once, and looking forward to waking up again to another day of seeing after myself and the boat, and pottering about and enioying my little adventures.

“The life, in fact, was making me young again — and I knew it.

“I would get up in the morning as soon as the light woke me and wash and shave and cook my breakfast. I used to stick pretty faithfully to coffee, bacon and eggs, and bread and marmalade in those first days, I remember. I was not much of a cook then, and I had yet to learn the pleasure one can get out of cooking a really good meal, not to mention eating it.

“Then I washed the breakfast things, cleaned up the cabin and washed down the deck. Housemaids' work, but there's not much of it needed to keep this small boat clean and tidy. And what little work there is soon became a labour of love.

“When I had made the boat all ship-shape I would sit in the cockpit and smoke, and look at her with great pride and contentment. I still do that. It gives me pleasure to see my home in perfect order and to feel that I've done it all myself. And I know, now, that if I paid someone else to do the work for me I should be depriving myself of a deal of the charm of life.

“When my morning chores were done, and if the weather was fine and I felt like moving on, I would heave up my anchor and make sail.

“During that first month I think I must have explored nearly all the rivers and creeks that run into the Thames Estuary. Most of them, as you probably know, are charming.

“If I wanted company I would bring up in the evening in one of the anchorages frequented by yachts, or alongside some Thames barges. There's a delightful freemasonry amongst sailors, whether yachtsman or bargees, and I'd generally find myself yarning and smoking with some congenial souls in my own or someone else's cabin until it was time to turn in.”

J.D.'s note: A similar camaraderie exists among RVers. During our 15-month RV trip across the U.S., Kim and I enjoyed many nights in the company of our fellow travelers. Remember: RVs are simply boats on land.

“At other times I would let go my anchor for the night in some quiet creek, with never a human being within miles. I liked that best. I needed peace and quietness and I found them, to perfection, in those little lost Essex creeks.

“When the weather was bad, or the wind and tide did not serve, I would have a major clean-up, perhaps, or merely potter about, doing the little jobs of work a boat can always provide for you.

“Or I'd put my watertank and a big basket in the dinghy and row to the nearest village to replenish my stores.

“One thing is certain, I never for a moment found time hanging heavily on my hands. There was always something to occupy me and always something interesting to see or to do. The life suited me and I throve on it, body and mind. And the way I threw off the years and turned into a boy again was perfectly amazing.”

The Question of Finance

“My month was up almost before I knew it, and when it did get time to go back to Harwich and all that meant, I simply could not bear the thought of it. To think of returning to the sort of life I'd been leading on shore was as dreadful as the prospect of having to serve a life sentence in prison. I did not like the thought of it but there did not seem to be anything else I could do.

“You see, I've not got very much money. I had just enough to allow me to live, very simply, and even the expense of hiring this boat was really more than I could afford. What I wanted to do, of course, was to go on living aboard here, but, to my sorrow, that seemed quite impossible.

“Then, one night, I sat down in this cabin and thought the thing out — right out, in all its bearings.

“First I considered the question of finance. I don't want to bore you with my private affairs, but the figures are, I think, instructive and valuable, as they show what a lot can be done with very little.

“My capital amounted to a little over £4000, and my yearly income just touched £200. The problem I set out to solve was: Can I buy the boat out of my capital and still have sufficient income to live aboard her all the year around, and to maintain the boat and myself adequately?”

J.D.'s note: Early retirement folks will note that the old sailor is using a five-percent withdrawal rate. Interesting, right? Nowadays, we tend to talk about a four-percent safe withdrawal rate when planning for retirement. This isn't far off.

“The price of the boat I knew already; she was for sale for £200. If I bought her my income would be reduced to £190, or less than £16 a month. Was this enough? It did not look like it, by any means. It meant only £3 17s a week to cover food, clothing, light and heat, and upkeep and repairs to the boat, to say nothing of depreciation and insurance.

“The figure seemed so ridiculous that I nearly gave up my idea in despair.

“However, I am, thank goodness, a methodical sort of man, and I'd kept a list of my expenses during the time I'd been living aboard the boat.

“I analysed that list, and found that my food and oil for the lamps and stove had cost me only £7 15s for the month. I had also spent 30s on gear for the boat, such as paint, ropes, shackles and such things, while my bill for petrol and lubricating oil came to 15s only, as I had sailed as much as possible and used the motor as little as I could.

“Not counting the cost of hiring the boat, my total expenditure had, therefore, been only £10 for the month, or £120 a year. This left £70 over for repairs, accidents, depreciation and insurance.

“As far as the finance was concerned, the thing began to look possible after all.”

Worried About Winters

“I was very cheered by this discovery, and I then asked myself: ‘Can I continue to live aboard this little boat from year's end to year's end in health and comfort of body and mind?'

“As far as the summers were concerned I knew I could answer that with a whole-hearted ‘Yes.' But what about the winters? Could I endure being shut up in a small confined space while the gales blew and it was cold and wet, and the nights were long and dark? I wondered.

“And I had to admit to myseif, very much against the grain, that I probably would not be able to endure these things.

“I remember I went to bed after that, feeling very miserable. But when I woke up next morning the first thing I said to myself was ‘but why stay in England in the winter: Why be cold and wet when all you have to do is to follow the sun and sail your boat (your Home) south?'

“To cut all this short, I sailed back to Harwich and sent to London for a map of the French canals. And when it came I found my idea of following the sun south was entirely feasible. All I had to do was to choose a fine day in early autumn and sail across the Channel from Dover to Calais.

“From Calais the map showed me a network of canals and navigable rivers spreading over the whole face of France, and I discovered that a boat of this size and draught could proceed through those inland waterways right through the heart of France to the Mediterranean.

“I bought this boat that same day. I had a few small alterations made to her, and the following week I sailed from Harvvich, bound south—for Ramsgate, Dover, Calais, Paris, Lyons, and the Riviera.”

“Well done!” I cried.

And my wife said, “Hush! And then? Then?”

Our new friend smiled at us again. “Yes,” he said. “You're right. It was a bit of a rash proceeding — at my age. But I've never regretted it.”

A Regular Christopher Columbus

“That first cruise was perfectly delightful and, on the whole, a very simple affair. I had my troubles, of course. I got to Dover easily enough by coasting all round the Thames Estuary and putting in somewhere snug every night. But I stayed in Dover for ten days before I judged the weather was fine enough for me to sail to Calais.

“The truth is, I was rather scared. The passage is only twenty-one miles, but I felt a regular Christopher Columbus when I ventured across the Channel at last. It was a fine day, with a light north-east wind, and under sail and motor I got across in four hours. But I assure you Columbus was nothing to me when I sailed into Calais harbour!”

“I felt I had triumphantly accomplished a most tremendous adventure, and I was immensely pleased and proud. And I can assure you it's rather remarkable for anything to make a cynical and disillusioned old man of my age feel like that.

“From Calais onward it was all canal and river work. It took me two months to get to Marseilles, because I went a round-about way and took my time over it. I had no need to hurry, of course, but I don't think anything could have made me hurry through the lovely country in which I found myself.

“I wandered down the Oise to Paris, where I stayed a week, moored in the Seine almost in the Shadow of the Champs-Elysees' tree. It was amusing and comfortable, too, living in the middle of Paris like that. I could dine ashore if I wanted to and go to a theatre, and then walk back and go to bed in my own floating hotel without any fuss or bother. And when I got tired of the city I just moved on, hotel and all.

“I went up the Marne to Chalons, along the canals to Bar-le-Duc and Epinal, and down through the Haute-Saone and Cote d'Or country to Macon and Lyons. I mention these towns to show you the route I took, but it was all the little out-of-the-world places between them that I used to stop at and which I found so interesting.

“I met all sorts of people and everyone was very helpful and kind, and by the time I got to Lyons I could speak about four different brands of French quite well.”

“Well Within My Income”

“The passage down the Rhone to Arles was rather strenuous. The current is very strong and I had to take a pilot, which spoilt my fun; but it was soon over, and I got to Marseilles without any more bother.

“I had got as far south then as I could get, so I spent the rest of the winter in most of those delightful little harbours which sprinkle the coast between Marseilles and Frejus. I found practically no winter along that stretch of coast, which is much better, I think, than the Riviera proper. I can recommend Porquerolles if ever you find yourselves down that way, while Port Cros must be one of the loveliest places there are on this earth.

“I enjoyed every minute of that first winter, and by the time the spring came round I knew I had discovered the perfect life. I was happier than I ever hoped to be, and healthier than I had ever been. I found myself looking forward to each day, and every day had some new interest.

“Life was, without exaggeration, nearly perfect.

“If I found myself anywhere or amongst people I did not care for, all I had to do was to heave up my anchor and go somewhere else. That's one of the many advantages of living aboard a boat. When you want to go away there's no packing, no taxis, no tips, no trains and no bother. And you haven't got to find a place to lay your head when you get to your journey's end.

“In a boat you just move on, and your sitting-room, your kitchen, your bedroom and all your little personal comforts and conveniences move on with you. And when you get to your destination there you are, at Home.

“It added to my peace of mind, too, to find I was living well within my income, in spite of the fact that I was living very well and doing myself a great deal better than I had, for instance, in my Harwich lodgings.

“Of course I had to be careful and not go in for too many luxuries, but I lived as I wanted to live, and it surprised me to find how little it cost me to do it. I'll show you my account book, if it will interest you, but first I'll show you where I've been during these last ten years.”

Sailing Through Europe

“Look at this! It's the offcial French canal map, showing all the canals and navigable rivers in the country. You'll notice there's very little of France you can't get at by water. It's almost unbelievable where you can go; everywhere, practically, except to the tops of the mountains.

It's the same in Belgium and Holland, and in Germany, too, and until I got these canal maps I had no idea of the extraordinary manner the inland waterways of Europe have been developed. The ordinary maps don't give the details, so perhaps it's not surprising that people in England don't realise they can travel in a yacht from Calais through every country in Europe, except Spain and Italy, entirely by river and canal.

“It sounds incredible, doesn't it? But I've done it myself, in this boat. Including Switzerland!”

“Switzerland!” cried my wife. “How did you?”

“There are two ways of getting there,” said our extraordinary friend. “Up the Rhine Lateral canal, or the way I went — up the Rhine-Rhone canal from Strassburg to Mulhause and along the Huningue canal to Basle.

“That was as far as I could conveniently get then, but I believe the new canal is open now, running right through to Lake Constance and Bregenz. But I'm ahead of my yarn.

“When the spring came round that first year I went from Marseilles by canal all the way to Bordeaux. I spent that summer cruising up the coast to L'Orient and from there along the canals, right through Central Brittany from Brest to Nantes.

“Then I came south again, away from the cold, and spent the winter exploring South-West France, along the Dordogne and the Garrone and its tributaries. I saw most of that lovely country between Perigueux and Bordeaux in the north, Floirac and Albi in the east, and from Carcassonne in the south to Lacave, which is pretty well on the Spanish border.

“The whole country down there flows with milk and honey, to say nothing of the wine and the scenery. I had a good time.

“Then I went up north via the Midi canal and the Rhone, got into the Rhine at Strassburg, sailed all down that river to Rotterdam, and spent the summer in Holland. I liked this country and the people so much that I stayed here all that winter. Then I branched out. I was beginning to see the possibilities of this game by then, and I had gained confidence in myself and the boat.

“I won't bore you with all the details of my travels, but I went through North Germany to the Mecklenburg lakes. You ought to go there. More lakes than you could explore in two years, set in a park-like country. Perfect. But take a mosquito net.”

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“Then I sailed south to Dresden and Prague, then north to the Danish archipelago and the Swedish islands. I wintered in the Moselle valley, explored Central France and tried to go through the Loire country, but found a difficulty there owing to the shallowness of those particular rivers.

“After that I pottered about in Belgium and up the Rhine to Mainz, and from there up the Main and through the Ludwigs canal into the headwaters of the Danube. I can recommend Bavaria and all the lost country around there. It's the Middle Ages.

“And, of course, once I got on the Danube I had to go down it. And I am glad I did, because it's a wonderful river and the scenery is magnificent. I drifted down it, taking my time and meaning to go as far as Vienna, or maybe Budapesth. But you know how it is. There was the river, going on and on all across Europe, so I went on too—to Belgrade, the Iron Gates, Rustchuck and Galatz, until I came to Sulina and the Black Sea.

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Interesting Adventures

“I turned back that time, because I did not like the idea of venturing into Russian waters, the political situation being what it was. So I went up the Danube again.

“It took me two years to get to Passau on the German border. The Danube runs very swiftly, so progress was slow, and at times I had to take a tow, but the real reason I took so long was the number of side trips I felt I simply had to take up the various tributaries.

“I could write a book about it all, and some day I think I must, but so far I've been so busy moving about and enjoying life that I never have time for writing. And I wonder if my book would be readable if I wrote it? You see, I've had few ‘interesting adventures' or things like that.

“I got thoroughly lost once on the willow swamps on the lower Tisza, and went down with a bad go of fever in the middle of it. But I got out all right.

“And some Bulgarians above Sistove fired at me one day, but it turned out they were Customs guards and thought I was a smuggler, and we finished up the best of friends.

“Beyond that, and a little unpleasantness with a Ruthenian gentleman who tried to steal my dinghy, nothing much out of the ordinary happened. But I met a lot of very strange and interesting people.

“I had a wonderfully good time. In fact the country and the people along the Danube fascinated me; so much so that, after sailing about over Eastern Germany and a little of Poland, I went down the Danube again. This time I went as far as Odessa. I wanted to go on, either up the Dnieper, or through the Sea of Azoff, up the Don, through the Katchalinskay canal, and then either up the Volga to Nijni Novgorod, or down river to Astrakhan and the Caspian.

“Unfortunately I could not get permission from the Russians to make either of those trips. Perhaps it is just as well, as the country was rather disturbed and I might have got into trouble. But one of these days, when things have settled down, I intend to make that trip yet, because, bar politics, there's absolutely nothing to prevent it.”

A Millionaire's Life

I remember it was at this point in our friend's discourse that I interrupted him by crying out in a loud voice, “By God!” and hitting the cabin table hard with my fist.

My wife said nothing, but there was a look in her eyes and a light in them that showed me she understood and approved the wild and fascinating thought that had flashed into my mind.

And our friend, it appeared, understood me also, for said he, “Yes. Why not? All you need is a boat drawing less than four feet, with a motor in her for choice and her mast in a tabernacle. That and the — well, let's call it courage; the courage to step out of your rut. It looks hard; but a mere step does it — as I found out.

“Of course, it costs money. Following the seasons all over Europe in your own home is a millionaire's life; but I've managed to live it at an average cost, over the last ten years, of less than £150 per annum. Look at this!”

He put an open book before us on the table. It was his account book, and it contained, in full detail, his daily expenditures during all the years he had been living aboard his boat. It was, I can assure you, a most engrossing work, and was full of items such as these, which I found on a single page and copied there and then.

And I shall regret it till I die that I had no time to copy any more:

Sept. 5. Capdenac. 8 duck eggs and I duck (cooked), 3s. ld.

7th. 10 lb. grapes in fine willow basket, gratis. 6 boxes matches, 2s.! Sulphur at that! Note: Smuggle in big stock of matches when next I come to France.

8th. Very hard cheese, 1 ft. in dia., 1 basket peaches, 1 jeroboam peach brandy, 1 kiss on both cheeks, gratis, or perhaps fee for removing flint from farmer's eye.

9th. Mule hire, lOd. Alms to leper, ls., interesting case.

Castets, 15th. 6 feet of bread, ls., 1 pint turps, 1/2 d.

16th. 2 gallons turps, 8d. Castelsarrasin.

Oct. 2nd Bribe to gendarme, 5d.

I should dearly love to publish that account book, just as it stands, without any comment or explanation. It would, I think, make fascinating and suggestive reading.

Twelve Months of Expenses

“Look here,” said our friend, turning over the unique pages and exposing the following figures to our devouring eyes. “This is a summary of my first twelve months' income and outgoings.”

Income: £190 0s. 0d.

Upkeep of boat (at 9s. per week): £23 8s. 0d.

Petrol and oil: £10 4s. 0d. (distance covered under motor 1220 miles)

Charts, canal dues: £13 8s. 0d.

Food, drink, clothes, light, and heat: £100 0s. 0d. (at just under £2 a week)

Total expenditure: £147 0s. 0d.

Balance remaining: £43 0s. 0d.

“I managed to save £43, you see, that first year, enough to buy a new boat like this one, every five years, if I continued to save at the same rate.

“I was extra careful that year. I didn't spend much on myself, but I bought the boat all she needed and kept her up in first-class shape. I painted her inside once and three times outside, doing it all myself, and I had her sails tanned to preserve them.

“The tanning was done by a fisherman I made friends with in Toulon. He did a good job. In the end he wouldnt let me pay for anything except the cost of the materials, because he said we were amis and he liked English sailors.

“And one day I came across a broken-down motor-boat, drifting off Cape Camaret, and towed her into port. Her owner was scared to death, and very grateful accordingly. He was no sailor, but he was a mighty good mechanic, and he insisted on giving my little engine a first-class overhaul, just to show his gratitude.

“My fuel bill was very small, because I never use the motor if I can sail. The £13 odd for dues, etc., was mostly spent on maps and charts, not that many charts are necessary, but I simply can't resist buying the things. I spend hours poring over them, and planning more voyages than I shall ever have time to make.

“As for the canal and harbour dues — they're ridiculous; generally some fraction of a penny per ton. And this boat's registered tonnage is only two ton. The only expensive piece of water to travel over in Europe is the Rhone. It's got a terrific current, pilotage is compulsory, and to get up it you have to be towed.

“But everywhere else the only trouble about the charges is to find change small enough to pay them with. £2 a week for food and so on sounds very little, but all I can say is I live well on that sum.”

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“My Expenses Are Very Small”

“You see, if I want, say vegetables I don't go to a shop in a city for them. No. Perhaps I see a good-looking garden on the river bank. I stop and have a yarn with the owner, and when I depart I'm richer by a basket full of fresh vegetables, and maybe a chicken and some eggs and fruit as well, while the gardener is left with a fair price for his produce and something to talk about for weeks.

“He's pleased and I'm pleased.

“I've paid less than I would if I bought from a shop, and he's received more than he would if he sold to a dealer. And when I say I've got fresh vegetables I mean fresh — which is something you can't get from a shop.

“Clothes don't bother me much. It's not essential to dress in the latest style, living this life. I keep my go-ashore clothes in that tin uniform case, and when I get to a city and want to see the sights I put on a civilised suit. Otherwise I use soft shirts, jerseys and flannel trousers.

“I do my washing myself; half an hour a fortnight does it, which is nothing to grumble about.

“I use paraffin oil for light and cooking in the summer, and in the winter I keep that little stove going on coal and wood. I find I burn wood mostly, because I've got a passion, apparently, for collecting any odd pieces I find drifting about. There must be a strain of longshoreman blood in me somewhere, I think, for I can't resist picking up bits of driftwood, even though I have to throw most of them overboard again, and I generally have a bigger collection of the stuff on deck than I can ever hope to burn.

“So you see, one way and another, my expenses are very small. The £30 or £40 I save every year I put by for accidents, major repairs, depreciation and a sort of insurance fund.

“I've bought a new suit of sails and had the whole boat surveyed and recaulked and the engine practically renewed, all out of the fund, and I've still got enough left to buy a new boat if I want one.

“I'm getting so rich, in fact, that I don't know what to do with all my money. I tried to get rid of some of it by buying extra fine gear for the boat, but I found that scheme merely saved me more money in the long-run.

“For instance, I scrapped my Manilla running rigging and replaced it with best hemp at twice the cost, but I'll be bothered if the hemp hasn't lasted four times as long as the Manilla already!

“And to make it worse, people will persist in giving me things, bless 'em.

“I've made a lot of friends in pretty well every corner of Europe. Can't help it, living this sort of life, it seems. And most of them have an idea that, living as I do, I am to be regarded with compassion. A poor old man, living all alone aboard a little boat — that's how they seem to feel about me, I fear.

“So, whenever I turn up, my compassionate friends appear, bearing gifts! It's quite embarrassing sometimes. And sometimes it's a real nuisance.

“The Middelburg canal is barred to me, for instance, because the keeper of one of the swing bridges refuses to let me through until he's been aboard to greet me and give me a box of cigars or a jar of schnapps; which things he really can't afford, as he's a poor man with a very large family.

“He does it, it seems, because I'm leading just the kind of life he'd like to lead if he hadn't been blessed with a wife, his mother-in-law and nine children.

“The result is I have to go round now by Terneuzen, instead of through Middelburg, whenever I want to pass from Holland into Belgium. And I always have to go through Strassburg by night to dodge a dear old gentleman, who invariably presses on me about a stone of the smelliest cheese on earth whenever he catches sight of me. He calls me his brave ancient ami so lonely.

“Lonely! Why, I should think I must have a larger and more varied assortment of friends than any man in Europe. And I keep on making more all the time. For instance, I hope I've made two today.”

He had; and we are glad to say he dined with them that evening, entrancing them with his talk until far into the night.

J.D.'s note: The paragraph that starts the next section is one long sentence. I can't see a way to break it up sensibly. And in the original edition, that is only half of the entire paragraph. The whole story is made up of long paragraphs like this. You can imagine how much work it was to edit things to make them readable on the web!

Do Everything You Can Yourself

He talked of gentle rivers wandering through valleys of everlasting peace; of a quiet canal, lost amongst scented reeds and covered with a pink-and white carpet of water-lilies; of a string of tiny lakes, their blue waters ringed with the green of forest pines; of a narrow canal, built by old Romans, but navigable still, that climbs up through clouds into the high mountains; of aqueducts spanning bottomless ravines and a view from the yacht's deck of half Southern Germany; of a Red Ensign flying at the peak and a Black Forest eagle's screamings at that sight; of the Croatian mayor who had never heard of a certain country called England; of a thousand square miles of bloodred swamp, studded with giant willows; of Wallachian water-gipsies and their cats who catch fish; of the mile-long log raft commanded by a Russian ex-admiral; of a spiked helmet dredged from out the Meuse by the yacht's anchor; of the warm-hearted kindliness of Bulgarian brigands and the barbarous fines of Frs. 25,000 extorted (unsuccessfully) by “the most civilised country in Europe”; of pack-ice and ice-breakers in the heart of old Amsterdam; of the 1000 ton motor-barge that trades each year between Groningen and Sulina; of the 300-ton barge proceeding from Bruges to Dunkerque in tow of a jolly old lady of seventy; of a spilliken-like traffic jam in the old moat at Furnes and the Fordson tractor that extricated twenty-eight barges; of the Flemish barge named No. 27 Park Lane, because the wounds of her skipper had been succoured at that address in 1914; of pig-manure, chemical fumes and rotting flax on the Lys, and the barge with a deckload of potted hyacinths that outdid all those scents; of the ten-knot currents on the Rhone and the silent waters of the Oude Ryn that ebb and flow no more; of the charm of this old earth and the fun of living on it, if only you understand the proper way to live.

Said our friend, “I've found one good way to live and be happy. There must be other ways, too, but I don't know 'em, so I mean to stick to my way — till I come to the end of it.

“The secret seems to be, to do everything you can yourself.

“It's difficult to explain, but take an example. Take travel. Allow yourself to be carried about the world in Wagon-Lits and cabins-deluxe, and what do you get out of it? You get bored to death. Everything is done for you and you don't even have to think. All you have to do is to pay.

“You're carried about with the greatest care and wrapped up and fed and insulated from—from everything. You see about as much of life as a suckling in the arms of its nurse. No wonder you get bored!

“But get yourself about the world, on your own feet, or in your own boat, and you're bound, you're bound to fill your life with interest and charm and fun — and beauty.

“You'll have your disagreeable and uncomfortable times, of course, but they merely serve to make the good times taste better. ‘Sleep after toyle, port after stormie seas.' Old Spenser knew. He'd been through it.

“Sail all day in the wet and cold, then bring up in some quiet harbour and go below and toast your feet before the galley fire and you'll realise what bliss means.

“Travel in a steam-heated Pullman and then put up at the Ritz and see if you find any bliss there! You see what I mean? Stewart Edward White put it all much better than I can. He wrote, ‘I've often noted two things about trees: the stunted little twisted fellows have had a hard time, what with wind and snow and poor soil; and they grow farthest up on the big peaks.'”

Fair Winds and Following Seas

Next morning our friend must have risen with the sun, and we were still beneath our blankets when the incense of his coffee and bacon drifted down our cabin hatch. Presently the sound of ropes falling on deck warned us he was getting under weigh, and we arose to say goodbye to him.

“Good morning,” said he. ��I'm sorry to disturb you so early, but I want to catch the first of the flood. With luck it'll carry me into the Rhine and I'll be in Germany by evening. Now I'll cast off and go — and see what this good day's got in store for me.”

“A fair tide and a fair wind is a fine beginning, anyway. Good-bye, you two. We'll meet again somewhere, for certain, if only you follow that impulse you had last night. I don't want to influence you unduly; but, remember — one step does it and you're out of the rut for good. Good-bye. God bless you both.”

He set his jib and the little green yacht fell off before the wind and headed for the harbour entrance.

She sailed away with the sun shining bright upon her, and upon the white head of the man at her helm. Presently she entered the broad river, and we saw our friend look back and wave his hand in farewell. Then the boat was hidden by a bank of golden sand, and the last we saw of her was her little Red Ensign, a tiny flame outlined against the sky.

The Beginning

This seems to be the end of the story, but I do not know. I am not sure.

I am not sure, because the words of that elderly adventurer seem to have set us thinking. I notice we do not say very much, but I know we think a lot. For, at intervals during the cold and fogs of this last winter, there have passed between my wife and me some detached but significant utterances — such as:

“I don't see why I couldn't get on with my writing aboard a boat just as well as I can inside this flat.”

“Only £200 a year! Hang it! We ought to be able to earn that much between us, you'd think?”

“I think, my dear, one of those steam-cookers would be a splendid thing to have if we, for anyone living aboard a small boat.”

“What a foul fog! It hurts to think of the sun shining, now, in the south of France.”

“May the Devil run away with that damned loudspeaker next door. You know, if this flat was a boat, we could move it out of hearing.”

“If I get bronchitis again next winter. My dear, I don't think I could stand another winter here.”

Also we have purchased a monumental work entitled, Guide Officiel de la Navigation Interieure, published by the Ministere des Travaux Publiques. This is a fascinating work, heartily to be recommended. It has a lovely map.

Also we have just heard of a little boat.

In fact, we have been to look at her. She is sound and very strong. She has two good berths and a galley and lots of stowage space. Also she has a little auxiliary motor. And her mast is in a tabernacle. And she is for sale. And we have fallen in love with her.

So perhaps this is not the end of this story. In fact, we hope and we pray this story has only just begun.

I'm unclear on whether this story is in the Public Domain. Many folks claim that it is, although I have my doubts. You can find it all over the web, so I've shared it too. If you are the rights holder and would like me to remove it, please contact me.

The post The £200 Millionaire: An early retirement story from 1932 appeared first on Get Rich Slowly.

from Finance https://www.getrichslowly.org/200-pound-millionaire/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

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mmagazinetko · 6 years

Text

The Devil‘s Inn

Page 1 The Realms Entrance

We have been walking for so many days, sent by the king of Klagorn to retrieve a powerful relic. I personally don’t believe in this old crap, but orders are orders. My legs are aching and the exhaustion made me feel heavy. The cold winter wind whispered through the woods and made all wild animals hide in their warm homes but that was no good for us, there’s barely enough food to feed the half of us. We haven’t even found the entrance to this wretched place. “Artemis!” a voice called from behind, “Your turn for hunting duty.” sir Belemora was one of the royal knights who came along, a first-class snob. One of those stereotypical knights with his golden hair and ocean blue eyes, no respect for anyone under his ranking. “Of course sir, I’ll leave at once.” I responded with a respectful bow, I hate that man’s guts but the slightest disrespect and he would cause too much trouble. I left, just like a few dozen other men who had received the same order. No sane animal was out in these conditions and the snow covered the ground with a thick white cloak, no footprints to be found, no lairs to be seen, no plants other than the winter trees. I followed a river north from where the others were setting up camp, if there is anything wandering about they’d be near the river, or so they would if the river wasn’t frozen solid. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw a white rabbit. I snuck closely as silent as a shadow, it didn’t seem to notice me. I pounced like a sabretooth… “CLICK” “What in the seven gods?” I asked myself in astonishment. The rabbit was already dead, frozen by the biting cold and I laid in the snow for a moment. But what really surprised me was the rumbling beneath me, so strong that the men at the encampment must have felt it. I fell and there I was again lying in the snow. The frozen river crackled like thunder as the ground split in two. Stairs… Spiral stairs of stone each as big as a tree is tall and twice the width. “That was close.” I thought to myself. I stared in awe as my upper half hung over the ledge. I carefully brought myself back to my feet. I took another look at the enormous staircase, they went deep into the ground, miles below the surface. I followed the river back to the encampment. The snow storm had quieted down. “Back so soon?” Sometimes I felt like this bastard was following me everywhere I went. “Yes, sir Belemora.” “Empty handed?” He asked. “The animals are hiding in there wholes and caves, there are no berry bushes or fruit trees and the only rabbit I found was already dead for I too long to be good Sir. I have however-” “I don’t need excuses. Everyone here is hungry and you come back empty handed?!” His voice was calm but threatening. “Useless.” He spat the word like a snake, he grabbed me by the upper arm and brought me to commander Clegane. A tall and the most muscular man among us all. Belemora brought me here hoping that he’d accept to send me wandering alone in the white forest knowing that would be the same as killing me on the spot. With respect for the commander he explained what had happened with exaggeration. “You were given an order soldier, and you ignored it. What do you have to say for yourself.” I admire the man, a true hero who had fought in the eternal war. Luckily for us it wasn’t as eternal as everyone thought though it had been going on for many generations. “Commander Clegane, with all do respect sir Belemora hadn’t given me the chance to explain myself. I came back empty handed because I found an entrance with enormous stairs, each bigger and wider than the great hall of the king’s palace.“ Belemora was clearly raging but he kept silent. Clegane’s anger was something that everyone feared to awaken. I showed them the stairs and Clegane made the decision to leave at sunrise. He set some soldiers and Belemora around the stairs to guard it from any eventual explorers. After this long day I went back to my tent where I rested until sunrise.

Page 2 The Inn

We started climbing down the stairs, they were old and whispers were going around saying that they were built for the demon lords and the 7 corrupted gods of sin. There were lots of cracks and gaps to have a good grip… After climbing for several hours everyone was tired we had left most of our equipment behind and many of the soldiers had fallen to their deaths. And I took this opportunity to…dispose of a problem. I had already reached the bottom of a stair whilst Belemora was still climbing down. I stared at him and whispered in an ancient language in such way that no one could hear me “Emantur Ligna Lapis.” The word was used to shape stone at will, a simple spell if you knew the language. Everyone who could turned and stared as the snob knight Belemora fell screaming to his death. No one gave him much attention after that, even the commander didn’t bother with a proper burial for a royal knight. To him everyone present was equal and we had no time to bury every dead man. Especially because there was only stone around us. Like the others who had reached this step I had taken a rest and sat on the ledge and looked down. It was impossible to see the bottom of it. On one of the stairs there were huge red doors. By then only 5 of us including Commander Clegane continued, others feared for theirs lives and stayed behind. The doors reached half the height of the stair and were half as wide as the stairs. They were impossible to open by hand, as approached it though they opened by themselves. The room inside was dark but we went in regardless of that and the strange noises. When we stepped inside, the place lit itself up and I stood in amazement of how big the place was, it was a tavern. Three floors high filled with creatures of all kind, speaking in all kinds of languages, laughing and playing games and making bets and there were imps, spirits, celestial beings and demons alike also some creatures made of pure elemental energy and many more. Surprised we turned back and noticed the doors had disappeared. I felt something tugging on my shirt. I turned around to see an Imp serving what seemed to ale. “From the fella over there.” It said, pointing at a creature that looked like a giant snail who was sitting at the bar drinking its own drink. I took one of the filled tankards hesitantly and so did the others. We walked towards the snail to thank it, it bowed its head a little to say “Your welcome.”. On a pillar hung the rules. At first I couldn’t read it but after staring at it for a few seconds it seemed to have translated itself, a kind of magic was cast on it. There were only four rules. “1. No Fighting, 2. No Conjuring, 3. No Banishing, 4. No Magic” I called a bartender but there seemed to be no one, then all of a sudden another imp appeared in front of me. “What can I getch’ya?” it asked with a crackling old voice. “I-I was just wondering what happened to the doors.” “The doors will open once’ya got enough favours.” “Favours?” I asked curiously. “Favours are the main currency around this place, the entrance fee is 3 per person.” It opened a small door and walked through. “Wait how many favours do I currently have?” Though the imp had already left and went around the place offering filled tankards to other creatures. A panel popped out of the bar table with “-3” written on it, it dived back into the wood after a few seconds. While I was explaining what I had found out to the 4 others some creatures got into an argument and everyone around them took as much distance as they could. The bar split in two and a small group of imps ran towards the two combatants, grabbed on to them and once they were both covered in imps a great big bang and green flames rained around the explosion. There was nothing left of the imps and the two creatures. “Better not break the rules.” Clegane said understanding that the punishment for breaking them is exactly what happened to those creatures. “All of you go do some favours and meet up here once you got the three you need to leave, we can’t waste too much time in here.” He ordered us. I turned to the snail and asked it if I could offer it help in exchange for a favour or two. “My brother. Kill him and I will reward you with 2 favours.” “Where can I find him?” I didn’t care about the lives of others, especially those of these impure creatures and I like a good killing, as long as no one sees me doing the deed I cannot be punished for it.“Room 371, the elevator is in the corner over there.” “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Page 3 Meliodas

When I entered the elevator it automatically went up. I stepped out and there was a sign hanging on the wall for each hallway “300-309”, “310-319”, “320-329”… When I found the door I grabbed a small pot of salt that I saw downstairs at the bar, opened it and prepared my sword. “Knock, knock, knock.” A snail slightly different to the one at the bar opened the door. “What.” He said, clearly annoyed. “A gift from your sibling.” I threw the salt in his eyes and they quickly melt like runny eggs and before he could scream in pain I slashed his head off. The salt wasn’t necessary but even assassins can have a bit of fun time to time. I smiled, closed the door and returned to the other snail to report his brother’s death. “I hope he suffered.” “I’m sure he did, his eyes melted with the salt.” I responded coldly. The snail’s eyes widened. “You’ve earned your favours, now leave me.” He seemed scared when he said that. “Are surprised? I’ve done what you asked of me.” “Salt doesn’t kill my kind, it melts us to our core. The greatest pain we can feel, I hoped he’d suffer but that is a step too far. Now leave.” “You haven’t given me anything.” “It’s not like gold, favours aren’t made of any material. Ask the bar and she will show you.” I checked with the bar a piece of the wood popped out with “-1” carved on it. “Hello there.” A voice whispered behind my ear “Looking for a favour? I’m looking for my 7th wife, she’s tall and blue with 4 arms and 3 breasts, one of a kind. Bring her to me and I’ll give a favour.” It was a demon, dark red and he towered over me with his great horns and his mismatched eyes, one was light blue, one was black and one was bloodred and looked like someone had slapped it randomly on his face, it was moving around his face like a bug. “Any idea where she might be?” “Her friends are usually on the second floor, I’d go myself but I’ve got some other ladies that need my attention down here.” He made me think of Belemora, but that was none of my concern. I quickly found his wife, she was even taller than him and hard to miss. “Hello ma’am.” “What do you want, worm?” “Forgive me. Your husband has requested me to escort you to him.” This demon could easily rip me in half so I tried to show as much respect as I could. “I bet it’s Meliodas, isn’t it? The red one with the wandering eye.” “Yes, ma’am it is.” “I’ll tell you what if you can keep him busy for about two hours I’ll give you four favours. He probably offered you a cheap prize. My freedom is worth way more but unless you keep him busy for days I’ll give you four.” I didn’t need the extra favours but I thought that I could get some useful information with the extra, maybe some food and a bed to sleep in. “Sound like a fair deal to me, I’ll do my best ma’am.” She turned back to her friends after all as weird and unique as the other. I went back to Meliodas. “She wasn’t on the second floor.” “I’ll hold onto this favour than.” I already felt my blood boiling with rage but I didn’t want to end up like those two other creatures. “She’s quite the beauty. Where did you meet her?” He looked at me and lost complete interest in the ladies. “She’s my favourite.” He started, he talked and talked and talked. A good hour past. “Anyways,” he said “I’m going to go look for her myself I haven’t seen her in too long.” It was too early. “Don’t you want to play a game?” I asked as he got up. He turned around and all his eyes stared at me and with a big smirk he asked “What kind of game?” “I was hoping you had one, I’d say a card game but I lost them in the snow.” “Snow? You’re not from here are? No matter, I like you. I got a game. In room 137 there are three chests. One is empty, one contains a wish and the third will rip you apart. Open one and return…if you can.” A wish? Seems worth it. “Sounds fair.” “See you in a bit…or not.” He said as I left for the elevator again, I couldn’t see his face but I could feel his bloodred eye staring in my soul and his smile casting a long shadow past me. The hallways looked the same as the ones on the third floor. I quickly found the room, entered and saw the three chests. One looked old, one was as clean as the room and one was made of stone. I closed the door and whispered “Emantur Ligna Lapis.” I shaped the stone in such way that it that it would show the inside without opening the lid. It was empty. That left the old one and the clean one. My logic was that the one that would shred me to bits wouldn’t be able to be cleaned so I opened the clean one it latched onto my left arm. A mimic. My blood dripped from my armour.

Page 4 Skin

To avoid any attention I ignored the pain and kept my shouts sealed in. And whispered with a shaky voice “Ignis Corporis”, powerful flames ejected from all over my body and the mimic was set on fire but it resisted so I laid my right hand on It and whispered “Ignis Fragor” and the wood turned to ashes as a blast of fire was shot from my hand. My arm was bleeding but the pain did not bother me, I felt worse before. And now at least my armour had a bit of colour. When I looked for the third chest the room was empty except for the ashes. I guess the rules only applied if the imps could see it being done. “I see you chose the mimic.” Meliodas laughed when I returned. “Quite lucky to be alive.” He continued. “If you like I can give you a second chance, but this time there’s a small fee to pay if you want to play.” A big smirk crossed his face sideways as his bloodred eye grew in size. “What’s the price?” “I’m looking for a new skin, and I really like you. I’d take it after you opened a chest. Most painful of operations… but with a wish you could achieve absolute power.” I thought of ways around the fee and thought of several ways around it. “I accept.” His smile grew bigger and he whispered “You know what to do. Room 665.” When I entered that room it was different than all the others I’ve seen. The floor was made of bone and was covered in blood and bodies laid piled up in a corner of the room. Again three chests but this time there was a guard. An armoured humanoid creature, it stood there leaning on its two handed longsword. “Hello there darling. I’m lady Fiora. Meliodas sent you?” “Yes, lady Fiora.” I’m always polite when speaking to someone who could so easily destroy me. “No magic, no second choices, no running away. Choose one and then pay the price.” One chest was made of bone and was as bloody as the room, one was made of plated steel and the third was made of flesh. I’d melt the steel one if Fiora wasn’t there. I knew it wasn’t the bone one that had the same texture as the floor, I learnt from the last room that mimics adapted themselves to match the room. I grabbed my lucky coin, a coin a close friend gave to me, made of mithril. A metal that absorbed magic. I threw it in the air and as I prepared my hand to catch it, it fell by the flesh chest. “I choose the flesh chest.” She told me to open it and so I did. A blinding light came from the chest as I opened it. “Make a wish.” Fiora said. “I-I…” I wasn’t sure what to wish for. “Yes?” she asked. “I to know everything possible of this world.” The light from the chest enveloped me and it felt warm and comforting. I looked at Fiora and knew all there was to now about her, where she got her armour from, what she was, I could think of a million different spells, handy spells, weak spells, forbidden spells, I could tell what species were laying dead in the corner, I knew everything. “Take my hand.” She said. I knew I had to pay the price give up my skin, but I also knew that I could replace it with other, more useful things. Not only that but a deal with a demon must be met otherwise they’d gather a group and murder many people I care for and it would be physically impossible to protect everyone at the same time. So I took her hand and I was teleported to a room and attached to a table. Meliodas was there with his skinning knife and a smile even bigger than earlier. “Congratulations, my friend your wish has been granted. As we agreed on I will now take your skin.” Normally no human like me would survive a full body skinning but these two demons used spells and magic to keep me alive and awake. So I felt every cut of the searing hot blade melting through my body and as much as I screamed they wouldn’t stop until they were done. They’d made sure I wouldn’t move with a paralysis spell and with each scream of agony his smile would grow bigger and bigger, I could hear him giggle sometimes. I know he had casted a spell to keep me awake and conscious at all times. “No worries, we’re half way through.” He said after what felt for like an eternity. Fiora grabbed me and turned me over carefully to not ruin my skin. I could feel splinters from the table sticking to my muscle tissue and making it’s way towards the bone. But the knife made me forget about the splinters. When he was done he teleported me back to the room and let me go.

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