Up skirts in cars
Idiots In Cars
2015.10.27 03:13 Idiots In Cars
When idiots get behind the wheel of a vehicle, shit gets funny.
2011.05.25 15:35 Vinura Cars of Japan
Subreddit about Japanese Cars, in Japan and abroad.
2008.03.20 20:49 r/Cars - For Car Enthusiasts
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2024.05.14 06:05 dl-vaz Parents manipulated me into buying a house in their name — now I’m a “disgrace”. Am I okay to stay here?
Hi legaladvice,
I (28M) think this is more for relationships but this is really more pressing.
Some key points before you read; I moved to Orlando, FL from Washington state in February of 2023. It was closer to family and I had a lot of friends here. I truly love it here. I’m convinced there is something mentally not-okay with my mother and we’ve had a hot/cold relationship for years. My dad divorced her and got re-married to her and these days just puts up with it. We used to have a significantly better relationship but this has frankly tarnished all of that and he just puts up with it. My parents are real-estate investors in the Orlando area and generally buy some of terrible homes in even worse areas and somehow find renters. They act like they’re mansions but they truly are terrible. I’m 28 years old.
When I initially moved here, I got my own apartment in a great suburb of Orlando. My parents helped me move and were really excited for me to get back on this coast. At some point during my residency, my parents brought up a notion to attempt to “help” me by buying me a house. My credit is shot and there is no way I qualify for a conventional mortgage. Maybe before the big short but certainly not in today’s housing climate. I didn’t actively reach out to them for this sort of assistance but I toyed with the idea.
Given the fact that they are real-estate investors, their interest rate was going to be somewhere in the realm of 7%. That left me with a max value of about a $400,000 house in order to be comfortable with the payment. Daily my mom would send me listings to some of the shittiest homes I’ve ever seen and get upset when I say I don’t like it. That would generally be when I would cut off the conversation after I’m told I’m “ungrateful”. Mind you they haven’t even done anything yet.
Months pass and I find a decent townhome in a location that I’ve always wanted to live in. It’s a townhome that has 2beds, 2baths and was about $380K. In an effort to make my parents happy and not be so “ungrateful” I agreed that they can put an offer on it. Mind you this house is one that I would likely never buy with my own money, but given the interest rate I sort of had to stick with it.
The agreement was that they would put down $100K for the house, I pay the full escrow (mortgage payment, PMI, taxes and HOA dues) and, when it comes time to sell, I would get every dollar above the selling price. It was an enticing deal to get some equity that I otherwise wouldn’t get living in an apartment complex. This was all something that was verbally discussed and I can’t find any physical copy of this being said either over text or another medium.
I broke my least and move in came in October of 2023 which also happened to be when I met my beautiful and loving girlfriend who I am extremely happy with. My parents came over in December for Christmas and I actually had my girlfriend stay in my house while my parents were in town so we can all do stuff together. I thought it went well. My parents met her family, my friends and we generally had a great time.
That apparently wasn’t their idea of the week and they are super upset that my girlfriend basically lives here. Text exchanges with my mother generally result in me being called a disgrace, ungrateful, disrespectful, etc. I would bore you with the text threads but I’ll probably share that when I post this to relationships.
I’m not looking for advice on the relationship piece, but at the end of the day this is all stemming from the fact that I got a girlfriend, they apparently don’t like her, are losing control of me and now we’re both suffering navigating business and family. It’s taking a huge toll on me to the point where I woke up today and cried after receiving another demeaning text from my mother. That same person they hate was there to comfort me.
This is where y’all come in. I’m really worried about the integrity of this “deal”. At this point I don’t think I will get any equity and my parents will just cut ties. When I brought up that I’m concerned about this, my mother always skirts the conversation over text, starts attacking me and they scoff when I bring up the idea of signing some sort of agreement. This house is riddled with issues because the inspector, the real-estate agents friend, missed so many things. I would love to get them fixed but not if I never have the opportunity to see the money again. The dishwasher is loose, the fridge is broken, the breaker panel is buzzing, the toilets are leaking and the air conditioning sounds like a car from the 1930s. I’m paying $2800/month for this house and while my payment at this stage goes almost all to interest, the property value did rise.
What I’m also more and more concerned about is my rights as a “tenant”. I have no formal lease agreement and just have electricity bills and other documentation to show that I live here but I could just as easily be kicked out on the street, correct? What should I be doing here to protect myself?
Your guidance is so appreciated.
submitted by dl-vaz to legaladvice [link] [comments]
I (28M) think this is more for relationships but this is really more pressing.
Some key points before you read; I moved to Orlando, FL from Washington state in February of 2023. It was closer to family and I had a lot of friends here. I truly love it here. I’m convinced there is something mentally not-okay with my mother and we’ve had a hot/cold relationship for years. My dad divorced her and got re-married to her and these days just puts up with it. We used to have a significantly better relationship but this has frankly tarnished all of that and he just puts up with it. My parents are real-estate investors in the Orlando area and generally buy some of terrible homes in even worse areas and somehow find renters. They act like they’re mansions but they truly are terrible. I’m 28 years old.
When I initially moved here, I got my own apartment in a great suburb of Orlando. My parents helped me move and were really excited for me to get back on this coast. At some point during my residency, my parents brought up a notion to attempt to “help” me by buying me a house. My credit is shot and there is no way I qualify for a conventional mortgage. Maybe before the big short but certainly not in today’s housing climate. I didn’t actively reach out to them for this sort of assistance but I toyed with the idea.
Given the fact that they are real-estate investors, their interest rate was going to be somewhere in the realm of 7%. That left me with a max value of about a $400,000 house in order to be comfortable with the payment. Daily my mom would send me listings to some of the shittiest homes I’ve ever seen and get upset when I say I don’t like it. That would generally be when I would cut off the conversation after I’m told I’m “ungrateful”. Mind you they haven’t even done anything yet.
Months pass and I find a decent townhome in a location that I’ve always wanted to live in. It’s a townhome that has 2beds, 2baths and was about $380K. In an effort to make my parents happy and not be so “ungrateful” I agreed that they can put an offer on it. Mind you this house is one that I would likely never buy with my own money, but given the interest rate I sort of had to stick with it.
The agreement was that they would put down $100K for the house, I pay the full escrow (mortgage payment, PMI, taxes and HOA dues) and, when it comes time to sell, I would get every dollar above the selling price. It was an enticing deal to get some equity that I otherwise wouldn’t get living in an apartment complex. This was all something that was verbally discussed and I can’t find any physical copy of this being said either over text or another medium.
I broke my least and move in came in October of 2023 which also happened to be when I met my beautiful and loving girlfriend who I am extremely happy with. My parents came over in December for Christmas and I actually had my girlfriend stay in my house while my parents were in town so we can all do stuff together. I thought it went well. My parents met her family, my friends and we generally had a great time.
That apparently wasn’t their idea of the week and they are super upset that my girlfriend basically lives here. Text exchanges with my mother generally result in me being called a disgrace, ungrateful, disrespectful, etc. I would bore you with the text threads but I’ll probably share that when I post this to relationships.
I’m not looking for advice on the relationship piece, but at the end of the day this is all stemming from the fact that I got a girlfriend, they apparently don’t like her, are losing control of me and now we’re both suffering navigating business and family. It’s taking a huge toll on me to the point where I woke up today and cried after receiving another demeaning text from my mother. That same person they hate was there to comfort me.
This is where y’all come in. I’m really worried about the integrity of this “deal”. At this point I don’t think I will get any equity and my parents will just cut ties. When I brought up that I’m concerned about this, my mother always skirts the conversation over text, starts attacking me and they scoff when I bring up the idea of signing some sort of agreement. This house is riddled with issues because the inspector, the real-estate agents friend, missed so many things. I would love to get them fixed but not if I never have the opportunity to see the money again. The dishwasher is loose, the fridge is broken, the breaker panel is buzzing, the toilets are leaking and the air conditioning sounds like a car from the 1930s. I’m paying $2800/month for this house and while my payment at this stage goes almost all to interest, the property value did rise.
What I’m also more and more concerned about is my rights as a “tenant”. I have no formal lease agreement and just have electricity bills and other documentation to show that I live here but I could just as easily be kicked out on the street, correct? What should I be doing here to protect myself?
Your guidance is so appreciated.
2024.05.14 03:47 CheckUrCrawlspaces Growing up, my mother forbade me from ever talking about my little brother outside the house. 50 years later, they're both dead, and I'm ready to talk
The garage door shut with a groan behind us, closing us in the gloom of the single bulb hanging over the car.
Mother took a drag off her cigarette and sighed as she exhaled, the smoke filled the cabin of the Ford and stung my eyes.
“You really disappointed me today, Julianne," she tapped her cigarette in the ashtray below the dash, "you embarrassed me in front of the other mothers at the Ice Cream Social, shoveling down seconds and thirds like a pig. I thought I raised you better than that.”
She took another drag, daintily holding the cigarette between her perfectly manicured fingers.
“I'm going to have to tell your brother about this," she continued, “he'll have to come up with a punishment fit for a pig."
I felt my stomach drop. My kid brother, Thomas, was only six, but could be exceptionally cruel. Mother seemed to encourage him and was deferring to him more and more frequently for how the house was run, especially concerning my upbringing.
"Mother, please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you. I'm sorry I was a pig and ate so much ice cream. I promise I won't do it again, I'll never eat any ice cream again," I was pleading with stone, unyielding.
“Hush your mouth. Go to your room and wait for Thomas," she put out the cigarette and got out of the car, I had no choice but to follow.
It felt like walking to the gallows as I stepped inside the house and headed towards the stairs to go to my room. Thomas had grown fond recently of physical punishment, he obviously delighted in Mother whipping me with a belt or, recently, Mother had allowed him to start beating me with a wooden spoon. He would squeal and giggle like a normal child watching bubbles in the wind while I screamed. I was dreading whatever was going to happen tonight, I chastised myself for eating that ice cream, I should have known she would show up. My sins were always laid bare.
Down the hall, I could hear Thomas watching television in the den. I only got to watch TV for half an hour on Saturday morning and new episodes of Happy Days with Mother and Thomas. Thomas got to watch all the TV he wanted. He could listen to the radio and turntable as much as he wanted, as loud as he wanted. Thomas had an entire room just for his toys.
I entered my bedroom, it was a space I occupied, but it didn't feel like mine. Mother kept it spartan, white walls and white bedspread. A crucifix over the bed and a painting of Jesus over the door. I had my desk and chair and a dresser with some of the porcelain dolls Daddy gave me before he died that Mother let me keep. That was it.
I placed my book bag down and sat on my bed, waiting for Thomas. It was a while, sitting there with nothing but my own thoughts and staring at the open door. I felt humiliated, I was almost thirteen and my entire life was dictated by my brother. Mother kept the house in constant lockdown to keep Thomas a secret. No outsiders were allowed in. I couldn't have friends because she was afraid I would mention him or sneak a friend in to gawk at my brother and tease him for being different.
I would never make fun of him, I was terrified of him. Terrified of what he was and what he was becoming.
Eventually I heard his heavy footsteps coming up the stairs and I felt my heart start beating faster and my palms began to sweat. I kneaded my skirt in my hands, trying to calm myself and dry my palms. His slow arrhythmic footsteps came down the hall and I watched him as he entered the room.
I couldn't help but internally recoil at his appearance, even though I'd known him since he was born, I could never adjust to how unnatural he appeared. Thomas had been born at home and had never seen a doctor, but he was obviously unwell.
He was six years old and was barely over two feet tall, but very squat and wide. His skin was thick and gray, the whites of his beady eyes were yellow and his hair was wispy and white like an old man's, spreading out like a halo around his gargoyle face. A slight odor of decomposition hung about him, it reminded me faintly of garbage cans on a hot summer day. I hated when Mother made me help him with a bath, his skin felt like old brittle leather that flaked onto my clothes in gray flecks. His body was dense like concrete, I could barely lift him into the tub. Picking him up forced his hair into my face where that smell of rot would fill my nose, causing me to gag, silently, so as not to offend him and draw any ire from him or Mother.
Today, Thomas was wearing bib overalls with a red and green striped sweater underneath, reminding me of a grotesque doll.
“Mama says you acted like a piggy today at the ice cream social,” he spoke up to me in his unsettlingly high pitched, yet raspy voice, like a child that smoked as much as Mother, "you need to come down for dinner right now for your punishment for embarrassing Mama."
He turned and walked back down the stairs and I had no choice but to follow his toddling form downstairs to the dining table. We entered the kitchen and the table was placed with two settings. Mother was already seated and Thomas clambered up into his booster seat at his normal spot next to Mother. She took a drag off her cigarette and motioned vaguely to the floor without even looking at me.
Neatly situated on the linoleum was my dinner, not on a plate, but directly on the floor. A pork chop, scoop of mashed potatoes, and a small pile of peas. No utensils, either.
Thomas giggled with glee upon seeing my face.
“You have Mama's permission now to eat like a piggy, now. No hands! Piggies just use their face!” He stood up in his chair and reached out for Mother’s ash tray and flung it out over my meal, peppering my dinner with cigarette ash and butts.
"Oops! Piggies don't mind trash though, do they, Mama?” he giggled and the sound filled me with rage.
"No, they don't,” Mother replied coolly while maneuvering her ashtray back in place and carefully putting out her cigarette before saying prayer.
As angry as I was, I got down on my hands and knees and did my best at eating what I could without using my hands. I knew if I refused, it would be far worse. The whole meal, Thomas made pig noises and would reach down and poke me with his fork, making comments about what a fat piggy I was and how he wished he could roast and eat me. I doubted Mother would even object if he actually did kill me and eat me.
Gagging my way through another bite of ashy pork chop, I felt a warm splat over my head and heard Thomas giggling. I reached up and felt he had dumped mashed potatoes into my hair.
Choking down tears, I asked Mother if I could clean the floor and bathe. She rolled her eyes and excused me to clear the table for them as well while she changed Thomas into his pajamas. Picking him up, she walked out of the room and Thomas stuck his putrid little purple tongue out at me before they made it out the kitchen door.
I silently cried while I cleared the table and washed the dinner dishes. Tears splashed down as I mopped up the mess from my food on the floor. I hated how awful Thomas was. I hated how they treated me. Ever since Daddy died and Thomas showed up, I was their punching bag. I missed Daddy so much.
Mother was kinder then, too. She was still severe, but Dad kept her tempered. After he died, there was a change that came over her. I was only six, so I didn't remember her too much from before, but I did remember her gushing on and on when she was pregnant with Thomas. How the baby was a gift from Our Heavenly Father, that it was going to complete our broken family.
My sixth birthday happened right after Daddy died and I remember sitting on the patio crying while the house was full of people after the funeral, normally he would have gotten me a new doll and a chocolate bar, instead I was forgotten. No doll. No chocolate. Just funeral potatoes and a house full of cigarette smoke from the adults.
Nobody remembered. The closest thing I got was my dad's sister, Aunt Judy, sitting next to me on the patio step for a few minutes of comfortable silence before giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. I don't think she knew her brother was memorialized on my birthday. Next year, Thomas was born the day before my birthday, so it was completely eclipsed as Mother had just birthed her new love into the world…
I stopped mid mop as a lightbulb finally went off. I had never put much thought into the dates before.
Thomas was born a full year after Daddy died. He couldn't be his dad. Who was Thomas’ actual father?
Washing mashed potatoes out of my hair that evening, I ran over and over the timeline. No matter how I parsed it out, Thomas was only my half brother. Going to bed that night, I kept myself awake, going over and over again to make sure. I couldn't remember any men being around at that time, but that didn't mean much. Adults can easily hide things from children. Tension began throbbing through my head and I felt queasy. Mother had always known all of my secrets, able to sniff them out like a bloodhound out or using Thomas to spy. Now I had one of Mother's secrets and I didn't know what to do with it.
First I wanted to confirm it, but it would mean snooping, which was difficult in a house that was rarely left empty. I would have to try finding Mother's calendar book or journal to see if she mentioned any dates or men.
But when could I attempt such a daring maneuver? Thomas hardly left the house. As proud as Mother was of him, she was very cognizant and protective of his differences and didn't want to draw attention to herself or Thomas like that. Mother herself had few social engagements throughout the week and mostly stayed home to watch her golden child.
I finally decided I would take the risk and fake sick on Tuesday, grocery day, so I could stay home from school while she went shopping. All Thomas did all day was watch TV downstairs, so that should give me about an hour to look through her room for clues. I decided to tuck my head down, try to behave as best as I could to avoid their wrath, and wait for Tuesday.
That weekend limped along agonizingly slow. Thomas was in a fine mood and was constantly seeking out a reason to poke me, punch me, slap me… he'd laugh while calling me a piggy with his off-putting wide mouth. I tried to mostly stay in my room and it seemed like neither of them cared.
School on Monday was a relief, but my anxiety ramped up. The consequences would be dire if Mother caught on that I was faking sick to stay home. I didn't even want to imagine how off the leash she'd let my half-brother become in his punishment for that level of insubordination.
I stayed up all night, my stomach was in knots, but I was committed to my plan. Throughout the night, I screamed as hard as I could into my pillow. Screamed until my throat was raw and I could barely talk. It felt cathartic in a way. When it was close to school time, I put on my heaviest flannel pajamas and began doing jumping jacks until my face was flushed and my scalp was soaked with sweat.
Looking in the bathroom mirror before heading down to talk to Mother, I thought I looked pretty convincing, my skin was flushed and sweaty, my eyes had circles under them from lack of sleep, and my voice croaked like a frog.
Heading downstairs, Mother was already feeding Thomas breakfast. I hesitantly stepped into the kitchen and stood there awkwardly for a second, pawing with my pajamas to keep my nerves steady until she noticed my presence and looked up.
“Why aren't you dressed, Julianne?"
"I don't feel well. My throat hurts and my tummy hurts.” My voice graveled out more than I was expecting, I really had hurt my throat.
She strode over to me and placed a cool hand on my sweaty brow.
"You do feel warm. Take an aspirin from the medicine cabinet and go lay back down. I'll check on you later," with that she turned back and walked over to Thomas, who was frozen in place, glaring at me over a forkful of scrambled eggs. The sharp glint of malice in his beady eyes made me shiver before I shuffled out of the kitchen.
I laid in bed, trying my best to look miserable until I eventually heard the faint sound of the television playing in the den as Thomas settled in for his normal daytime routine and the garage door opened as Mother headed to the grocery store. I bounded out of bed and watched the car back out of our driveway and head up the street.
My heart began to pound as I tiptoed down the hall to Mother's bedroom, a place I rarely even caught a glimpse of, let alone entered. I very slowly opened the door, taking great care to not make any noise to alert Thomas downstairs that I was out of bed.
Creeping into the butter yellow room, I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my skull, this was the naughtiest thing I had ever done by far. I stepped onto the rug to help disguise my footsteps and slowly made my way past the brass bed and towards her desk. My hands shook as I opened the top drawer, I pawed through rapidly and found nothing. I checked the next drawer down and again found nothing of interest, just stationary and envelopes.
Finally, the bottom drawer was what I was looking for, a stack of journals from the past decade. I flipped through, trying to find entries relevant to when Daddy died and who Mother slept with afterwards.
I've never fully recovered from what I read.
July 6, 1968
Edgar died today. Car accident. I cannot believe this is real. My light, my life, my anchor... Dr. Benson gave me a sedative at the hospital and I feel so tired. So very, very tired. Why has my Lord forsaken me so?
July 9, 1968
I feel like I am in a very bad dream, I feel numb and disconnected. All the consolation and pity from everyone makes me feel sick. After the memorial, it took everything in me to not break dishes and to scream at everyone to get out of my house. Julianne was moping about crying and I wanted to throw her out, too.
If I hadn't seen my dear Edgar's body in the hospital and held his urn in my own hands, I wouldn't believe he was really gone. I still don't entirely believe it.
I have prayed to God every night asking him to show me why he took my husband from me and I have gotten no answer.
I skimmed over the next few months, as it was more or less similar sentiments repeated night after night. I finally got to an entry that caught my eye.
September 17, 1968
My battle with my faith has been fraught the past few months, but Hallelujah! I feel I can see the Lord again in all his glory and might, for he has given me a way to reconnect to my Edgar!
I was thinking about the night Julianne was born, right in this very home, it was a difficult birth and she struggled to breathe at first. Ingrid, my midwife, made a comment to me that if the baby had failed to wake up on her own, that Ingrid had ways to make sure she would have made it.
I remember asking if it was a medical methodology and she made it clear to me that in certain circumstances, it was a mystical property she used to bring the air of life into a struggling baby's lungs. She gently alluded to being a practicing member of the dark arts. At the time, I felt quite scandalized to have someone like that in my God fearing home. Now I see her as the answer to my prayers! My angel!
On a whim, I called her and asked if she still practiced such techniques. She hesitantly confirmed that she did. I asked, if she could turn breath into the lungs of a child without, could she turn breath into a child that did not exist? Could she magick into existence another child of my beloved Edgar? She told me she had to do some research and she'd be back in touch.
Ingrid just called back after a few hours and said there was a spell she found, but it was dangerous and might have unpleasant results. I said, yes, of course! I trust my Lord and I believe he sent this woman of blessed magick to me for this purpose.
She says we will have to do it soon, in a few days during the new moon. She has a potion to brew, but it is happening! Praise God!
September 23, 1968
The ceremony was last night, and Ingrid believes it was a success, but we will have to wait. It did not take long, only an hour or two. Ingrid lit my bedroom with many beeswax candles and she had me drink a thick and bitter tea that caused me to become quite relaxed and foggy.
From my inner thigh, she cut me and collected my blood in a chalice, with which she mixed quite a lot of Edgar's ashes and other ingredients which I could not glean from my supine position and groggy wits. Ingrid began to chant, calling upon a higher power, as I pleaded with my Lord to let this work. To give me any piece of my Edgar back. She came to the bed and worked the paste between my legs into my womanly chamber, which was very uncomfortable, but manageable with the numbing effects of the tea.
She continued to sit with me and chant, her hand placed over my womb, until she decided at which time it was complete. She left and I fell into a deep sleep. When I woke up this morning, I felt quite uncomfortable, my body ached and when I used the restroom, a yellow fluid like pus poured out of me, but no sign of any ashes or blood, which gives me hope it was absorbed into my womb.
November 3, 1968
Praise be to our Lord, Ingrid just confirmed for me that I am with child, I had been hoping so, I had not gotten my cycle in October, but I wasn't sure if that was because of the discharge like pus that was still coming. She told me that was common with this spell and a side effect that would stop after the baby came.
I feel like I am floating on air, for the first time since Edgar left, I feel-
I suddenly became very aware of the feeling of eyes on the back of my head. I had become too engrossed in what was written before me and I had lost track of my surroundings. Very slowly, I turned around and my heart began pounding again as I saw Thomas standing in the doorway holding his wooden spoon in one hand. How had I not heard him?
He pointed at me with his empty hand and screamed, just a pure guttural screech from somewhere deep inside his disgusting little body. He charged at me from across the room, his horrible feet thumping solidly along the rug. He began beating my legs ruthlessly with the spoon, causing my legs to buckle. I crashed down to my knees in front of him, and he began lashing at my face, pulling my hair with one hand while wailing away at my head with the spoon.
I had dropped the journal I was holding and was desperately trying to get a hand on the spoon or push him away. All I could hear was him screaming. My arms flailed and I reached around on Mother's desk and grabbed onto the first thing I found and sank it into Thomas’ neck.
The end of Mother's gold letter opener protruded under his jaw. He went silent and he looked at me with utter shock. He dropped the spoon and collapsed on the ground, clutching at his neck as his thick black blood oozed out from his wound, letting out a stupendous odor of rot that filled the room. He didn't really say anything or make any noise. He just twitched for a moment and I saw his eyes glaze over.
In shock, I stood over his little body for a moment and I watched as he seemed to mummify in just a few minutes, like an ash person from Pompeii dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Even his blood that looked like shiny oil a second ago became like potting soil on Mother's rug. Reaching out to touch his hand, it crumbled away like sand.
Panic ran through me like a rabbit caught in a snare. Not knowing what to do, I ran. I ran down the hall, changed my clothes, put an extra change of clothes in my backpack and the last doll Daddy had ever given me and I ran. Mother would absolutely never forgive me and I was genuinely afraid she would kill me in retaliation for taking her beloved Thomas away from her. Her precious gift from God. My feet flew over the pavement and took me away from that house.
I called my Aunt Judy from a payphone outside the five & dime, and told her Mother had kicked me out and asked if I could stay with her. She had always had a strained relationship with my mother and it didn't take much convincing that she had kicked out her “only” child. Only Mother, Ingrid, and I ever knew about Thomas.
She gave me a home and took care of me. She never beat me or humiliated me. Even with her love, I was far from okay. For years I would close my eyes and hear Thomas scream, then the sudden silence. I'd see him fumbling at his neck and turning to ash. But I would also remember all the ways he would hurt me and how bad he was becoming. I could never talk to anyone about it, especially not the silent relief I felt I refused to admit to myself. Over time, however, Thomas' screams became a whisper and his silence faded into dust in my mind.
I moved on with my life. I went to college and became a photojournalist, getting to travel the world and watch history unfold. By choice, I never married, but was quite blessed with many beautiful friendships for companionship over the decades. I found balance in my life and a sense of happiness, if not peace. I never could quite stomach mashed potatoes again, though, they always taste ashy to me.
Mother never made any attempts to reach out to me or find me, at least that I'm aware of. Ten years ago, I was contacted by a hospital and they said my mother had been admitted earlier after falling and was about to pass, so she must have kept some tabs on me to know my phone number for her emergency contacts. Apparently she had collapsed in the driveway and a neighbor called an ambulance. I got there and her only words to me were, “take care of him," as she placed a locket in my hand. I opened the locket, Jesus was on one side, Thomas on the other. I didn't say anything to her, just held her frail old hand with nicotine stained nails until she passed in the night. My mother was gone and I felt nothing except a vague sense of relief.
When I got to her house, it was like a time capsule. Other than a newer television, it was just like it was when I'd fled so many years ago. The smell of tobacco smoke hung like incense in the air. It felt oppressive, like a tomb.
I wandered the house in a bit of a daze. The one place I didn't want to go was upstairs. I didn't want to see my old room, or Thomas' room, or Mother's. Putting it off, I went to fix myself some supper, realizing I hadn't eaten in almost a day. I took a pause when I opened the fridge and saw a baby bottle on a shelf. Silently praying she had been babysitting for a neighbor, I fixed myself some toast with sardines and sat eating in the den watching TV. It had been almost forty years and it still felt rebellious not eating at the table and watching TV without permission.
My eyes grew heavy and I finally mustered up the gumption to head upstairs to go to bed. The stairs creaked in a familiar way under my feet and I was taken back to the feeling of dread hearing either Mother or Thomas climbing up. My old room was at the top of the stairs, I saw the door was nailed shut and had rambling quotes about Judas copied from the Bible in my mother's handwriting taped to the door. I sighed gently and turned from the door to head down the hallway, deciding Mother's room was probably the best place to sleep.
I passed by Thomas’ toy room and I heard a murmur from the room. I stopped, curiosity got the best of me and I entered. In Thomas' old toy room was a crib with joyful clown sheets. Dread swelled up inside me as I heard more murmurs and saw the sheets move. Approaching slowly, I peaked under the sheet and gasped.
Tucked inside was what looked like a baby gargoyle, gray and papery looking. Pus leaked out of its milky, bulbous eyes. I pulled back the blanket and saw it had no legs and its arms bent back, like wings on a bird. It was wearing just a cloth diaper, overflowing with tarry looking stool that took my breath away with its pungency, it smelled like Thomas’ blood, but somehow worse. My heart broke for this poor creature, Lord only knows how many years it has been in this crib suffering from its unholy existence.
So this is who Mother had wanted me to take care of…
Not knowing what else to do, I gently scooped him up. Like Thomas, he was shockingly heavy for how small his body was. Placing him on the changing table, I cleaned him and rewrapped his bottom in a clean diaper cloth. It was difficult, he fussed tremendously, crying and flopping around as much as his flipper-like arms would allow. I tried wiping off his oozing eyes and he snapped his mouth, which I saw was full of disturbingly square yellow teeth, trying to bite me. I carried him to the kitchen and rocked him while I heated up his bottle and he became furious with me, almost barking like a dog when my hand would get near his face.
He settled a bit as he fed, but he would still sometimes suddenly spit out the bottle and attempt to bite me. I laid him back in his crib, this abomination in a clown sheet, and I walked down the hall to Mother's room letting out a long sigh.
Combing through my mother's journals in the early hours of the morning, it looked like she tried the ceremony again shortly after Thomas died, but she either lacked Ingrid’s help or didn't have enough of my father's ashes left. Something went terribly wrong. She was vaguer than she had been about Thomas’ conception, but I suspect she had used some of Thomas' remains. The resulting birth she named Isaac.
Mother's journals told a sad tale of her and Isaac's suffering. She never mentioned me, but lamented the loss of Thomas and Dad relentlessly. She was hyper protective of Isaac, as that was all she had left. If her world had been small before, it became microscopic after he entered her life, requiring nearly constant care. According to Mother, he was blind and colicky, sometimes going years at a time without sleeping through the night. She had breast fed him for years, but she had to stop after he grew teeth and began biting her intentionally and feeding on her blood.
I spent a lot of time over the next few days pondering what to do. I had to get her estate in order, she had left me the house, in an obvious attempt to get me to continue caretaking for Isaac, but I didn't want it. I had my own cozy home an hour away from here, filled with happy memories and my possessions acquired traveling the world. Mother's home had a heavy energy I couldn't shake. Her and Thomas were both gone, but the memories of the scoldings and beatings hung in every corner, like cobwebs that would never sweep away.
So, I fed Isaac and kept him clean and tried to keep him company, although he seemed to hate me passionately. I took care of him, all the while thinking about what I was going to do. After a week, I felt resolute in what had to be done.
Gathering up all of Mother's journals in a tote, I made my way to Isaac and picked him up and carried everything to the living room.
The ancient logs in the fireplace meant for display ignited instantly. One by one, I fed the journals into the fire, burning away years of my mother's consuming sorrow. Isaac fussed and moaned next to me the entire time. When the last pages shimmered away into lacy ash, I took a throw pillow off the couch and gently cradled Isaac in my other arm. It didn't take long before he stopped struggling and I felt his little body relax after decades of suffering.
I gently wrapped up a bundle in a clown sheet and placed it in the fire. It burned furiously, like the paper in my mother's journals, and was soon gone. Nothing but ashes and embers.
“Don't worry, Mother,” I said purely for my own sake, "I took care of Isaac for you."
And finally, I felt at peace.
submitted by CheckUrCrawlspaces to nosleep [link] [comments]
Mother took a drag off her cigarette and sighed as she exhaled, the smoke filled the cabin of the Ford and stung my eyes.
“You really disappointed me today, Julianne," she tapped her cigarette in the ashtray below the dash, "you embarrassed me in front of the other mothers at the Ice Cream Social, shoveling down seconds and thirds like a pig. I thought I raised you better than that.”
She took another drag, daintily holding the cigarette between her perfectly manicured fingers.
“I'm going to have to tell your brother about this," she continued, “he'll have to come up with a punishment fit for a pig."
I felt my stomach drop. My kid brother, Thomas, was only six, but could be exceptionally cruel. Mother seemed to encourage him and was deferring to him more and more frequently for how the house was run, especially concerning my upbringing.
"Mother, please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you. I'm sorry I was a pig and ate so much ice cream. I promise I won't do it again, I'll never eat any ice cream again," I was pleading with stone, unyielding.
“Hush your mouth. Go to your room and wait for Thomas," she put out the cigarette and got out of the car, I had no choice but to follow.
It felt like walking to the gallows as I stepped inside the house and headed towards the stairs to go to my room. Thomas had grown fond recently of physical punishment, he obviously delighted in Mother whipping me with a belt or, recently, Mother had allowed him to start beating me with a wooden spoon. He would squeal and giggle like a normal child watching bubbles in the wind while I screamed. I was dreading whatever was going to happen tonight, I chastised myself for eating that ice cream, I should have known she would show up. My sins were always laid bare.
Down the hall, I could hear Thomas watching television in the den. I only got to watch TV for half an hour on Saturday morning and new episodes of Happy Days with Mother and Thomas. Thomas got to watch all the TV he wanted. He could listen to the radio and turntable as much as he wanted, as loud as he wanted. Thomas had an entire room just for his toys.
I entered my bedroom, it was a space I occupied, but it didn't feel like mine. Mother kept it spartan, white walls and white bedspread. A crucifix over the bed and a painting of Jesus over the door. I had my desk and chair and a dresser with some of the porcelain dolls Daddy gave me before he died that Mother let me keep. That was it.
I placed my book bag down and sat on my bed, waiting for Thomas. It was a while, sitting there with nothing but my own thoughts and staring at the open door. I felt humiliated, I was almost thirteen and my entire life was dictated by my brother. Mother kept the house in constant lockdown to keep Thomas a secret. No outsiders were allowed in. I couldn't have friends because she was afraid I would mention him or sneak a friend in to gawk at my brother and tease him for being different.
I would never make fun of him, I was terrified of him. Terrified of what he was and what he was becoming.
Eventually I heard his heavy footsteps coming up the stairs and I felt my heart start beating faster and my palms began to sweat. I kneaded my skirt in my hands, trying to calm myself and dry my palms. His slow arrhythmic footsteps came down the hall and I watched him as he entered the room.
I couldn't help but internally recoil at his appearance, even though I'd known him since he was born, I could never adjust to how unnatural he appeared. Thomas had been born at home and had never seen a doctor, but he was obviously unwell.
He was six years old and was barely over two feet tall, but very squat and wide. His skin was thick and gray, the whites of his beady eyes were yellow and his hair was wispy and white like an old man's, spreading out like a halo around his gargoyle face. A slight odor of decomposition hung about him, it reminded me faintly of garbage cans on a hot summer day. I hated when Mother made me help him with a bath, his skin felt like old brittle leather that flaked onto my clothes in gray flecks. His body was dense like concrete, I could barely lift him into the tub. Picking him up forced his hair into my face where that smell of rot would fill my nose, causing me to gag, silently, so as not to offend him and draw any ire from him or Mother.
Today, Thomas was wearing bib overalls with a red and green striped sweater underneath, reminding me of a grotesque doll.
“Mama says you acted like a piggy today at the ice cream social,” he spoke up to me in his unsettlingly high pitched, yet raspy voice, like a child that smoked as much as Mother, "you need to come down for dinner right now for your punishment for embarrassing Mama."
He turned and walked back down the stairs and I had no choice but to follow his toddling form downstairs to the dining table. We entered the kitchen and the table was placed with two settings. Mother was already seated and Thomas clambered up into his booster seat at his normal spot next to Mother. She took a drag off her cigarette and motioned vaguely to the floor without even looking at me.
Neatly situated on the linoleum was my dinner, not on a plate, but directly on the floor. A pork chop, scoop of mashed potatoes, and a small pile of peas. No utensils, either.
Thomas giggled with glee upon seeing my face.
“You have Mama's permission now to eat like a piggy, now. No hands! Piggies just use their face!” He stood up in his chair and reached out for Mother’s ash tray and flung it out over my meal, peppering my dinner with cigarette ash and butts.
"Oops! Piggies don't mind trash though, do they, Mama?” he giggled and the sound filled me with rage.
"No, they don't,” Mother replied coolly while maneuvering her ashtray back in place and carefully putting out her cigarette before saying prayer.
As angry as I was, I got down on my hands and knees and did my best at eating what I could without using my hands. I knew if I refused, it would be far worse. The whole meal, Thomas made pig noises and would reach down and poke me with his fork, making comments about what a fat piggy I was and how he wished he could roast and eat me. I doubted Mother would even object if he actually did kill me and eat me.
Gagging my way through another bite of ashy pork chop, I felt a warm splat over my head and heard Thomas giggling. I reached up and felt he had dumped mashed potatoes into my hair.
Choking down tears, I asked Mother if I could clean the floor and bathe. She rolled her eyes and excused me to clear the table for them as well while she changed Thomas into his pajamas. Picking him up, she walked out of the room and Thomas stuck his putrid little purple tongue out at me before they made it out the kitchen door.
I silently cried while I cleared the table and washed the dinner dishes. Tears splashed down as I mopped up the mess from my food on the floor. I hated how awful Thomas was. I hated how they treated me. Ever since Daddy died and Thomas showed up, I was their punching bag. I missed Daddy so much.
Mother was kinder then, too. She was still severe, but Dad kept her tempered. After he died, there was a change that came over her. I was only six, so I didn't remember her too much from before, but I did remember her gushing on and on when she was pregnant with Thomas. How the baby was a gift from Our Heavenly Father, that it was going to complete our broken family.
My sixth birthday happened right after Daddy died and I remember sitting on the patio crying while the house was full of people after the funeral, normally he would have gotten me a new doll and a chocolate bar, instead I was forgotten. No doll. No chocolate. Just funeral potatoes and a house full of cigarette smoke from the adults.
Nobody remembered. The closest thing I got was my dad's sister, Aunt Judy, sitting next to me on the patio step for a few minutes of comfortable silence before giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. I don't think she knew her brother was memorialized on my birthday. Next year, Thomas was born the day before my birthday, so it was completely eclipsed as Mother had just birthed her new love into the world…
I stopped mid mop as a lightbulb finally went off. I had never put much thought into the dates before.
Thomas was born a full year after Daddy died. He couldn't be his dad. Who was Thomas’ actual father?
Washing mashed potatoes out of my hair that evening, I ran over and over the timeline. No matter how I parsed it out, Thomas was only my half brother. Going to bed that night, I kept myself awake, going over and over again to make sure. I couldn't remember any men being around at that time, but that didn't mean much. Adults can easily hide things from children. Tension began throbbing through my head and I felt queasy. Mother had always known all of my secrets, able to sniff them out like a bloodhound out or using Thomas to spy. Now I had one of Mother's secrets and I didn't know what to do with it.
First I wanted to confirm it, but it would mean snooping, which was difficult in a house that was rarely left empty. I would have to try finding Mother's calendar book or journal to see if she mentioned any dates or men.
But when could I attempt such a daring maneuver? Thomas hardly left the house. As proud as Mother was of him, she was very cognizant and protective of his differences and didn't want to draw attention to herself or Thomas like that. Mother herself had few social engagements throughout the week and mostly stayed home to watch her golden child.
I finally decided I would take the risk and fake sick on Tuesday, grocery day, so I could stay home from school while she went shopping. All Thomas did all day was watch TV downstairs, so that should give me about an hour to look through her room for clues. I decided to tuck my head down, try to behave as best as I could to avoid their wrath, and wait for Tuesday.
That weekend limped along agonizingly slow. Thomas was in a fine mood and was constantly seeking out a reason to poke me, punch me, slap me… he'd laugh while calling me a piggy with his off-putting wide mouth. I tried to mostly stay in my room and it seemed like neither of them cared.
School on Monday was a relief, but my anxiety ramped up. The consequences would be dire if Mother caught on that I was faking sick to stay home. I didn't even want to imagine how off the leash she'd let my half-brother become in his punishment for that level of insubordination.
I stayed up all night, my stomach was in knots, but I was committed to my plan. Throughout the night, I screamed as hard as I could into my pillow. Screamed until my throat was raw and I could barely talk. It felt cathartic in a way. When it was close to school time, I put on my heaviest flannel pajamas and began doing jumping jacks until my face was flushed and my scalp was soaked with sweat.
Looking in the bathroom mirror before heading down to talk to Mother, I thought I looked pretty convincing, my skin was flushed and sweaty, my eyes had circles under them from lack of sleep, and my voice croaked like a frog.
Heading downstairs, Mother was already feeding Thomas breakfast. I hesitantly stepped into the kitchen and stood there awkwardly for a second, pawing with my pajamas to keep my nerves steady until she noticed my presence and looked up.
“Why aren't you dressed, Julianne?"
"I don't feel well. My throat hurts and my tummy hurts.” My voice graveled out more than I was expecting, I really had hurt my throat.
She strode over to me and placed a cool hand on my sweaty brow.
"You do feel warm. Take an aspirin from the medicine cabinet and go lay back down. I'll check on you later," with that she turned back and walked over to Thomas, who was frozen in place, glaring at me over a forkful of scrambled eggs. The sharp glint of malice in his beady eyes made me shiver before I shuffled out of the kitchen.
I laid in bed, trying my best to look miserable until I eventually heard the faint sound of the television playing in the den as Thomas settled in for his normal daytime routine and the garage door opened as Mother headed to the grocery store. I bounded out of bed and watched the car back out of our driveway and head up the street.
My heart began to pound as I tiptoed down the hall to Mother's bedroom, a place I rarely even caught a glimpse of, let alone entered. I very slowly opened the door, taking great care to not make any noise to alert Thomas downstairs that I was out of bed.
Creeping into the butter yellow room, I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my skull, this was the naughtiest thing I had ever done by far. I stepped onto the rug to help disguise my footsteps and slowly made my way past the brass bed and towards her desk. My hands shook as I opened the top drawer, I pawed through rapidly and found nothing. I checked the next drawer down and again found nothing of interest, just stationary and envelopes.
Finally, the bottom drawer was what I was looking for, a stack of journals from the past decade. I flipped through, trying to find entries relevant to when Daddy died and who Mother slept with afterwards.
I've never fully recovered from what I read.
July 6, 1968
Edgar died today. Car accident. I cannot believe this is real. My light, my life, my anchor... Dr. Benson gave me a sedative at the hospital and I feel so tired. So very, very tired. Why has my Lord forsaken me so?
July 9, 1968
I feel like I am in a very bad dream, I feel numb and disconnected. All the consolation and pity from everyone makes me feel sick. After the memorial, it took everything in me to not break dishes and to scream at everyone to get out of my house. Julianne was moping about crying and I wanted to throw her out, too.
If I hadn't seen my dear Edgar's body in the hospital and held his urn in my own hands, I wouldn't believe he was really gone. I still don't entirely believe it.
I have prayed to God every night asking him to show me why he took my husband from me and I have gotten no answer.
I skimmed over the next few months, as it was more or less similar sentiments repeated night after night. I finally got to an entry that caught my eye.
September 17, 1968
My battle with my faith has been fraught the past few months, but Hallelujah! I feel I can see the Lord again in all his glory and might, for he has given me a way to reconnect to my Edgar!
I was thinking about the night Julianne was born, right in this very home, it was a difficult birth and she struggled to breathe at first. Ingrid, my midwife, made a comment to me that if the baby had failed to wake up on her own, that Ingrid had ways to make sure she would have made it.
I remember asking if it was a medical methodology and she made it clear to me that in certain circumstances, it was a mystical property she used to bring the air of life into a struggling baby's lungs. She gently alluded to being a practicing member of the dark arts. At the time, I felt quite scandalized to have someone like that in my God fearing home. Now I see her as the answer to my prayers! My angel!
On a whim, I called her and asked if she still practiced such techniques. She hesitantly confirmed that she did. I asked, if she could turn breath into the lungs of a child without, could she turn breath into a child that did not exist? Could she magick into existence another child of my beloved Edgar? She told me she had to do some research and she'd be back in touch.
Ingrid just called back after a few hours and said there was a spell she found, but it was dangerous and might have unpleasant results. I said, yes, of course! I trust my Lord and I believe he sent this woman of blessed magick to me for this purpose.
She says we will have to do it soon, in a few days during the new moon. She has a potion to brew, but it is happening! Praise God!
September 23, 1968
The ceremony was last night, and Ingrid believes it was a success, but we will have to wait. It did not take long, only an hour or two. Ingrid lit my bedroom with many beeswax candles and she had me drink a thick and bitter tea that caused me to become quite relaxed and foggy.
From my inner thigh, she cut me and collected my blood in a chalice, with which she mixed quite a lot of Edgar's ashes and other ingredients which I could not glean from my supine position and groggy wits. Ingrid began to chant, calling upon a higher power, as I pleaded with my Lord to let this work. To give me any piece of my Edgar back. She came to the bed and worked the paste between my legs into my womanly chamber, which was very uncomfortable, but manageable with the numbing effects of the tea.
She continued to sit with me and chant, her hand placed over my womb, until she decided at which time it was complete. She left and I fell into a deep sleep. When I woke up this morning, I felt quite uncomfortable, my body ached and when I used the restroom, a yellow fluid like pus poured out of me, but no sign of any ashes or blood, which gives me hope it was absorbed into my womb.
November 3, 1968
Praise be to our Lord, Ingrid just confirmed for me that I am with child, I had been hoping so, I had not gotten my cycle in October, but I wasn't sure if that was because of the discharge like pus that was still coming. She told me that was common with this spell and a side effect that would stop after the baby came.
I feel like I am floating on air, for the first time since Edgar left, I feel-
I suddenly became very aware of the feeling of eyes on the back of my head. I had become too engrossed in what was written before me and I had lost track of my surroundings. Very slowly, I turned around and my heart began pounding again as I saw Thomas standing in the doorway holding his wooden spoon in one hand. How had I not heard him?
He pointed at me with his empty hand and screamed, just a pure guttural screech from somewhere deep inside his disgusting little body. He charged at me from across the room, his horrible feet thumping solidly along the rug. He began beating my legs ruthlessly with the spoon, causing my legs to buckle. I crashed down to my knees in front of him, and he began lashing at my face, pulling my hair with one hand while wailing away at my head with the spoon.
I had dropped the journal I was holding and was desperately trying to get a hand on the spoon or push him away. All I could hear was him screaming. My arms flailed and I reached around on Mother's desk and grabbed onto the first thing I found and sank it into Thomas’ neck.
The end of Mother's gold letter opener protruded under his jaw. He went silent and he looked at me with utter shock. He dropped the spoon and collapsed on the ground, clutching at his neck as his thick black blood oozed out from his wound, letting out a stupendous odor of rot that filled the room. He didn't really say anything or make any noise. He just twitched for a moment and I saw his eyes glaze over.
In shock, I stood over his little body for a moment and I watched as he seemed to mummify in just a few minutes, like an ash person from Pompeii dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Even his blood that looked like shiny oil a second ago became like potting soil on Mother's rug. Reaching out to touch his hand, it crumbled away like sand.
Panic ran through me like a rabbit caught in a snare. Not knowing what to do, I ran. I ran down the hall, changed my clothes, put an extra change of clothes in my backpack and the last doll Daddy had ever given me and I ran. Mother would absolutely never forgive me and I was genuinely afraid she would kill me in retaliation for taking her beloved Thomas away from her. Her precious gift from God. My feet flew over the pavement and took me away from that house.
I called my Aunt Judy from a payphone outside the five & dime, and told her Mother had kicked me out and asked if I could stay with her. She had always had a strained relationship with my mother and it didn't take much convincing that she had kicked out her “only” child. Only Mother, Ingrid, and I ever knew about Thomas.
She gave me a home and took care of me. She never beat me or humiliated me. Even with her love, I was far from okay. For years I would close my eyes and hear Thomas scream, then the sudden silence. I'd see him fumbling at his neck and turning to ash. But I would also remember all the ways he would hurt me and how bad he was becoming. I could never talk to anyone about it, especially not the silent relief I felt I refused to admit to myself. Over time, however, Thomas' screams became a whisper and his silence faded into dust in my mind.
I moved on with my life. I went to college and became a photojournalist, getting to travel the world and watch history unfold. By choice, I never married, but was quite blessed with many beautiful friendships for companionship over the decades. I found balance in my life and a sense of happiness, if not peace. I never could quite stomach mashed potatoes again, though, they always taste ashy to me.
Mother never made any attempts to reach out to me or find me, at least that I'm aware of. Ten years ago, I was contacted by a hospital and they said my mother had been admitted earlier after falling and was about to pass, so she must have kept some tabs on me to know my phone number for her emergency contacts. Apparently she had collapsed in the driveway and a neighbor called an ambulance. I got there and her only words to me were, “take care of him," as she placed a locket in my hand. I opened the locket, Jesus was on one side, Thomas on the other. I didn't say anything to her, just held her frail old hand with nicotine stained nails until she passed in the night. My mother was gone and I felt nothing except a vague sense of relief.
When I got to her house, it was like a time capsule. Other than a newer television, it was just like it was when I'd fled so many years ago. The smell of tobacco smoke hung like incense in the air. It felt oppressive, like a tomb.
I wandered the house in a bit of a daze. The one place I didn't want to go was upstairs. I didn't want to see my old room, or Thomas' room, or Mother's. Putting it off, I went to fix myself some supper, realizing I hadn't eaten in almost a day. I took a pause when I opened the fridge and saw a baby bottle on a shelf. Silently praying she had been babysitting for a neighbor, I fixed myself some toast with sardines and sat eating in the den watching TV. It had been almost forty years and it still felt rebellious not eating at the table and watching TV without permission.
My eyes grew heavy and I finally mustered up the gumption to head upstairs to go to bed. The stairs creaked in a familiar way under my feet and I was taken back to the feeling of dread hearing either Mother or Thomas climbing up. My old room was at the top of the stairs, I saw the door was nailed shut and had rambling quotes about Judas copied from the Bible in my mother's handwriting taped to the door. I sighed gently and turned from the door to head down the hallway, deciding Mother's room was probably the best place to sleep.
I passed by Thomas’ toy room and I heard a murmur from the room. I stopped, curiosity got the best of me and I entered. In Thomas' old toy room was a crib with joyful clown sheets. Dread swelled up inside me as I heard more murmurs and saw the sheets move. Approaching slowly, I peaked under the sheet and gasped.
Tucked inside was what looked like a baby gargoyle, gray and papery looking. Pus leaked out of its milky, bulbous eyes. I pulled back the blanket and saw it had no legs and its arms bent back, like wings on a bird. It was wearing just a cloth diaper, overflowing with tarry looking stool that took my breath away with its pungency, it smelled like Thomas’ blood, but somehow worse. My heart broke for this poor creature, Lord only knows how many years it has been in this crib suffering from its unholy existence.
So this is who Mother had wanted me to take care of…
Not knowing what else to do, I gently scooped him up. Like Thomas, he was shockingly heavy for how small his body was. Placing him on the changing table, I cleaned him and rewrapped his bottom in a clean diaper cloth. It was difficult, he fussed tremendously, crying and flopping around as much as his flipper-like arms would allow. I tried wiping off his oozing eyes and he snapped his mouth, which I saw was full of disturbingly square yellow teeth, trying to bite me. I carried him to the kitchen and rocked him while I heated up his bottle and he became furious with me, almost barking like a dog when my hand would get near his face.
He settled a bit as he fed, but he would still sometimes suddenly spit out the bottle and attempt to bite me. I laid him back in his crib, this abomination in a clown sheet, and I walked down the hall to Mother's room letting out a long sigh.
Combing through my mother's journals in the early hours of the morning, it looked like she tried the ceremony again shortly after Thomas died, but she either lacked Ingrid’s help or didn't have enough of my father's ashes left. Something went terribly wrong. She was vaguer than she had been about Thomas’ conception, but I suspect she had used some of Thomas' remains. The resulting birth she named Isaac.
Mother's journals told a sad tale of her and Isaac's suffering. She never mentioned me, but lamented the loss of Thomas and Dad relentlessly. She was hyper protective of Isaac, as that was all she had left. If her world had been small before, it became microscopic after he entered her life, requiring nearly constant care. According to Mother, he was blind and colicky, sometimes going years at a time without sleeping through the night. She had breast fed him for years, but she had to stop after he grew teeth and began biting her intentionally and feeding on her blood.
I spent a lot of time over the next few days pondering what to do. I had to get her estate in order, she had left me the house, in an obvious attempt to get me to continue caretaking for Isaac, but I didn't want it. I had my own cozy home an hour away from here, filled with happy memories and my possessions acquired traveling the world. Mother's home had a heavy energy I couldn't shake. Her and Thomas were both gone, but the memories of the scoldings and beatings hung in every corner, like cobwebs that would never sweep away.
So, I fed Isaac and kept him clean and tried to keep him company, although he seemed to hate me passionately. I took care of him, all the while thinking about what I was going to do. After a week, I felt resolute in what had to be done.
Gathering up all of Mother's journals in a tote, I made my way to Isaac and picked him up and carried everything to the living room.
The ancient logs in the fireplace meant for display ignited instantly. One by one, I fed the journals into the fire, burning away years of my mother's consuming sorrow. Isaac fussed and moaned next to me the entire time. When the last pages shimmered away into lacy ash, I took a throw pillow off the couch and gently cradled Isaac in my other arm. It didn't take long before he stopped struggling and I felt his little body relax after decades of suffering.
I gently wrapped up a bundle in a clown sheet and placed it in the fire. It burned furiously, like the paper in my mother's journals, and was soon gone. Nothing but ashes and embers.
“Don't worry, Mother,” I said purely for my own sake, "I took care of Isaac for you."
And finally, I felt at peace.
2024.05.14 01:35 TheLastRiter I never should have gone to this farmhouse alone. [Part 1]
My hands are shaking as I write this, I have to document my story incase something happens to me in the next few days. I'm not sure where to begin but I suppose here is better than anywhere.
I've always had this weird feeling, this sensation inside of me that I was older than I actually was. By the time I was twelve, my soul felt as though it was forty. By the time I reached twenty, I felt like an old woman. I would watch people around my age acting foolish, and I always thought, "What a bunch of children." So it was no surprise to anyone that when I turned twenty-one, I left my hometown and college and decided to spend the summer alone by renting an old farmhouse in an insignificant town on the edge of an even more insignificant border.
When I told my mother, she had a veritable fit, unable to find the words. She spluttered and raged around me for days before I finally left early one morning to avoid her guilt and frustration with my choices. I was not sure why I craved solitude at such a young age, why I found solace in being alone and removed from society.
In high school, I had changed unexpectedly, cutting my long blonde hair short and dying it black, getting piercings that my mother loathed and claimed no young lady should have. You see, my mother was raised proper, as she called it. Good family, good husband, and finally a good life. She despised her perfect life being squashed by my alternative looks and feelings of the same world. She just didn't understand me or the world as it changed around her. I felt like I was just a trophy to her and my father, her perfect angel who had been tainted by my own demented thoughts.
I never told my parents where I was staying, one last rebellious mission before leaving for a few months, and it took me only a few hours to arrive at the farmhouse where I would be staying for the next few months. The land around the farm was dead or dying, old crops rose out of the dry dusty earth and had turned black and forgotten, as if this land was the example of dreams long forgotten and empty. A single dreary lane connected this desolate farmhouse to the rest of the world. On the outside, it was drab and looked as though it would fall apart. It had two stories but still seemed cramped and small, as if it were a single floor tied to the ground.
Across from the house, bordering the tall weeds that had reclaimed much of the farmland, stood a maudlin-looking faded red barn, one door propped open in a dejected manner revealing naught to me but shadows, dust, and a little mystery.
Next to the barn, staked into the ground on an old-looking cross, was a ragged scarecrow. It had drab brown clothing, but its face was oddly realistic, like it was watching me with a disapproving manner. Straw poked through its joints at odd angles like they were trying to break free from their confines. The scarecrow obviously didn't do its job as it was covered in no less than three crows.
I parked my car next to the barn and stepped out into the dusty yard before the farmhouse that I would make my home for the next few months. I checked under the front mat for the key and put it in the lock.
With a satisfying click, the door fell inward into the farmhouse. Surprisingly, the inside of the farmhouse was modern, clean, and looked quite inviting. I could smell the fresh paint on the walls, and everything was so white. The realtor had told me she would stop by tomorrow to collect the rent, and she had tried to chat my ear off on the phone about all the renovations she and her son were doing on the place.
I sighed with contentment and tossed my bags beside the door. I dug around in my bag and removed my camera, my father's old film shooter as he called it. I had taken up the hobby years ago for what I called capturing the oddity in the world.
I explored the small house a little more; the ground floor consisted of a single room and small bathroom with a shower. The bedroom was upstairs and was the only room, the stairs connected directly to the white and pink monstrosity that was the master bedroom. The pillows had laces on them and almost made me gag from the cuteness. There was even cute white lace curtains on the window with little flowers stitched onto them.
Out of the only window of the room, I could see the barn and the scarecrow. I aimed my camera at the pair and snapped a photo. From this angle, the scarecrow appeared to be staring straight at me. It stood next to the left side of the barn in a dejected manner like a chastised child.
A shudder involuntarily ran through me at the sight, but I moved on back downstairs. It was getting close to dinner time now, and I had brought some food with me.
After a few minutes, I had my dinner on the stove cooking and the crickets chirping outside the open window. As I sat down to eat next to the window, I felt at peace for one of the first times in years. The solitude of this old farm was exactly what I needed. The window supplied a nice breeze that wafted through the place, it smelled of grass and warm summer nights, made me feel at peace. The simple dish of spaghetti with tomato sauce and a glass of wine was all that I needed right here, right now in this moment.
That night I climbed into the frilly laced bed and sunk into the claustrophobic mattress. I felt like Goldilocks in the mama bear's bed as it was altogether too soft. From my perfumed bed, I had a good view out the window. I had left the porch light on, and it cast an eerie glow across the yard. The barn loomed ominously, stalwart against the light of the porch, like it was protecting the shadows from the battering ram of light. The somber scarecrow leaned against the left side of the barn.
With a small jump, I thought I saw its arm move slightly. I peered through my camera using the zoom to get a better view of the scarecrow. It was completely still in the night, and I laughed quietly to myself at my silliness. I had always enjoyed horror movies, but there was no chance I was living in one. I settled back into bed and put my camera down. Within a few minutes, I fell into sleep's warm embrace.
What felt like only a few minutes later, I sat up in bed. It was still dark out, I could hear crickets chirping through the open window, and I strained my ears for a moment.
I thought something had woken me up. I felt a cold shiver run down my spine as a cold breeze wafted in through the window. I pulled the frilly blanket up around myself when I heard it. A thud sounded below me, shaking the whole world into silence. The crickets stopped chirping, and my heart felt like it had stopped beating. Someone was in the house. I hadn't locked the door or closed the kitchen window, and now someone was downstairs. A second thud sounded like a boot on the staircase. Then another and another as something was slowly moving up the stairs towards the room.
I don't know why I did it, but something came over me. I wasn't big or especially brave, but my normal cowardice in social situations changed instantly. With a dash, I tore across the room, flicking on the lights, ready to face my attacker, to defend myself against male or female. I would fight, and I would win.
But as the lights turned on, ready to strike with my foot, nothing was there. The staircase was empty, and upon further inspection, the entire house was empty. The kitchen window was open, and I shut and locked it securely before checking the door. Nothing. I sat down on the couch, my heart pounding out of my chest, as I tried to make sense of what had just happened.
"I must have still been half-asleep," I said aloud to the room in a thinly veiled attempt to calm my nerves. It failed horribly, but I went with it. What else could you do in a situation like that?
After locking up the house, I went back up to that frilly four-poster bed in the bedroom and stared out the window. Nothing was in the yard except my car, the barn, and the same old sad-looking scarecrow staring across the yard.
Day 2
The next morning, I woke up to the soft light filtering through the lace curtains. Despite the strange events of the previous night, I felt strangely refreshed, as if the morning sun had chased away the shadows that lingered in my mind.
I descended the stairs, the wooden steps creaking softly under my weight, and headed to the kitchen. As I brewed a pot of coffee, my mind wandered back to the events of last night. Was it just a figment of my imagination, or was there really someone in the house?
Shaking off the unease, I decided to explore the farmhouse in the daylight. I wandered through the room, admiring the modern renovations that clashed with the rustic exterior. The farmhouse had a charm to it, despite its eerie surroundings.
As I made my way outside, the cool morning air greeted me, and I took a deep breath, letting the serenity of the countryside wash over me. The barn stood tall against the backdrop of the morning sky, and the scarecrow seemed to watch me as I crossed the yard.
I approached the barn, curiosity getting the better of me. Pushing open the creaky door, I stepped inside, the musty scent of hay filling my nostrils. The interior was dimly lit, the sunlight filtering through the cracks in the wooden walls.
I explored every nook and cranny of the barn, but found nothing out of the ordinary. As I turned to leave, something caught my eye. In the corner of the barn, hidden beneath a pile of old blankets, was a small wooden chest.
My heart racing with anticipation, I lifted the lid of the trunk and peered inside. What I found took my breath away. It was a collection of old photographs, yellowed with age, depicting scenes from a bygone era. They were of a man with his family, two young kids, and a beautiful young wife. The man had yellow blonde hair, almost like straw in texture, but he smiled so happily with his family.
I sifted through the photographs, my fingers trembling with excitement. Who had left these behind, and why? Each photograph seemed to tell a story, a glimpse into the past of this forgotten farmhouse.
As I sat there, lost in thought, a sudden noise jolted me back to reality. It was the sound of footsteps coming from outside the barn.
"Hello?" The dreamy voice of a woman called to me from the entrance to the barn.
I slammed the lid of the trunk shut, closing the memories up in a flurry as I spun around to be greeted by a quite pretty woman with blonde hair and a pink suit skirt combo. She had bright pink lipstick, that seemed to be a permanent fixture on her face, and quite shiny and sparkly blue eye shadow on her lids. I myself only wore black eyeliner. This woman was like Barbie in her proportions, thin waist, long hair, and large tracts of land, as my father would have said.
"Oh, hello," I said simply, always awkward in normal social situations.
If she noticed anything odd about me, she breezed over it in an easy manner. Taking me by the shoulders, she led me out of the dusty barn and into the yard.
"You must be Polly. We have been waiting a while for you to come. I simply must know what you think of the renovations to the house. Aren’t they just to die for?" The lady said all in one breath, as if she didn’t need air to speak.
"Yes, they are quite nice..." I started before she cut me off, not in a rude manner but instead in one that she would have continued on even if I had just told her I was not Polly and instead I was a mass murderer looking for my next victim.
"You see, me and my son Eli—yes, Eli, you stop lurking in the shadows over there," she said, continuing on as I noticed a younger man leaning up against the barn. He wore simple clothes of jeans and a white t-shirt but had a handsome face. His hair was brown and hung slightly over his eyes.
"I hope you don’t mind if my son here continues working on some renovations while you stay here? Strictly on the outside of the house, mind you. A fresh coat of white paint would make this little beauty shine. We would have finished by now if not for the accidents," she continued, completely unabashed by my silence.
"Sorry. But you are the realtor?" I said, trying to regain my feet under me.
"Oh my god, I am so sorry, dear!" she said with an affable cackle.
"Yes, yes, I am Barbara, but all my friends call me Barb. That over there is Eli. Eli, come say hi," Barb said while her painted talons rested firmly on my shoulder.
Eli stomped over, keeping his eyes low, in a sort of moody way that actually intrigued me, sort of.
When he glanced up at me, I noticed he drank in me from head to toe, and for the first time, I realized what I was wearing. An old rock t-shirt of one of my favorite bands and, of all things, my black pajama bottoms with cartoon bats on them that said "happy halloween."
I felt my face blush crimson as he made eye contact with me. He had very mysterious eyes of blue that seemed to cut right through my soul.
"Nice shirt," he said while gesturing to me. His voice was quiet and uncertain, as if he didn’t get much practice with the art. Knowing his mother, it seemed highly accurate.
"Thanks. Do you like them?" I asked.
"Oh, he likes all sorts of things, don’t you, Eli? Honestly, you two can gab on forever. But miss, I believe we have a small matter of payment," Barb said, drawing the conversation back to herself.
"Of course. Let me go get it," I said as I went back into the house and retrieved the envelope with the rent money in it.
Barb grabbed the envelope in her bright pink talons and snapped a piece of bubblegum between her teeth. With quick fingers, she leafed through the cash, counting it. As she counted, her normal bubbly personality seemed to disappear, giving way to what I gleaned was her true thoughts and feelings before the facade slipped on once again.
"Mmkay, perfect honey, this is the right amount. Now you have my number, so you call if you need anything. Like I said earlier, Eli will stop by from time to time to work on painting the house. I promise you he won’t be an imposition, just pay him no mind," Barb said in a sweet voice as she popped her gum in between each word.
"Eli, come on, please, I have an appointment in town," Barb said to her son, and they both climbed into a garish pink convertible with jewels hanging from the mirror wrapped in a gold chain.
Barb waved one last time as she sped off out of the driveway, covering me in dust as she spun the wheel around.
With their departure, I went inside and retrieved my camera. I spent a few minutes shooting a few pictures I thought were worthy. I re-entered the barn and pulled the old trunk out into the sunshine. Inside was only a handful of photos, some old clothes, and what looked like some old heirlooms. A beautifully old candlestick and a few leather-bound books lay at the bottom, covered by an old tablecloth. The tablecloth was a nice white with intricate swirling patterns inlaid around the edges.
Why would these things be packed away in here? They were so beautiful. I decided to bring the stuff inside for further inspection. As I lifted the trunk, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something move in the tall grass at the edge of the property. I stared for a minute, but nothing moved again. I must be getting jumpy being alone like this. After last night and then this, I was just imagining things.
I brought the items inside and spread them out. I put the tablecloth on the table, and it hung low to the ground. I placed the candlestick by the window and took out the photos again, spreading them out.
The photos told me a story of a loving family that obviously lived in the farmhouse before me. They had a photo next to the barn, with a brand new looking scarecrow in the back. The man even had his arm around it; it looked so much cleaner and proper in this photo. I stared outside at the sad-looking scarecrow.
I took my camera and the photo and went outside to stand next to the scarecrow. His post hung kind of crooked in the earth like it was weighed down by the scarecrow.
I snapped a photo of the scarecrow as it was, then examined the original photo. I began resettling the post in the ground, but it kept sagging. I decided to pull him out of the ground and move him while I added more dirt to his hole. With some effort, I reseated him into his original hole. He already looked better, but I straightened his clothes and pulled out the last bits of straw that stuck out of his clothes. When I was finished, I looked back at him and took a photo, smiling while I did so at my work.
I then spent some time sweeping the front porch and banging the dust out of the cushions before I curled up on a wicker chair with plump cushions for a few hours reading a book I had brought with me.
I felt quite content at this place. The sounds of the crickets began again, putting me at ease as the sun began to descend. I had spent the entire day just relaxing, and it was perfect. I sat sprawled out in the chair, too lazy to go and make dinner or even move. My bladder was full, but I waited until the last moment before dashing inside and relieving myself.
That's when I noticed it, out in the yard. It seemed as if the scarecrow had moved closer. Once shrouded by the barn slightly, it now had moved a few steps into the light from the porch. My heart dropped at the sight. Not again, I must be asleep on the porch in the chair. I pinched myself, trying to wake up, but all I received was a sore arm.
I closed my eyes, then rubbed them, hoping to dispel whatever plagued my mind, but when I opened my eyes, I noticed the scarecrow was even closer. Halfway across the yard now, it sat menacingly, hanging crooked in the dirt. The scarecrow seemed to be staring at me with an intense gaze. The slits in its face were open now, and in the porch light, I swear I could see human eyes underneath the mask.
I moved towards the front door, locking it in a swift motion. I was shaking now, and it took me a minute to relax. I never took my eyes off the scarecrow for fear of it moving again.
My cellphone was upstairs, so I couldn't flee without the scarecrow moving again. I breathed out slightly and unlocked the door, letting it swing in with a creak. The night outside was silent, as if everything was holding its breath. The usual crickets that plagued me with their song day and night had fallen quiet. I stepped out onto the porch; I needed to go confront this demonic entity. Something about this still made me think this was a prank.
"Eli, is that you?" I called out to the scarecrow.
No response, of course. I steeled myself and put one foot off the porch, never taking my eyes off the scarecrow before me. Something seemed to be dripping from its head as I approached, a dark slime that seemed to be melting from its joints as it stood there silently, except for the constant drip of the liquid on the dry dirt before me.
I walked around the scarecrow, determined to figure out what was going on. As I circled it, my vision darkened for a moment as I faced towards the light of the house. I jumped as the scarecrow's head turned to face me as I looked away. The black liquid drained faster from the being, forming a shallow pool at its feet.
I'm not proud of what I did next, but I fled, taking my eyes off the scarecrow. I made a mad dash for the farmhouse. Behind me, I could hear the pounding of feet. I screamed as loud as my lungs would let me. My voice rang through the silence as I grabbed the door handle and wrenched open the door as I felt a strong grip fall on my shoulder.
I turned to defend myself, but nothing was there. The scarecrow was gone, the wooden cross had vanished, as had the pool of dark liquid in the dirt. The world sprung back to life; the crickets began chirping loudly, and my heart restarted. I slammed the door, and the air from my force scattered the photographs on the table. I ran upstairs, leaving the lights on in the house, and dove onto the bed, wrapping myself in the frilly blanket like a set of frilly armor.
I snatched my camera from the bedside table and held it close, determined to document the rest of the night. I held it in shaking hands as the noise downstairs began—the sound of boots crossing the floor to the stairs and the careful but heavy steps of ascension as they climbed closer and closer to me.
This time, I didn't lunge forward as the light was already on. I glanced out the window, but the scarecrow was still gone. I focused my camera on the stairs and waited as the steps came closer and closer. A shape began to form as the head of whatever was coming up the stairs crested the floor. Then a plain brown mask with slits where the eyes would be. It froze for a moment, then slowly turned its head towards me. Inside the slits were human eyes that seemed to be leaking dark red blood.
In the light, I could see it now. I snapped a photo of the beast, the flash setting off a reaction in the beast. The scarecrow moved so fast up the stairs it was a blur. My scream echoed throughout the house as it lunged at me. Filthy hands pinned me down, and the deep crimson liquid began pouring out of every joint of the scarecrow. It began covering my face, my eyes, and getting into my open mouth. I spluttered and kicked at the beast, but my blows had no purchase, as if the scarecrow on top of me had no substance to itself.
I coughed and spluttered on the liquid as it began to fill my mouth faster and faster. I tried not to swallow any, but it tried to find purchase as I was held down.
"Polly?" A nervous voice called from below.
Suddenly, as if the angels had called, the pressure dissipated, and I crashed to the floor in a heap, trying to spit the blood out, but nothing came—it was gone. Footsteps pounded up the stairs again, and I flew back in fear, closing my eyes.
"Oh my god. Polly, are you okay?" A voice said, and gentle hands grabbed my arm.
My eyes shot open at the human touch, and I grabbed Eli into a tight hug, where I promptly began sobbing in fear, my whole body shaking as Eli awkwardly hugged me.
"Don't worry, it's going to be okay," Eli said patiently to me as he hugged me back gently and began stroking my back.
I shivered in a choking sob and fell into his arms, desperately wanting to believe him, and for some reason, I did.
submitted by TheLastRiter to nosleep [link] [comments]
I've always had this weird feeling, this sensation inside of me that I was older than I actually was. By the time I was twelve, my soul felt as though it was forty. By the time I reached twenty, I felt like an old woman. I would watch people around my age acting foolish, and I always thought, "What a bunch of children." So it was no surprise to anyone that when I turned twenty-one, I left my hometown and college and decided to spend the summer alone by renting an old farmhouse in an insignificant town on the edge of an even more insignificant border.
When I told my mother, she had a veritable fit, unable to find the words. She spluttered and raged around me for days before I finally left early one morning to avoid her guilt and frustration with my choices. I was not sure why I craved solitude at such a young age, why I found solace in being alone and removed from society.
In high school, I had changed unexpectedly, cutting my long blonde hair short and dying it black, getting piercings that my mother loathed and claimed no young lady should have. You see, my mother was raised proper, as she called it. Good family, good husband, and finally a good life. She despised her perfect life being squashed by my alternative looks and feelings of the same world. She just didn't understand me or the world as it changed around her. I felt like I was just a trophy to her and my father, her perfect angel who had been tainted by my own demented thoughts.
I never told my parents where I was staying, one last rebellious mission before leaving for a few months, and it took me only a few hours to arrive at the farmhouse where I would be staying for the next few months. The land around the farm was dead or dying, old crops rose out of the dry dusty earth and had turned black and forgotten, as if this land was the example of dreams long forgotten and empty. A single dreary lane connected this desolate farmhouse to the rest of the world. On the outside, it was drab and looked as though it would fall apart. It had two stories but still seemed cramped and small, as if it were a single floor tied to the ground.
Across from the house, bordering the tall weeds that had reclaimed much of the farmland, stood a maudlin-looking faded red barn, one door propped open in a dejected manner revealing naught to me but shadows, dust, and a little mystery.
Next to the barn, staked into the ground on an old-looking cross, was a ragged scarecrow. It had drab brown clothing, but its face was oddly realistic, like it was watching me with a disapproving manner. Straw poked through its joints at odd angles like they were trying to break free from their confines. The scarecrow obviously didn't do its job as it was covered in no less than three crows.
I parked my car next to the barn and stepped out into the dusty yard before the farmhouse that I would make my home for the next few months. I checked under the front mat for the key and put it in the lock.
With a satisfying click, the door fell inward into the farmhouse. Surprisingly, the inside of the farmhouse was modern, clean, and looked quite inviting. I could smell the fresh paint on the walls, and everything was so white. The realtor had told me she would stop by tomorrow to collect the rent, and she had tried to chat my ear off on the phone about all the renovations she and her son were doing on the place.
I sighed with contentment and tossed my bags beside the door. I dug around in my bag and removed my camera, my father's old film shooter as he called it. I had taken up the hobby years ago for what I called capturing the oddity in the world.
I explored the small house a little more; the ground floor consisted of a single room and small bathroom with a shower. The bedroom was upstairs and was the only room, the stairs connected directly to the white and pink monstrosity that was the master bedroom. The pillows had laces on them and almost made me gag from the cuteness. There was even cute white lace curtains on the window with little flowers stitched onto them.
Out of the only window of the room, I could see the barn and the scarecrow. I aimed my camera at the pair and snapped a photo. From this angle, the scarecrow appeared to be staring straight at me. It stood next to the left side of the barn in a dejected manner like a chastised child.
A shudder involuntarily ran through me at the sight, but I moved on back downstairs. It was getting close to dinner time now, and I had brought some food with me.
After a few minutes, I had my dinner on the stove cooking and the crickets chirping outside the open window. As I sat down to eat next to the window, I felt at peace for one of the first times in years. The solitude of this old farm was exactly what I needed. The window supplied a nice breeze that wafted through the place, it smelled of grass and warm summer nights, made me feel at peace. The simple dish of spaghetti with tomato sauce and a glass of wine was all that I needed right here, right now in this moment.
That night I climbed into the frilly laced bed and sunk into the claustrophobic mattress. I felt like Goldilocks in the mama bear's bed as it was altogether too soft. From my perfumed bed, I had a good view out the window. I had left the porch light on, and it cast an eerie glow across the yard. The barn loomed ominously, stalwart against the light of the porch, like it was protecting the shadows from the battering ram of light. The somber scarecrow leaned against the left side of the barn.
With a small jump, I thought I saw its arm move slightly. I peered through my camera using the zoom to get a better view of the scarecrow. It was completely still in the night, and I laughed quietly to myself at my silliness. I had always enjoyed horror movies, but there was no chance I was living in one. I settled back into bed and put my camera down. Within a few minutes, I fell into sleep's warm embrace.
What felt like only a few minutes later, I sat up in bed. It was still dark out, I could hear crickets chirping through the open window, and I strained my ears for a moment.
I thought something had woken me up. I felt a cold shiver run down my spine as a cold breeze wafted in through the window. I pulled the frilly blanket up around myself when I heard it. A thud sounded below me, shaking the whole world into silence. The crickets stopped chirping, and my heart felt like it had stopped beating. Someone was in the house. I hadn't locked the door or closed the kitchen window, and now someone was downstairs. A second thud sounded like a boot on the staircase. Then another and another as something was slowly moving up the stairs towards the room.
I don't know why I did it, but something came over me. I wasn't big or especially brave, but my normal cowardice in social situations changed instantly. With a dash, I tore across the room, flicking on the lights, ready to face my attacker, to defend myself against male or female. I would fight, and I would win.
But as the lights turned on, ready to strike with my foot, nothing was there. The staircase was empty, and upon further inspection, the entire house was empty. The kitchen window was open, and I shut and locked it securely before checking the door. Nothing. I sat down on the couch, my heart pounding out of my chest, as I tried to make sense of what had just happened.
"I must have still been half-asleep," I said aloud to the room in a thinly veiled attempt to calm my nerves. It failed horribly, but I went with it. What else could you do in a situation like that?
After locking up the house, I went back up to that frilly four-poster bed in the bedroom and stared out the window. Nothing was in the yard except my car, the barn, and the same old sad-looking scarecrow staring across the yard.
The next morning, I woke up to the soft light filtering through the lace curtains. Despite the strange events of the previous night, I felt strangely refreshed, as if the morning sun had chased away the shadows that lingered in my mind.
I descended the stairs, the wooden steps creaking softly under my weight, and headed to the kitchen. As I brewed a pot of coffee, my mind wandered back to the events of last night. Was it just a figment of my imagination, or was there really someone in the house?
Shaking off the unease, I decided to explore the farmhouse in the daylight. I wandered through the room, admiring the modern renovations that clashed with the rustic exterior. The farmhouse had a charm to it, despite its eerie surroundings.
As I made my way outside, the cool morning air greeted me, and I took a deep breath, letting the serenity of the countryside wash over me. The barn stood tall against the backdrop of the morning sky, and the scarecrow seemed to watch me as I crossed the yard.
I approached the barn, curiosity getting the better of me. Pushing open the creaky door, I stepped inside, the musty scent of hay filling my nostrils. The interior was dimly lit, the sunlight filtering through the cracks in the wooden walls.
I explored every nook and cranny of the barn, but found nothing out of the ordinary. As I turned to leave, something caught my eye. In the corner of the barn, hidden beneath a pile of old blankets, was a small wooden chest.
My heart racing with anticipation, I lifted the lid of the trunk and peered inside. What I found took my breath away. It was a collection of old photographs, yellowed with age, depicting scenes from a bygone era. They were of a man with his family, two young kids, and a beautiful young wife. The man had yellow blonde hair, almost like straw in texture, but he smiled so happily with his family.
I sifted through the photographs, my fingers trembling with excitement. Who had left these behind, and why? Each photograph seemed to tell a story, a glimpse into the past of this forgotten farmhouse.
As I sat there, lost in thought, a sudden noise jolted me back to reality. It was the sound of footsteps coming from outside the barn.
"Hello?" The dreamy voice of a woman called to me from the entrance to the barn.
I slammed the lid of the trunk shut, closing the memories up in a flurry as I spun around to be greeted by a quite pretty woman with blonde hair and a pink suit skirt combo. She had bright pink lipstick, that seemed to be a permanent fixture on her face, and quite shiny and sparkly blue eye shadow on her lids. I myself only wore black eyeliner. This woman was like Barbie in her proportions, thin waist, long hair, and large tracts of land, as my father would have said.
"Oh, hello," I said simply, always awkward in normal social situations.
If she noticed anything odd about me, she breezed over it in an easy manner. Taking me by the shoulders, she led me out of the dusty barn and into the yard.
"You must be Polly. We have been waiting a while for you to come. I simply must know what you think of the renovations to the house. Aren’t they just to die for?" The lady said all in one breath, as if she didn’t need air to speak.
"Yes, they are quite nice..." I started before she cut me off, not in a rude manner but instead in one that she would have continued on even if I had just told her I was not Polly and instead I was a mass murderer looking for my next victim.
"You see, me and my son Eli—yes, Eli, you stop lurking in the shadows over there," she said, continuing on as I noticed a younger man leaning up against the barn. He wore simple clothes of jeans and a white t-shirt but had a handsome face. His hair was brown and hung slightly over his eyes.
"I hope you don’t mind if my son here continues working on some renovations while you stay here? Strictly on the outside of the house, mind you. A fresh coat of white paint would make this little beauty shine. We would have finished by now if not for the accidents," she continued, completely unabashed by my silence.
"Sorry. But you are the realtor?" I said, trying to regain my feet under me.
"Oh my god, I am so sorry, dear!" she said with an affable cackle.
"Yes, yes, I am Barbara, but all my friends call me Barb. That over there is Eli. Eli, come say hi," Barb said while her painted talons rested firmly on my shoulder.
Eli stomped over, keeping his eyes low, in a sort of moody way that actually intrigued me, sort of.
When he glanced up at me, I noticed he drank in me from head to toe, and for the first time, I realized what I was wearing. An old rock t-shirt of one of my favorite bands and, of all things, my black pajama bottoms with cartoon bats on them that said "happy halloween."
I felt my face blush crimson as he made eye contact with me. He had very mysterious eyes of blue that seemed to cut right through my soul.
"Nice shirt," he said while gesturing to me. His voice was quiet and uncertain, as if he didn’t get much practice with the art. Knowing his mother, it seemed highly accurate.
"Thanks. Do you like them?" I asked.
"Oh, he likes all sorts of things, don’t you, Eli? Honestly, you two can gab on forever. But miss, I believe we have a small matter of payment," Barb said, drawing the conversation back to herself.
"Of course. Let me go get it," I said as I went back into the house and retrieved the envelope with the rent money in it.
Barb grabbed the envelope in her bright pink talons and snapped a piece of bubblegum between her teeth. With quick fingers, she leafed through the cash, counting it. As she counted, her normal bubbly personality seemed to disappear, giving way to what I gleaned was her true thoughts and feelings before the facade slipped on once again.
"Mmkay, perfect honey, this is the right amount. Now you have my number, so you call if you need anything. Like I said earlier, Eli will stop by from time to time to work on painting the house. I promise you he won’t be an imposition, just pay him no mind," Barb said in a sweet voice as she popped her gum in between each word.
"Eli, come on, please, I have an appointment in town," Barb said to her son, and they both climbed into a garish pink convertible with jewels hanging from the mirror wrapped in a gold chain.
Barb waved one last time as she sped off out of the driveway, covering me in dust as she spun the wheel around.
With their departure, I went inside and retrieved my camera. I spent a few minutes shooting a few pictures I thought were worthy. I re-entered the barn and pulled the old trunk out into the sunshine. Inside was only a handful of photos, some old clothes, and what looked like some old heirlooms. A beautifully old candlestick and a few leather-bound books lay at the bottom, covered by an old tablecloth. The tablecloth was a nice white with intricate swirling patterns inlaid around the edges.
Why would these things be packed away in here? They were so beautiful. I decided to bring the stuff inside for further inspection. As I lifted the trunk, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something move in the tall grass at the edge of the property. I stared for a minute, but nothing moved again. I must be getting jumpy being alone like this. After last night and then this, I was just imagining things.
I brought the items inside and spread them out. I put the tablecloth on the table, and it hung low to the ground. I placed the candlestick by the window and took out the photos again, spreading them out.
The photos told me a story of a loving family that obviously lived in the farmhouse before me. They had a photo next to the barn, with a brand new looking scarecrow in the back. The man even had his arm around it; it looked so much cleaner and proper in this photo. I stared outside at the sad-looking scarecrow.
I took my camera and the photo and went outside to stand next to the scarecrow. His post hung kind of crooked in the earth like it was weighed down by the scarecrow.
I snapped a photo of the scarecrow as it was, then examined the original photo. I began resettling the post in the ground, but it kept sagging. I decided to pull him out of the ground and move him while I added more dirt to his hole. With some effort, I reseated him into his original hole. He already looked better, but I straightened his clothes and pulled out the last bits of straw that stuck out of his clothes. When I was finished, I looked back at him and took a photo, smiling while I did so at my work.
I then spent some time sweeping the front porch and banging the dust out of the cushions before I curled up on a wicker chair with plump cushions for a few hours reading a book I had brought with me.
I felt quite content at this place. The sounds of the crickets began again, putting me at ease as the sun began to descend. I had spent the entire day just relaxing, and it was perfect. I sat sprawled out in the chair, too lazy to go and make dinner or even move. My bladder was full, but I waited until the last moment before dashing inside and relieving myself.
That's when I noticed it, out in the yard. It seemed as if the scarecrow had moved closer. Once shrouded by the barn slightly, it now had moved a few steps into the light from the porch. My heart dropped at the sight. Not again, I must be asleep on the porch in the chair. I pinched myself, trying to wake up, but all I received was a sore arm.
I closed my eyes, then rubbed them, hoping to dispel whatever plagued my mind, but when I opened my eyes, I noticed the scarecrow was even closer. Halfway across the yard now, it sat menacingly, hanging crooked in the dirt. The scarecrow seemed to be staring at me with an intense gaze. The slits in its face were open now, and in the porch light, I swear I could see human eyes underneath the mask.
I moved towards the front door, locking it in a swift motion. I was shaking now, and it took me a minute to relax. I never took my eyes off the scarecrow for fear of it moving again.
My cellphone was upstairs, so I couldn't flee without the scarecrow moving again. I breathed out slightly and unlocked the door, letting it swing in with a creak. The night outside was silent, as if everything was holding its breath. The usual crickets that plagued me with their song day and night had fallen quiet. I stepped out onto the porch; I needed to go confront this demonic entity. Something about this still made me think this was a prank.
"Eli, is that you?" I called out to the scarecrow.
No response, of course. I steeled myself and put one foot off the porch, never taking my eyes off the scarecrow before me. Something seemed to be dripping from its head as I approached, a dark slime that seemed to be melting from its joints as it stood there silently, except for the constant drip of the liquid on the dry dirt before me.
I walked around the scarecrow, determined to figure out what was going on. As I circled it, my vision darkened for a moment as I faced towards the light of the house. I jumped as the scarecrow's head turned to face me as I looked away. The black liquid drained faster from the being, forming a shallow pool at its feet.
I'm not proud of what I did next, but I fled, taking my eyes off the scarecrow. I made a mad dash for the farmhouse. Behind me, I could hear the pounding of feet. I screamed as loud as my lungs would let me. My voice rang through the silence as I grabbed the door handle and wrenched open the door as I felt a strong grip fall on my shoulder.
I turned to defend myself, but nothing was there. The scarecrow was gone, the wooden cross had vanished, as had the pool of dark liquid in the dirt. The world sprung back to life; the crickets began chirping loudly, and my heart restarted. I slammed the door, and the air from my force scattered the photographs on the table. I ran upstairs, leaving the lights on in the house, and dove onto the bed, wrapping myself in the frilly blanket like a set of frilly armor.
I snatched my camera from the bedside table and held it close, determined to document the rest of the night. I held it in shaking hands as the noise downstairs began—the sound of boots crossing the floor to the stairs and the careful but heavy steps of ascension as they climbed closer and closer to me.
This time, I didn't lunge forward as the light was already on. I glanced out the window, but the scarecrow was still gone. I focused my camera on the stairs and waited as the steps came closer and closer. A shape began to form as the head of whatever was coming up the stairs crested the floor. Then a plain brown mask with slits where the eyes would be. It froze for a moment, then slowly turned its head towards me. Inside the slits were human eyes that seemed to be leaking dark red blood.
In the light, I could see it now. I snapped a photo of the beast, the flash setting off a reaction in the beast. The scarecrow moved so fast up the stairs it was a blur. My scream echoed throughout the house as it lunged at me. Filthy hands pinned me down, and the deep crimson liquid began pouring out of every joint of the scarecrow. It began covering my face, my eyes, and getting into my open mouth. I spluttered and kicked at the beast, but my blows had no purchase, as if the scarecrow on top of me had no substance to itself.
I coughed and spluttered on the liquid as it began to fill my mouth faster and faster. I tried not to swallow any, but it tried to find purchase as I was held down.
"Polly?" A nervous voice called from below.
Suddenly, as if the angels had called, the pressure dissipated, and I crashed to the floor in a heap, trying to spit the blood out, but nothing came—it was gone. Footsteps pounded up the stairs again, and I flew back in fear, closing my eyes.
"Oh my god. Polly, are you okay?" A voice said, and gentle hands grabbed my arm.
My eyes shot open at the human touch, and I grabbed Eli into a tight hug, where I promptly began sobbing in fear, my whole body shaking as Eli awkwardly hugged me.
"Don't worry, it's going to be okay," Eli said patiently to me as he hugged me back gently and began stroking my back.
I shivered in a choking sob and fell into his arms, desperately wanting to believe him, and for some reason, I did.
2024.05.14 00:38 craftytoonlover I may be a petty jersey, but at least I got away from a "toxic" friend.
Edited: The title was supposed to say that: I may be a Petty jerk, but at least I got away from a toxic "friend. Auto correct changed it to Jersey, and I couldn't edit the actual title.
Fair Warning, this is going to be a LONG post, but I will try to dilute it as much as possible.
About 12 years ago I left the world of retail (of which I have MANY stories) to begin a career in childcare. Some people prefer different titles, Nanny, Babysitter, Parents' Helper, Childcare Provider, etc. To be honest each of those titles are suitable in different situations.
The first family that I Nannied for went on for about 4 years, and then on again off again for another year. Through this family, I met "Wendy" and her family. Wendy went out of her way to be friendly with me, and would often ask me to babysit her kids (B5 and G1).
At one point, I had moved on to working with another family for a few months. Sadly, that ended due to the parents getting a divorce, and they moved further away.
Wendy found out that I was unemployed and asked that I Nanny for her kids. She was also pregnant with her 3rd at the time. I agreed at a slightly discounted rate because we were "friends". I realized too late that that was a HUGE mistake on my part.
Wendy's live in boyfriend "Cole" also had 3 kids from a previous relationship. B15, G8, and G6 lived with their mother. Yes, am aware of the closeness in age of Wendy and Cole' B5 and his G6. I chose to keep my mouth shut.
Now prepare yourselves for the Rollercoaster of emotions I dealt with with this family.
Initially, both Wendy and Cole were employed. I would come over 5 days a week for 8 to 10 hour days, depending upon whether Wendy got home on time. Here is where my discounted rate bit me in the butt.... $300 a week was still complained about. Wendy asked that I not leave Cole alone with their kids because he basically ignored them and refused to change diapers. I felt pretty icky about that, but agreed. Now I lived 45 minutes away without traffic. I would often leave my house early in anticipation of possible traffic. If I arrived early, I wasn't allowed in until she our alloted time of 7am. I didn't have a key, and would often be left waiting on the porch an extra 15 minutes past our time. If I knew I was too early, I parked around the corner and ate breakfast. Wendy and Cole both got very irritated if I wasn't their door precisely at 7 am. It was a headache that I chose to avoid.
Over the first month, I realized that G2 was emotionally abused by Wendy. She constantly said to or in front of the child how much she hated dealing with the wild child. How she wished G2 was more well behaved like B5. She even wrote unkind things on Facebook, asking someone to take her on the weekend while I was off.
This took a toll on poor G2, obviously. She would get violent with me first thing in the mornings : Hitting, kicking, biting, pulling my hair, throwing things at me, or what ever popped into her mind. Eventually, once Wendy left for work G2 would calm down and become an absolute delight.
When B5 started school, Wendy took a new job that allowed her to work from home at times. Those were not fun days! I asked if I could bring G2 to my house where I have an outdoor play area, a playroom, plenty of kid movies, crafts, books, music, and local playgrounds. At first the car rides were torture with G2 screaming bloody murder for at least half of the 45 minute drive. When she got used to the new routine, those drives became pleasant. Her violent tendencies disappeared when we were spending the days at my home. The drawback was that I also had to drive her home in time to get B5 off the bus.
During school breaks, I also had B5, and if they were visiting G8 and G6. B15 stayed at Wendy's house and just did his own thing. If you thought G2 was torture in toddler form, these two girls would have made Nanny McPhee grow a few more moles, a hunch back, and closed feet.
B5 would get a little bored, being that he was the only boy that was understandable. I purchased an array of boy friendlier toys to entertain him. I already had a lot of girl friendly toys either purchased or gifted from the first family that I had worked with. Of course I had plenty of gender neutral items too.
Wendy and Cole didn't give 2 sh*ts and a shave if the kids watched TV all day, went out to a playground or museum, or were driven 2 hours away, as long as I got them home on time. I easily spent an entire paycheck on activities, gas, food (which they didn't pack), and toys over 2 weeks watching all 4 kids. By the by, when asked for additional money when I did have all 4, Wendy not so politely informed me that the kids are entertain each other, so my job should be easier with all 4.
My husband and I discussed a few times whether I should look for something else. Inevitably the people pleaser in me actually felt guilty even considering it. Yup, I was apparently a glutton for punishment. Gratefully, my income was just extra, for an nice meal out occasionally, gifts for birthdays and holiday, extra hobbies, and basic groceries.
Just before Wendy gave birth to their new baby, she became unemployed. Logically, one would think this was my easy out. NOPE!! I became more of a Mother's Helper / Nanny. At this point Wendy and Cole were beginning to look for a larger house to rent. I did more walk through than I can count. She even asked me to tour a couple without her, and to bring G2 and B5 so she could get her nails done and take a nap. (Seriously, I toured houses on her list without her!)
As we spent more and more time together, I began to learn FAR FAR more about her bedroom life than I could ever desire. G2 and I spent much less time in the peace of my home, and way too much in Wendy's company. G2's behavior began to deteriorate slowly, causing Wendy to lose her temper with her far too easily. This completely broke my heart. I TRIED to redirect them both, and expressed my concern to Wendy. Of course, she then turned her anger towards me.
Wendy would openly discuss her theories about Cole in front of her kids. She claimed that he was cheating on her with his ex because he would shower immediately after seeing her to pick up or drop off the kids. He often made those drives directly after work though. Maybe he was cheating, maybe not. I honestly don't know.
Wendy also enjoyed gossiping about absolutely anybody. The parents of the first family that worked with were having marital issues. This was a favorite topic of hers. Wendy told me about every unkind word her mother uttered in her direction. The apple obviously didn't fall far from the tree here. I was told lots of personal information about people I didn't know. The gossip made me very uncomfortable. I told her that I would prefer we not discuss the lives of people who weren't around to speak on their own behalf. This fell on deaf ears.
I became quite used to her disapproval of my loose fitting jeans and T-shirts. Working with kids, I found my favorite cartoon prints were just as possible with my tiny charges. I NEVER wear makeup or heels because I simply don't want to. My dresses always have leggings under them because it make me feel less vulnerable. I never wear shorts or above the knee skirts/dresses. That's a ME thing, not religious or cultural. I find my "uniform" of choice is ideal for working with kids. Wendy informed me more than once that it embarrassed her to be seen in public with me. She often insisted that I wear something of hers if we had to go anywhere.
My husband enjoys photography, particularly long exposure which is done at night. He has a lot of photography friends of both genders, but his best friend is a female. He also enjoys concerts and kayaking, often with an ex from high school. (He graduated in 1997). I trust my husband and have no problem with him spending time with his friends. Enter Wendy's whispers of accusations. She often "jokingly" accused him of cheating on me with these female friends. I don't enjoy concerts, crowds, or being out late; so I support his doing with people who do. At least I know he with someone if something happens. I have bad knees, which make getting in and out of a kayak difficult. Why should that stop him? Again, I told her that I trust him and that I don't appreciate her accusations joke or not. This annoyed her because she doesn't trust Cole.
I know these are major red flag issues. I know how toxic being subjected to these comments is. I also know how difficult it would be on their kids if I left too soon. I knew they needed someone who wasn't emotionally cruel. I stayed for them.
My husband and I spent 2 of our weekends helping them pack and move to house that ended up 15 minutes from us. We were thanked by words, but that was the extent of the gratitude. Wendy's mother looked after the kids while we helped them move. This was complained about because I was already paid to watch the kids during the week. Insert eye roll here!! Her mom felt my husband should be willing to help them move while I watched the kids on the weekend for no extra pay. Either way, we were doing them a HUGE favor to begin with.
A family that I had briefly Nannied for prior to working for Wendy asked if I could help out every other Saturday. The dad (Nice Guy) traveled a lot for work leaving the Mom (Angelface) home alone with the kids. She just needed a day to run errands, work out, and just have time to herself. Angelface is one of the kindest women on this planet. When I did Nanny for them (2 days a week), she was in tears when she had to let me go. They couldn't justify the outgoing money at the time. She referred me to several friends. I am legitimately friend with this family, and still babysit sporadically.
Through a random discussion, I told Wendy about working with Angelface on every other Saturday. She began to tell me what to charge, how many hours to work, and what days to leave open for her just in case. Insert headache inducing eyerolls!
One Friday, Wendy's cousin arrived for a weekend visit with her baby. Wendy told me that because it was a holiday weekend I would not be needed until Tuesday. I double checked via text, and she confirmed that she and Cole were taking the kids to the beach with her cousin. Monday morning I got a call from a passed off Wendy asking where I am. I reminded her that she had told me that they would not need me. I even took a screen shot of our text. She said that Cole had decided to work Monday anyway so she was alone with HER kids. This pissed me off, so I lied. I told her that I was out of town with my mom and wouldn't be home until 5 or 6 pm. She went on about how much of an inconvenience it was to her, and I should have checked before going out of town. For the second time, I sent her a screenshot of my text verifying that I wasn't needed Monday. She abruptly ended the call saying to just be sure to be on time Tuesday. I had NEVER been late, but opted to mention that as we hung up.
Over time we worked out a new arrangement where I brought now G3 to my house 2 days a week, and we stayed there 3 days a week. I helped with cleaning, errands, helped with the new baby (NB), etc. Mostly, I was Wendy's sounding board. She continued to accuse Cole of cheating, wasting money, and even beating her.
My husband and I offered to let her and the kids stay with us, but she declined. Wendy even told me that since she was so sure Cole was cheating, she was going to find herself a side boyfriend to cheat with. I tried to talk her out of it, to no avail. Sadly, she spoke openly about her new boyfriend in fron of G3. During one of her rants I learned that my pay came from him selling drugs. GULP!!
While cleaning out the couch one day, I came across a loaded gun kept in the couch console thing, along with baggies of pills, "dried plants", and white powder. This completely freaked me out. 2 small children and a soon to be crawling baby sat and played on and around that couch. I STRONGLY considered calling Child Pretective Services and the police. I quickly realized that if I did, they would know it was me. I regret it, but I feared their possible retaliation towards us.
Shortly after finding these thing Cole quit his job. For several months while I worked for them, they were both unemployed. Again, I thought it was an easy out. NOPE AGAIN! For another 3 months, they insisted that they couldn't take care of the house and kids without my help. Very often, I arrived to find now B6 fending for himself for breakfast and getting ready for school. He was told to wake up and unlock the door for me, but they went back to sleep. I was expected to keep the baby from crying, and to keep G3 quiet and entertained until they came downstairs. I often chose to simply take both to my house so we could play naturally. We had a crib, so this wasn't a problem for NB. G3 would just nap on the couch or my bed. When out of school B6 preferred this too. This really should have told Wendy and Cole something about their kids, but of course not.
FINALLY, I was informed after about a year of working for them, they could no longer justify paying me. At this point, I had often considered quitting anyway. I mainly stayed because my heart broke for the kids. However, based on her gossipy and judgmental nature ... not to mention my little 3 day weekend fail; I was concerned about what kind of reference Wendy would provide if I chose to quit.
So in 2019, I found myself happily unemployed. The timing here worked out beautifully because Angelface knew neighbors due to have their first baby in 2020. I ended up working for this lovely family until August of 2023. The mom (Joy) and the Dad (Mr. Cool) were such a relief to my entire mental and physical health. We became friends as well, and over time I told them about Wendy. Between Joy, Angelface, Mr. Cool, Nice Guy, my husband, and family I began to realize just hoe toxic Wendy really was to my mental health. My husband never liked her but understood my feelings towards the kids.
For almost a year Wendy would randomly call or FaceTime me .... more often than not while drunk. She would rave about how much she and the kids missed me. We would get together for a meal, and she had me over for a couple birthday parties for the kids. I found myself almost always being the only sober adult watching the kids as the adults partied. Wendy often went back to her gossiping, trash talking, and "jokes" about my husband spending time with women. She would offer underhanded compliments. "It's so nice to see you wearing a dress instead of those tacky T-shirts." You get the drift. She even INFORMED me that since her neighbor was pregnant I could quit my job with Joy and Mr. Cool. She had told her neighbor that I would work for her now, and since they were next door, I would watch her own kids too. I shut that down saying that I was quite happy working with Joy and Mr. Cool. I even lied about what they paid thinking it would detur her further. NOPE yet again. She said that I should quit anyway so her life would be easier with me around. Once more, I told her that wasn't going to happen.
AT LONG LAST, I am coming to the end of my tortuous endurment with Wendy.
A week later, she called and asked if I had quit yet. I said that I had no intention of leaving an "$800" a week job. (Not even close to that with my 3 day a week job, but she didn't need to know the truth.) She told me to let her know when I quit, then changed the subject towards gossiping about that first family and their problems. I told her that I don't feel comfortable gossiping about people who can't speak for themselves. That pissed her off, so she turned it on me again. She said of course I don't want to talk about them since my husband was cheating on me with 2 different women. I angrily corrected her. She has no reason to think my husband is cheating, and I trust him and our friends. Just because she thinks her boyfriend cheats, and she cheats, that doesn't mean everybody does. She then said we could talk when I calmed down and after I quit my job.
After hanging up, I proceeded to block Wendy on everything! Facebook, phone calls, texting, face timing, Instagram, and even Snapchat (which I hadn't used in over a year). I also blocked her mom, and any body that had been friendly simply because Wendy knew them and wanted me to have their information too. I gave her no warning at all. I was beyond passed off, and refused to be talked out of my very gratifying decision.
I told my husband, family, and friends that was now free of Wendy. Not a single person tried to tell me to make ammends. The only guilt that I feel is towards those poor kids. For once though, I put myself first. Joy and Angelface were both extremely supportive when I told them that I had Ghosted Wendy. Both even mentioned how proud they were of me for FINALLY truly stand-up for myself. They were NOT fans of Wendy!!!
I never ended up quitting my job with Joy and Mr. Cool inorder to babysit Wendy's neighbor. I also continued to babysit for Angelface and Nice Guy.
About 7 or 8 months ago, I ran into Wendy at a playground between our two homes. She was with now G5 and B2. I had Joy and Mr. Cool's daughter with me. I was polite, almost obscenely so. I was friendly towards the kids, who were stand off-ish. I offered to let Little Miss play with them, but they weren't interested. Little Miss wanted to do her own thing, so off we went to play. We left after only 15 minutes because Little Miss said "that lady" is scaring her.
That night, my husband got a Facebook message from Wendy. She described my cruelty towards her kids by ignoring them. She said that it was so hateful that I blocked her on everything after all she had done for us. This message went on and on. My husband left it unread for months before my morbid curiosity caused me to open the silly thing. We never responded, but instead he finally bl9cked her too.
Ok, if you read that bloody novel of a post, you are a ROCK STAR!! I don't have any regrets towards my eventual choice, except towards the kids. It breaks my heart knowing what kind of parents they are enduring. I often regret not calling CPS, but there isn't a shadow of doubt that would have retaliated .... most likely violently.
I did eventually get back in contact with that very first Nanny family. They had indeed broken up, but both are happier and healthier now. I warned them that Wendy enjoyed gossiping and spreading rumors about them. Neither were surprised, and both had broken contact with Wendy long ago. They supported my choice to break ties with her as well. Shocking, right!?!
I no longer work full time for Joy and Mr. Cool, as they wanted Little Miss to get used to being around more kids before starting school. I do still sporadically babysit for them and Angelface and Nice Guy though. The two couples have referred me to several other families in the neighborhood, so I stay pretty busy with much more sane individuals.
Maybe I was a jerk, and petty. I'm cool with being thought of that way towards Wendy. At least now, I have much kinder people in my life.
EDITED/UPDATE: It has come to my attention that some may feel unfulfilled on the petty revenge side. For this former doormat, removing myself as her very cheap childcare was my revenge. I realize that many may not feel it was enough, but at the time, it was a MAJOR achievement for me. I had worked 8 to 10 hours a day for 5 days a week to receive $300.
When "invited" to parties, I ended up providing free childcare while the other adults got drunk. I don't like the taste of alcohol or the feeling of being buzzed or drunk, so I don't partake. I feared what would happen to the ignored kids, so I found myself watching them.
I never had a lot of friends, so for a long time, I truly thought Wendy was my friend. It took conversations with my husband, my mom, Angelface, Joy, and others for me to see the reality of my situation.
Some may say this post is in fact gossiping about her. To a point, yes I will agree. I did change everybody's names though.
Ultimately, I have always questioned whether or not I was fair or did the right thing by Ghosting and blocking Wendy. I often second guess my choice; especially when thinking about those kids.
I have tried to be more alert about the people around me since this experience. I do still find myself being too nice and accepting of some ways in which I am treated. I have tried to build more boundaries though.
submitted by craftytoonlover to AmITheJerk [link] [comments]
Fair Warning, this is going to be a LONG post, but I will try to dilute it as much as possible.
About 12 years ago I left the world of retail (of which I have MANY stories) to begin a career in childcare. Some people prefer different titles, Nanny, Babysitter, Parents' Helper, Childcare Provider, etc. To be honest each of those titles are suitable in different situations.
The first family that I Nannied for went on for about 4 years, and then on again off again for another year. Through this family, I met "Wendy" and her family. Wendy went out of her way to be friendly with me, and would often ask me to babysit her kids (B5 and G1).
At one point, I had moved on to working with another family for a few months. Sadly, that ended due to the parents getting a divorce, and they moved further away.
Wendy found out that I was unemployed and asked that I Nanny for her kids. She was also pregnant with her 3rd at the time. I agreed at a slightly discounted rate because we were "friends". I realized too late that that was a HUGE mistake on my part.
Wendy's live in boyfriend "Cole" also had 3 kids from a previous relationship. B15, G8, and G6 lived with their mother. Yes, am aware of the closeness in age of Wendy and Cole' B5 and his G6. I chose to keep my mouth shut.
Now prepare yourselves for the Rollercoaster of emotions I dealt with with this family.
Initially, both Wendy and Cole were employed. I would come over 5 days a week for 8 to 10 hour days, depending upon whether Wendy got home on time. Here is where my discounted rate bit me in the butt.... $300 a week was still complained about. Wendy asked that I not leave Cole alone with their kids because he basically ignored them and refused to change diapers. I felt pretty icky about that, but agreed. Now I lived 45 minutes away without traffic. I would often leave my house early in anticipation of possible traffic. If I arrived early, I wasn't allowed in until she our alloted time of 7am. I didn't have a key, and would often be left waiting on the porch an extra 15 minutes past our time. If I knew I was too early, I parked around the corner and ate breakfast. Wendy and Cole both got very irritated if I wasn't their door precisely at 7 am. It was a headache that I chose to avoid.
Over the first month, I realized that G2 was emotionally abused by Wendy. She constantly said to or in front of the child how much she hated dealing with the wild child. How she wished G2 was more well behaved like B5. She even wrote unkind things on Facebook, asking someone to take her on the weekend while I was off.
This took a toll on poor G2, obviously. She would get violent with me first thing in the mornings : Hitting, kicking, biting, pulling my hair, throwing things at me, or what ever popped into her mind. Eventually, once Wendy left for work G2 would calm down and become an absolute delight.
When B5 started school, Wendy took a new job that allowed her to work from home at times. Those were not fun days! I asked if I could bring G2 to my house where I have an outdoor play area, a playroom, plenty of kid movies, crafts, books, music, and local playgrounds. At first the car rides were torture with G2 screaming bloody murder for at least half of the 45 minute drive. When she got used to the new routine, those drives became pleasant. Her violent tendencies disappeared when we were spending the days at my home. The drawback was that I also had to drive her home in time to get B5 off the bus.
During school breaks, I also had B5, and if they were visiting G8 and G6. B15 stayed at Wendy's house and just did his own thing. If you thought G2 was torture in toddler form, these two girls would have made Nanny McPhee grow a few more moles, a hunch back, and closed feet.
B5 would get a little bored, being that he was the only boy that was understandable. I purchased an array of boy friendlier toys to entertain him. I already had a lot of girl friendly toys either purchased or gifted from the first family that I had worked with. Of course I had plenty of gender neutral items too.
Wendy and Cole didn't give 2 sh*ts and a shave if the kids watched TV all day, went out to a playground or museum, or were driven 2 hours away, as long as I got them home on time. I easily spent an entire paycheck on activities, gas, food (which they didn't pack), and toys over 2 weeks watching all 4 kids. By the by, when asked for additional money when I did have all 4, Wendy not so politely informed me that the kids are entertain each other, so my job should be easier with all 4.
My husband and I discussed a few times whether I should look for something else. Inevitably the people pleaser in me actually felt guilty even considering it. Yup, I was apparently a glutton for punishment. Gratefully, my income was just extra, for an nice meal out occasionally, gifts for birthdays and holiday, extra hobbies, and basic groceries.
Just before Wendy gave birth to their new baby, she became unemployed. Logically, one would think this was my easy out. NOPE!! I became more of a Mother's Helper / Nanny. At this point Wendy and Cole were beginning to look for a larger house to rent. I did more walk through than I can count. She even asked me to tour a couple without her, and to bring G2 and B5 so she could get her nails done and take a nap. (Seriously, I toured houses on her list without her!)
As we spent more and more time together, I began to learn FAR FAR more about her bedroom life than I could ever desire. G2 and I spent much less time in the peace of my home, and way too much in Wendy's company. G2's behavior began to deteriorate slowly, causing Wendy to lose her temper with her far too easily. This completely broke my heart. I TRIED to redirect them both, and expressed my concern to Wendy. Of course, she then turned her anger towards me.
Wendy would openly discuss her theories about Cole in front of her kids. She claimed that he was cheating on her with his ex because he would shower immediately after seeing her to pick up or drop off the kids. He often made those drives directly after work though. Maybe he was cheating, maybe not. I honestly don't know.
Wendy also enjoyed gossiping about absolutely anybody. The parents of the first family that worked with were having marital issues. This was a favorite topic of hers. Wendy told me about every unkind word her mother uttered in her direction. The apple obviously didn't fall far from the tree here. I was told lots of personal information about people I didn't know. The gossip made me very uncomfortable. I told her that I would prefer we not discuss the lives of people who weren't around to speak on their own behalf. This fell on deaf ears.
I became quite used to her disapproval of my loose fitting jeans and T-shirts. Working with kids, I found my favorite cartoon prints were just as possible with my tiny charges. I NEVER wear makeup or heels because I simply don't want to. My dresses always have leggings under them because it make me feel less vulnerable. I never wear shorts or above the knee skirts/dresses. That's a ME thing, not religious or cultural. I find my "uniform" of choice is ideal for working with kids. Wendy informed me more than once that it embarrassed her to be seen in public with me. She often insisted that I wear something of hers if we had to go anywhere.
My husband enjoys photography, particularly long exposure which is done at night. He has a lot of photography friends of both genders, but his best friend is a female. He also enjoys concerts and kayaking, often with an ex from high school. (He graduated in 1997). I trust my husband and have no problem with him spending time with his friends. Enter Wendy's whispers of accusations. She often "jokingly" accused him of cheating on me with these female friends. I don't enjoy concerts, crowds, or being out late; so I support his doing with people who do. At least I know he with someone if something happens. I have bad knees, which make getting in and out of a kayak difficult. Why should that stop him? Again, I told her that I trust him and that I don't appreciate her accusations joke or not. This annoyed her because she doesn't trust Cole.
I know these are major red flag issues. I know how toxic being subjected to these comments is. I also know how difficult it would be on their kids if I left too soon. I knew they needed someone who wasn't emotionally cruel. I stayed for them.
My husband and I spent 2 of our weekends helping them pack and move to house that ended up 15 minutes from us. We were thanked by words, but that was the extent of the gratitude. Wendy's mother looked after the kids while we helped them move. This was complained about because I was already paid to watch the kids during the week. Insert eye roll here!! Her mom felt my husband should be willing to help them move while I watched the kids on the weekend for no extra pay. Either way, we were doing them a HUGE favor to begin with.
A family that I had briefly Nannied for prior to working for Wendy asked if I could help out every other Saturday. The dad (Nice Guy) traveled a lot for work leaving the Mom (Angelface) home alone with the kids. She just needed a day to run errands, work out, and just have time to herself. Angelface is one of the kindest women on this planet. When I did Nanny for them (2 days a week), she was in tears when she had to let me go. They couldn't justify the outgoing money at the time. She referred me to several friends. I am legitimately friend with this family, and still babysit sporadically.
Through a random discussion, I told Wendy about working with Angelface on every other Saturday. She began to tell me what to charge, how many hours to work, and what days to leave open for her just in case. Insert headache inducing eyerolls!
One Friday, Wendy's cousin arrived for a weekend visit with her baby. Wendy told me that because it was a holiday weekend I would not be needed until Tuesday. I double checked via text, and she confirmed that she and Cole were taking the kids to the beach with her cousin. Monday morning I got a call from a passed off Wendy asking where I am. I reminded her that she had told me that they would not need me. I even took a screen shot of our text. She said that Cole had decided to work Monday anyway so she was alone with HER kids. This pissed me off, so I lied. I told her that I was out of town with my mom and wouldn't be home until 5 or 6 pm. She went on about how much of an inconvenience it was to her, and I should have checked before going out of town. For the second time, I sent her a screenshot of my text verifying that I wasn't needed Monday. She abruptly ended the call saying to just be sure to be on time Tuesday. I had NEVER been late, but opted to mention that as we hung up.
Over time we worked out a new arrangement where I brought now G3 to my house 2 days a week, and we stayed there 3 days a week. I helped with cleaning, errands, helped with the new baby (NB), etc. Mostly, I was Wendy's sounding board. She continued to accuse Cole of cheating, wasting money, and even beating her.
My husband and I offered to let her and the kids stay with us, but she declined. Wendy even told me that since she was so sure Cole was cheating, she was going to find herself a side boyfriend to cheat with. I tried to talk her out of it, to no avail. Sadly, she spoke openly about her new boyfriend in fron of G3. During one of her rants I learned that my pay came from him selling drugs. GULP!!
While cleaning out the couch one day, I came across a loaded gun kept in the couch console thing, along with baggies of pills, "dried plants", and white powder. This completely freaked me out. 2 small children and a soon to be crawling baby sat and played on and around that couch. I STRONGLY considered calling Child Pretective Services and the police. I quickly realized that if I did, they would know it was me. I regret it, but I feared their possible retaliation towards us.
Shortly after finding these thing Cole quit his job. For several months while I worked for them, they were both unemployed. Again, I thought it was an easy out. NOPE AGAIN! For another 3 months, they insisted that they couldn't take care of the house and kids without my help. Very often, I arrived to find now B6 fending for himself for breakfast and getting ready for school. He was told to wake up and unlock the door for me, but they went back to sleep. I was expected to keep the baby from crying, and to keep G3 quiet and entertained until they came downstairs. I often chose to simply take both to my house so we could play naturally. We had a crib, so this wasn't a problem for NB. G3 would just nap on the couch or my bed. When out of school B6 preferred this too. This really should have told Wendy and Cole something about their kids, but of course not.
FINALLY, I was informed after about a year of working for them, they could no longer justify paying me. At this point, I had often considered quitting anyway. I mainly stayed because my heart broke for the kids. However, based on her gossipy and judgmental nature ... not to mention my little 3 day weekend fail; I was concerned about what kind of reference Wendy would provide if I chose to quit.
So in 2019, I found myself happily unemployed. The timing here worked out beautifully because Angelface knew neighbors due to have their first baby in 2020. I ended up working for this lovely family until August of 2023. The mom (Joy) and the Dad (Mr. Cool) were such a relief to my entire mental and physical health. We became friends as well, and over time I told them about Wendy. Between Joy, Angelface, Mr. Cool, Nice Guy, my husband, and family I began to realize just hoe toxic Wendy really was to my mental health. My husband never liked her but understood my feelings towards the kids.
For almost a year Wendy would randomly call or FaceTime me .... more often than not while drunk. She would rave about how much she and the kids missed me. We would get together for a meal, and she had me over for a couple birthday parties for the kids. I found myself almost always being the only sober adult watching the kids as the adults partied. Wendy often went back to her gossiping, trash talking, and "jokes" about my husband spending time with women. She would offer underhanded compliments. "It's so nice to see you wearing a dress instead of those tacky T-shirts." You get the drift. She even INFORMED me that since her neighbor was pregnant I could quit my job with Joy and Mr. Cool. She had told her neighbor that I would work for her now, and since they were next door, I would watch her own kids too. I shut that down saying that I was quite happy working with Joy and Mr. Cool. I even lied about what they paid thinking it would detur her further. NOPE yet again. She said that I should quit anyway so her life would be easier with me around. Once more, I told her that wasn't going to happen.
AT LONG LAST, I am coming to the end of my tortuous endurment with Wendy.
A week later, she called and asked if I had quit yet. I said that I had no intention of leaving an "$800" a week job. (Not even close to that with my 3 day a week job, but she didn't need to know the truth.) She told me to let her know when I quit, then changed the subject towards gossiping about that first family and their problems. I told her that I don't feel comfortable gossiping about people who can't speak for themselves. That pissed her off, so she turned it on me again. She said of course I don't want to talk about them since my husband was cheating on me with 2 different women. I angrily corrected her. She has no reason to think my husband is cheating, and I trust him and our friends. Just because she thinks her boyfriend cheats, and she cheats, that doesn't mean everybody does. She then said we could talk when I calmed down and after I quit my job.
After hanging up, I proceeded to block Wendy on everything! Facebook, phone calls, texting, face timing, Instagram, and even Snapchat (which I hadn't used in over a year). I also blocked her mom, and any body that had been friendly simply because Wendy knew them and wanted me to have their information too. I gave her no warning at all. I was beyond passed off, and refused to be talked out of my very gratifying decision.
I told my husband, family, and friends that was now free of Wendy. Not a single person tried to tell me to make ammends. The only guilt that I feel is towards those poor kids. For once though, I put myself first. Joy and Angelface were both extremely supportive when I told them that I had Ghosted Wendy. Both even mentioned how proud they were of me for FINALLY truly stand-up for myself. They were NOT fans of Wendy!!!
I never ended up quitting my job with Joy and Mr. Cool inorder to babysit Wendy's neighbor. I also continued to babysit for Angelface and Nice Guy.
About 7 or 8 months ago, I ran into Wendy at a playground between our two homes. She was with now G5 and B2. I had Joy and Mr. Cool's daughter with me. I was polite, almost obscenely so. I was friendly towards the kids, who were stand off-ish. I offered to let Little Miss play with them, but they weren't interested. Little Miss wanted to do her own thing, so off we went to play. We left after only 15 minutes because Little Miss said "that lady" is scaring her.
That night, my husband got a Facebook message from Wendy. She described my cruelty towards her kids by ignoring them. She said that it was so hateful that I blocked her on everything after all she had done for us. This message went on and on. My husband left it unread for months before my morbid curiosity caused me to open the silly thing. We never responded, but instead he finally bl9cked her too.
Ok, if you read that bloody novel of a post, you are a ROCK STAR!! I don't have any regrets towards my eventual choice, except towards the kids. It breaks my heart knowing what kind of parents they are enduring. I often regret not calling CPS, but there isn't a shadow of doubt that would have retaliated .... most likely violently.
I did eventually get back in contact with that very first Nanny family. They had indeed broken up, but both are happier and healthier now. I warned them that Wendy enjoyed gossiping and spreading rumors about them. Neither were surprised, and both had broken contact with Wendy long ago. They supported my choice to break ties with her as well. Shocking, right!?!
I no longer work full time for Joy and Mr. Cool, as they wanted Little Miss to get used to being around more kids before starting school. I do still sporadically babysit for them and Angelface and Nice Guy though. The two couples have referred me to several other families in the neighborhood, so I stay pretty busy with much more sane individuals.
Maybe I was a jerk, and petty. I'm cool with being thought of that way towards Wendy. At least now, I have much kinder people in my life.
EDITED/UPDATE: It has come to my attention that some may feel unfulfilled on the petty revenge side. For this former doormat, removing myself as her very cheap childcare was my revenge. I realize that many may not feel it was enough, but at the time, it was a MAJOR achievement for me. I had worked 8 to 10 hours a day for 5 days a week to receive $300.
When "invited" to parties, I ended up providing free childcare while the other adults got drunk. I don't like the taste of alcohol or the feeling of being buzzed or drunk, so I don't partake. I feared what would happen to the ignored kids, so I found myself watching them.
I never had a lot of friends, so for a long time, I truly thought Wendy was my friend. It took conversations with my husband, my mom, Angelface, Joy, and others for me to see the reality of my situation.
Some may say this post is in fact gossiping about her. To a point, yes I will agree. I did change everybody's names though.
Ultimately, I have always questioned whether or not I was fair or did the right thing by Ghosting and blocking Wendy. I often second guess my choice; especially when thinking about those kids.
I have tried to be more alert about the people around me since this experience. I do still find myself being too nice and accepting of some ways in which I am treated. I have tried to build more boundaries though.
2024.05.14 00:33 craftytoonlover I may be the A-H and a bit petty, but at least I got away from a toxic "friend".
I may be the A-H and a bit Petty, but at least I got away from a toxic "friend".
Fair Warning, this is going to be a LONG post, but I will try to dilute it as much as possible.
About 12 years ago I left the world of retail (of which I have MANY stories) to begin a career in childcare. Some people prefer different titles, Nanny, Babysitter, Parents' Helper, Childcare Provider, etc. To be honest each of those titles are suitable in different situations.
The first family that I Nannied for went on for about 4 years, and then on again off again for another year. Through this family, I met "Wendy" and her family. Wendy went out of her way to be friendly with me, and would often ask me to babysit her kids (B5 and G1).
At one point, I had moved on to working with another family for a few months. Sadly, that ended due to the parents getting a divorce, and they moved further away.
Wendy found out that I was unemployed and asked that I Nanny for her kids. She was also pregnant with her 3rd at the time. I agreed at a slightly discounted rate because we were "friends". I realized too late that that was a HUGE mistake on my part.
Wendy's live in boyfriend "Cole" also had 3 kids from a previous relationship. B15, G8, and G6 lived with their mother. Yes, am aware of the closeness in age of Wendy and Cole' B5 and his G6. I chose to keep my mouth shut.
Now prepare yourselves for the Rollercoaster of emotions I dealt with with this family.
Initially, both Wendy and Cole were employed. I would come over 5 days a week for 8 to 10 hour days, depending upon whether Wendy got home on time. Here is where my discounted rate bit me in the butt.... $300 a week was still complained about. Wendy asked that I not leave Cole alone with their kids because he basically ignored them and refused to change diapers. I felt pretty icky about that, but agreed. Now I lived 45 minutes away without traffic. I would often leave my house early in anticipation of possible traffic. If I arrived early, I wasn't allowed in until she our alloted time of 7am. I didn't have a key, and would often be left waiting on the porch an extra 15 minutes past our time. If I knew I was too early, I parked around the corner and ate breakfast. Wendy and Cole both got very irritated if I wasn't their door precisely at 7 am. It was a headache that I chose to avoid.
Over the first month, I realized that G2 was emotionally abused by Wendy. She constantly said to or in front of the child how much she hated dealing with the wild child. How she wished G2 was more well behaved like B5. She even wrote unkind things on Facebook, asking someone to take her on the weekend while I was off.
This took a toll on poor G2, obviously. She would get violent with me first thing in the mornings : Hitting, kicking, biting, pulling my hair, throwing things at me, or what ever popped into her mind. Eventually, once Wendy left for work G2 would calm down and become an absolute delight.
When B5 started school, Wendy took a new job that allowed her to work from home at times. Those were not fun days! I asked if I could bring G2 to my house where I have an outdoor play area, a playroom, plenty of kid movies, crafts, books, music, and local playgrounds. At first the car rides were torture with G2 screaming bloody murder for at least half of the 45 minute drive. When she got used to the new routine, those drives became pleasant. Her violent tendencies disappeared when we were spending the days at my home. The drawback was that I also had to drive her home in time to get B5 off the bus.
During school breaks, I also had B5, and if they were visiting G8 and G6. B15 stayed at Wendy's house and just did his own thing. If you thought G2 was torture in toddler form, these two girls would have made Nanny McPhee grow a few more moles, a hunch back, and closed feet.
B5 would get a little bored, being that he was the only boy that was understandable. I purchased an array of boy friendlier toys to entertain him. I already had a lot of girl friendly toys either purchased or gifted from the first family that I had worked with. Of course I had plenty of gender neutral items too.
Wendy and Cole didn't give 2 sh*ts and a shave if the kids watched TV all day, went out to a playground or museum, or were driven 2 hours away, as long as I got them home on time. I easily spent an entire paycheck on activities, gas, food (which they didn't pack), and toys over 2 weeks watching all 4 kids. By the by, when asked for additional money when I did have all 4, Wendy not so politely informed me that the kids are entertain each other, so my job should be easier with all 4.
My husband and I discussed a few times whether I should look for something else. Inevitably the people pleaser in me actually felt guilty even considering it. Yup, I was apparently a glutton for punishment. Gratefully, my income was just extra, for an nice meal out occasionally, gifts for birthdays and holiday, extra hobbies, and basic groceries.
Just before Wendy gave birth to their new baby, she became unemployed. Logically, one would think this was my easy out. NOPE!! I became more of a Mother's Helper / Nanny. At this point Wendy and Cole were beginning to look for a larger house to rent. I did more walk through than I can count. She even asked me to tour a couple without her, and to bring G2 and B5 so she could get her nails done and take a nap. (Seriously, I toured houses on her list without her!)
As we spent more and more time together, I began to learn FAR FAR more about her bedroom life than I could ever desire. G2 and I spent much less time in the peace of my home, and way too much in Wendy's company. G2's behavior began to deteriorate slowly, causing Wendy to lose her temper with her far too easily. This completely broke my heart. I TRIED to redirect them both, and expressed my concern to Wendy. Of course, she then turned her anger towards me.
Wendy would openly discuss her theories about Cole in front of her kids. She claimed that he was cheating on her with his ex because he would shower immediately after seeing her to pick up or drop off the kids. He often made those drives directly after work though. Maybe he was cheating, maybe not. I honestly don't know.
Wendy also enjoyed gossiping about absolutely anybody. The parents of the first family that worked with were having marital issues. This was a favorite topic of hers. Wendy told me about every unkind word her mother uttered in her direction. The apple obviously didn't fall far from the tree here. I was told lots of personal information about people I didn't know. The gossip made me very uncomfortable. I told her that I would prefer we not discuss the lives of people who weren't around to speak on their own behalf. This fell on deaf ears.
I became quite used to her disapproval of my loose fitting jeans and T-shirts. Working with kids, I found my favorite cartoon prints were just as possible with my tiny charges. I NEVER wear makeup or heels because I simply don't want to. My dresses always have leggings under them because it make me feel less vulnerable. I never wear shorts or above the knee skirts/dresses. That's a ME thing, not religious or cultural. I find my "uniform" of choice is ideal for working with kids. Wendy informed me more than once that it embarrassed her to be seen in public with me. She often insisted that I wear something of hers if we had to go anywhere.
My husband enjoys photography, particularly long exposure which is done at night. He has a lot of photography friends of both genders, but his best friend is a female. He also enjoys concerts and kayaking, often with an ex from high school. (He graduated in 1997). I trust my husband and have no problem with him spending time with his friends. Enter Wendy's whispers of accusations. She often "jokingly" accused him of cheating on me with these female friends. I don't enjoy concerts, crowds, or being out late; so I support his doing with people who do. At least I know he with someone if something happens. I have bad knees, which make getting in and out of a kayak difficult. Why should that stop him? Again, I told her that I trust him and that I don't appreciate her accusations joke or not. This annoyed her because she doesn't trust Cole.
I know these are major red flag issues. I know how toxic being subjected to these comments is. I also know how difficult it would be on their kids if I left too soon. I knew they needed someone who wasn't emotionally cruel. I stayed for them.
My husband and I spent 2 of our weekends helping them pack and move to house that ended up 15 minutes from us. We were thanked by words, but that was the extent of the gratitude. Wendy's mother looked after the kids while we helped them move. This was complained about because I was already paid to watch the kids during the week. Insert eye roll here!! Her mom felt my husband should be willing to help them move while I watched the kids on the weekend for no extra pay. Either way, we were doing them a HUGE favor to begin with.
A family that I had briefly Nannied for prior to working for Wendy asked if I could help out every other Saturday. The dad (Nice Guy) traveled a lot for work leaving the Mom (Angelface) home alone with the kids. She just needed a day to run errands, work out, and just have time to herself. Angelface is one of the kindest women on this planet. When I did Nanny for them (2 days a week), she was in tears when she had to let me go. They couldn't justify the outgoing money at the time. She referred me to several friends. I am legitimately friend with this family, and still babysit sporadically.
Through a random discussion, I told Wendy about working with Angelface on every other Saturday. She began to tell me what to charge, how many hours to work, and what days to leave open for her just in case. Insert headache inducing eyerolls!
One Friday, Wendy's cousin arrived for a weekend visit with her baby. Wendy told me that because it was a holiday weekend I would not be needed until Tuesday. I double checked via text, and she confirmed that she and Cole were taking the kids to the beach with her cousin. Monday morning I got a call from a passed off Wendy asking where I am. I reminded her that she had told me that they would not need me. I even took a screen shot of our text. She said that Cole had decided to work Monday anyway so she was alone with HER kids. This pissed me off, so I lied. I told her that I was out of town with my mom and wouldn't be home until 5 or 6 pm. She went on about how much of an inconvenience it was to her, and I should have checked before going out of town. For the second time, I sent her a screenshot of my text verifying that I wasn't needed Monday. She abruptly ended the call saying to just be sure to be on time Tuesday. I had NEVER been late, but opted to mention that as we hung up.
Over time we worked out a new arrangement where I brought now G3 to my house 2 days a week, and we stayed there 3 days a week. I helped with cleaning, errands, helped with the new baby (NB), etc. Mostly, I was Wendy's sounding board. She continued to accuse Cole of cheating, wasting money, and even beating her.
My husband and I offered to let her and the kids stay with us, but she declined. Wendy even told me that since she was so sure Cole was cheating, she was going to find herself a side boyfriend to cheat with. I tried to talk her out of it, to no avail. Sadly, she spoke openly about her new boyfriend in fron of G3. During one of her rants I learned that my pay came from him selling drugs. GULP!!
While cleaning out the couch one day, I came across a loaded gun kept in the couch console thing, along with baggies of pills, "dried plants", and white powder. This completely freaked me out. 2 small children and a soon to be crawling baby sat and played on and around that couch. I STRONGLY considered calling Child Pretective Services and the police. I quickly realized that if I did, they would know it was me. I regret it, but I feared their possible retaliation towards us.
Shortly after finding these thing Cole quit his job. For several months while I worked for them, they were both unemployed. Again, I thought it was an easy out. NOPE AGAIN! For another 3 months, they insisted that they couldn't take care of the house and kids without my help. Very often, I arrived to find now B6 fending for himself for breakfast and getting ready for school. He was told to wake up and unlock the door for me, but they went back to sleep. I was expected to keep the baby from crying, and to keep G3 quiet and entertained until they came downstairs. I often chose to simply take both to my house so we could play naturally. We had a crib, so this wasn't a problem for NB. G3 would just nap on the couch or my bed. When out of school B6 preferred this too. This really should have told Wendy and Cole something about their kids, but of course not.
FINALLY, I was informed after about a year of working for them, they could no longer justify paying me. At this point, I had often considered quitting anyway. I mainly stayed because my heart broke for the kids. However, based on her gossipy and judgmental nature ... not to mention my little 3 day weekend fail; I was concerned about what kind of reference Wendy would provide if I chose to quit.
So in 2019, I found myself happily unemployed. The timing here worked out beautifully because Angelface knew neighbors due to have their first baby in 2020. I ended up working for this lovely family until August of 2023. The mom (Joy) and the Dad (Mr. Cool) were such a relief to my entire mental and physical health. We became friends as well, and over time I told them about Wendy. Between Joy, Angelface, Mr. Cool, Nice Guy, my husband, and family I began to realize just hoe toxic Wendy really was to my mental health. My husband never liked her but understood my feelings towards the kids.
For almost a year Wendy would randomly call or FaceTime me .... more often than not while drunk. She would rave about how much she and the kids missed me. We would get together for a meal, and she had me over for a couple birthday parties for the kids. I found myself almost always being the only sober adult watching the kids as the adults partied. Wendy often went back to her gossiping, trash talking, and "jokes" about my husband spending time with women. She would offer underhanded compliments. "It's so nice to see you wearing a dress instead of those tacky T-shirts." You get the drift. She even INFORMED me that since her neighbor was pregnant I could quit my job with Joy and Mr. Cool. She had told her neighbor that I would work for her now, and since they were next door, I would watch her own kids too. I shut that down saying that I was quite happy working with Joy and Mr. Cool. I even lied about what they paid thinking it would detur her further. NOPE yet again. She said that I should quit anyway so her life would be easier with me around. Once more, I told her that wasn't going to happen.
AT LONG LAST, I am coming to the end of my tortuous endurment with Wendy.
A week later, she called and asked if I had quit yet. I said that I had no intention of leaving an "$800" a week job. (Not even close to that with my 3 day a week job, but she didn't need to know the truth.) She told me to let her know when I quit, then changed the subject towards gossiping about that first family and their problems. I told her that I don't feel comfortable gossiping about people who can't speak for themselves. That pissed her off, so she turned it on me again. She said of course I don't want to talk about them since my husband was cheating on me with 2 different women. I angrily corrected her. She has no reason to think my husband is cheating, and I trust him and our friends. Just because she thinks her boyfriend cheats, and she cheats, that doesn't mean everybody does. She then said we could talk when I calmed down and after I quit my job.
After hanging up, I proceeded to block Wendy on everything! Facebook, phone calls, texting, face timing, Instagram, and even Snapchat (which I hadn't used in over a year). I also blocked her mom, and any body that had been friendly simply because Wendy knew them and wanted me to have their information too. I gave her no warning at all. I was beyond passed off, and refused to be talked out of my very gratifying decision.
I told my husband, family, and friends that was now free of Wendy. Not a single person tried to tell me to make ammends. The only guilt that I feel is towards those poor kids. For once though, I put myself first. Joy and Angelface were both extremely supportive when I told them that I had Ghosted Wendy. Both even mentioned how proud they were of me for FINALLY truly stand-up for myself. They were NOT fans of Wendy!!!
I never ended up quitting my job with Joy and Mr. Cool inorder to babysit Wendy's neighbor. I also continued to babysit for Angelface and Nice Guy.
About 7 or 8 months ago, I ran into Wendy at a playground between our two homes. She was with now G5 and B2. I had Joy and Mr. Cool's daughter with me. I was polite, almost obscenely so. I was friendly towards the kids, who were stand off-ish. I offered to let Little Miss play with them, but they weren't interested. Little Miss wanted to do her own thing, so off we went to play. We left after only 15 minutes because Little Miss said "that lady" is scaring her.
That night, my husband got a Facebook message from Wendy. She described my cruelty towards her kids by ignoring them. She said that it was so hateful that I blocked her on everything after all she had done for us. This message went on and on. My husband left it unread for months before my morbid curiosity caused me to open the silly thing. We never responded, but instead he finally bl9cked her too.
Ok, if you read that bloody novel of a post, you are a ROCK STAR!! I don't have any regrets towards my eventual choice, except towards the kids. It breaks my heart knowing what kind of parents they are enduring. I often regret not calling CPS, but there isn't a shadow of doubt that would have retaliated .... most likely violently.
I did eventually get back in contact with that very first Nanny family. They had indeed broken up, but both are happier and healthier now. I warned them that Wendy enjoyed gossiping and spreading rumors about them. Neither were surprised, and both had broken contact with Wendy long ago. They supported my choice to break ties with her as well. Shocking, right!?!
I no longer work full time for Joy and Mr. Cool, as they wanted Little Miss to get used to being around more kids before starting school. I do still sporadically babysit for them and Angelface and Nice Guy though. The two couples have referred me to several other families in the neighborhood, so I stay pretty busy with much more sane individuals.
Maybe I was an A-Hole, and petty. I'm cool with being thought of that way towards Wendy. At least now, I have much kinder people in my life.
EDITED/UPDATE: It has come to my attention that some may feel unfulfilled on the petty revenge side. For this former doormat, removing myself as her very cheap childcare was my revenge. I realize that many may not feel it was enough, but at the time, it was a MAJOR achievement for me. I had worked 8 to 10 hours a day for 5 days a week to receive $300.
When "invited" to parties, I ended up providing free childcare while the other adults got drunk. I don't like the taste of alcohol or the feeling of being buzzed or drunk, so I don't partake. I feared what would happen to the ignored kids, so I found myself watching them.
I never had a lot of friends, so for a long time, I truly thought Wendy was my friend. It took conversations with my husband, my mom, Angelface, Joy, and others for me to see the reality of my situation.
Some may say this post is in fact gossiping about her. To a point, yes I will agree. I did change everybody's names though.
Ultimately, I have always questioned whether or not I was fair or did the right thing by Ghosting and blocking Wendy. I often second guess my choice; especially when thinking about those kids.
I have tried to be more alert about the people around me since this experience. I do still find myself being too nice and accepting of some ways in which I am treated. I have tried to build more boundaries though.
submitted by craftytoonlover to CharlotteDobreYouTube [link] [comments]
Fair Warning, this is going to be a LONG post, but I will try to dilute it as much as possible.
About 12 years ago I left the world of retail (of which I have MANY stories) to begin a career in childcare. Some people prefer different titles, Nanny, Babysitter, Parents' Helper, Childcare Provider, etc. To be honest each of those titles are suitable in different situations.
The first family that I Nannied for went on for about 4 years, and then on again off again for another year. Through this family, I met "Wendy" and her family. Wendy went out of her way to be friendly with me, and would often ask me to babysit her kids (B5 and G1).
At one point, I had moved on to working with another family for a few months. Sadly, that ended due to the parents getting a divorce, and they moved further away.
Wendy found out that I was unemployed and asked that I Nanny for her kids. She was also pregnant with her 3rd at the time. I agreed at a slightly discounted rate because we were "friends". I realized too late that that was a HUGE mistake on my part.
Wendy's live in boyfriend "Cole" also had 3 kids from a previous relationship. B15, G8, and G6 lived with their mother. Yes, am aware of the closeness in age of Wendy and Cole' B5 and his G6. I chose to keep my mouth shut.
Now prepare yourselves for the Rollercoaster of emotions I dealt with with this family.
Initially, both Wendy and Cole were employed. I would come over 5 days a week for 8 to 10 hour days, depending upon whether Wendy got home on time. Here is where my discounted rate bit me in the butt.... $300 a week was still complained about. Wendy asked that I not leave Cole alone with their kids because he basically ignored them and refused to change diapers. I felt pretty icky about that, but agreed. Now I lived 45 minutes away without traffic. I would often leave my house early in anticipation of possible traffic. If I arrived early, I wasn't allowed in until she our alloted time of 7am. I didn't have a key, and would often be left waiting on the porch an extra 15 minutes past our time. If I knew I was too early, I parked around the corner and ate breakfast. Wendy and Cole both got very irritated if I wasn't their door precisely at 7 am. It was a headache that I chose to avoid.
Over the first month, I realized that G2 was emotionally abused by Wendy. She constantly said to or in front of the child how much she hated dealing with the wild child. How she wished G2 was more well behaved like B5. She even wrote unkind things on Facebook, asking someone to take her on the weekend while I was off.
This took a toll on poor G2, obviously. She would get violent with me first thing in the mornings : Hitting, kicking, biting, pulling my hair, throwing things at me, or what ever popped into her mind. Eventually, once Wendy left for work G2 would calm down and become an absolute delight.
When B5 started school, Wendy took a new job that allowed her to work from home at times. Those were not fun days! I asked if I could bring G2 to my house where I have an outdoor play area, a playroom, plenty of kid movies, crafts, books, music, and local playgrounds. At first the car rides were torture with G2 screaming bloody murder for at least half of the 45 minute drive. When she got used to the new routine, those drives became pleasant. Her violent tendencies disappeared when we were spending the days at my home. The drawback was that I also had to drive her home in time to get B5 off the bus.
During school breaks, I also had B5, and if they were visiting G8 and G6. B15 stayed at Wendy's house and just did his own thing. If you thought G2 was torture in toddler form, these two girls would have made Nanny McPhee grow a few more moles, a hunch back, and closed feet.
B5 would get a little bored, being that he was the only boy that was understandable. I purchased an array of boy friendlier toys to entertain him. I already had a lot of girl friendly toys either purchased or gifted from the first family that I had worked with. Of course I had plenty of gender neutral items too.
Wendy and Cole didn't give 2 sh*ts and a shave if the kids watched TV all day, went out to a playground or museum, or were driven 2 hours away, as long as I got them home on time. I easily spent an entire paycheck on activities, gas, food (which they didn't pack), and toys over 2 weeks watching all 4 kids. By the by, when asked for additional money when I did have all 4, Wendy not so politely informed me that the kids are entertain each other, so my job should be easier with all 4.
My husband and I discussed a few times whether I should look for something else. Inevitably the people pleaser in me actually felt guilty even considering it. Yup, I was apparently a glutton for punishment. Gratefully, my income was just extra, for an nice meal out occasionally, gifts for birthdays and holiday, extra hobbies, and basic groceries.
Just before Wendy gave birth to their new baby, she became unemployed. Logically, one would think this was my easy out. NOPE!! I became more of a Mother's Helper / Nanny. At this point Wendy and Cole were beginning to look for a larger house to rent. I did more walk through than I can count. She even asked me to tour a couple without her, and to bring G2 and B5 so she could get her nails done and take a nap. (Seriously, I toured houses on her list without her!)
As we spent more and more time together, I began to learn FAR FAR more about her bedroom life than I could ever desire. G2 and I spent much less time in the peace of my home, and way too much in Wendy's company. G2's behavior began to deteriorate slowly, causing Wendy to lose her temper with her far too easily. This completely broke my heart. I TRIED to redirect them both, and expressed my concern to Wendy. Of course, she then turned her anger towards me.
Wendy would openly discuss her theories about Cole in front of her kids. She claimed that he was cheating on her with his ex because he would shower immediately after seeing her to pick up or drop off the kids. He often made those drives directly after work though. Maybe he was cheating, maybe not. I honestly don't know.
Wendy also enjoyed gossiping about absolutely anybody. The parents of the first family that worked with were having marital issues. This was a favorite topic of hers. Wendy told me about every unkind word her mother uttered in her direction. The apple obviously didn't fall far from the tree here. I was told lots of personal information about people I didn't know. The gossip made me very uncomfortable. I told her that I would prefer we not discuss the lives of people who weren't around to speak on their own behalf. This fell on deaf ears.
I became quite used to her disapproval of my loose fitting jeans and T-shirts. Working with kids, I found my favorite cartoon prints were just as possible with my tiny charges. I NEVER wear makeup or heels because I simply don't want to. My dresses always have leggings under them because it make me feel less vulnerable. I never wear shorts or above the knee skirts/dresses. That's a ME thing, not religious or cultural. I find my "uniform" of choice is ideal for working with kids. Wendy informed me more than once that it embarrassed her to be seen in public with me. She often insisted that I wear something of hers if we had to go anywhere.
My husband enjoys photography, particularly long exposure which is done at night. He has a lot of photography friends of both genders, but his best friend is a female. He also enjoys concerts and kayaking, often with an ex from high school. (He graduated in 1997). I trust my husband and have no problem with him spending time with his friends. Enter Wendy's whispers of accusations. She often "jokingly" accused him of cheating on me with these female friends. I don't enjoy concerts, crowds, or being out late; so I support his doing with people who do. At least I know he with someone if something happens. I have bad knees, which make getting in and out of a kayak difficult. Why should that stop him? Again, I told her that I trust him and that I don't appreciate her accusations joke or not. This annoyed her because she doesn't trust Cole.
I know these are major red flag issues. I know how toxic being subjected to these comments is. I also know how difficult it would be on their kids if I left too soon. I knew they needed someone who wasn't emotionally cruel. I stayed for them.
My husband and I spent 2 of our weekends helping them pack and move to house that ended up 15 minutes from us. We were thanked by words, but that was the extent of the gratitude. Wendy's mother looked after the kids while we helped them move. This was complained about because I was already paid to watch the kids during the week. Insert eye roll here!! Her mom felt my husband should be willing to help them move while I watched the kids on the weekend for no extra pay. Either way, we were doing them a HUGE favor to begin with.
A family that I had briefly Nannied for prior to working for Wendy asked if I could help out every other Saturday. The dad (Nice Guy) traveled a lot for work leaving the Mom (Angelface) home alone with the kids. She just needed a day to run errands, work out, and just have time to herself. Angelface is one of the kindest women on this planet. When I did Nanny for them (2 days a week), she was in tears when she had to let me go. They couldn't justify the outgoing money at the time. She referred me to several friends. I am legitimately friend with this family, and still babysit sporadically.
Through a random discussion, I told Wendy about working with Angelface on every other Saturday. She began to tell me what to charge, how many hours to work, and what days to leave open for her just in case. Insert headache inducing eyerolls!
One Friday, Wendy's cousin arrived for a weekend visit with her baby. Wendy told me that because it was a holiday weekend I would not be needed until Tuesday. I double checked via text, and she confirmed that she and Cole were taking the kids to the beach with her cousin. Monday morning I got a call from a passed off Wendy asking where I am. I reminded her that she had told me that they would not need me. I even took a screen shot of our text. She said that Cole had decided to work Monday anyway so she was alone with HER kids. This pissed me off, so I lied. I told her that I was out of town with my mom and wouldn't be home until 5 or 6 pm. She went on about how much of an inconvenience it was to her, and I should have checked before going out of town. For the second time, I sent her a screenshot of my text verifying that I wasn't needed Monday. She abruptly ended the call saying to just be sure to be on time Tuesday. I had NEVER been late, but opted to mention that as we hung up.
Over time we worked out a new arrangement where I brought now G3 to my house 2 days a week, and we stayed there 3 days a week. I helped with cleaning, errands, helped with the new baby (NB), etc. Mostly, I was Wendy's sounding board. She continued to accuse Cole of cheating, wasting money, and even beating her.
My husband and I offered to let her and the kids stay with us, but she declined. Wendy even told me that since she was so sure Cole was cheating, she was going to find herself a side boyfriend to cheat with. I tried to talk her out of it, to no avail. Sadly, she spoke openly about her new boyfriend in fron of G3. During one of her rants I learned that my pay came from him selling drugs. GULP!!
While cleaning out the couch one day, I came across a loaded gun kept in the couch console thing, along with baggies of pills, "dried plants", and white powder. This completely freaked me out. 2 small children and a soon to be crawling baby sat and played on and around that couch. I STRONGLY considered calling Child Pretective Services and the police. I quickly realized that if I did, they would know it was me. I regret it, but I feared their possible retaliation towards us.
Shortly after finding these thing Cole quit his job. For several months while I worked for them, they were both unemployed. Again, I thought it was an easy out. NOPE AGAIN! For another 3 months, they insisted that they couldn't take care of the house and kids without my help. Very often, I arrived to find now B6 fending for himself for breakfast and getting ready for school. He was told to wake up and unlock the door for me, but they went back to sleep. I was expected to keep the baby from crying, and to keep G3 quiet and entertained until they came downstairs. I often chose to simply take both to my house so we could play naturally. We had a crib, so this wasn't a problem for NB. G3 would just nap on the couch or my bed. When out of school B6 preferred this too. This really should have told Wendy and Cole something about their kids, but of course not.
FINALLY, I was informed after about a year of working for them, they could no longer justify paying me. At this point, I had often considered quitting anyway. I mainly stayed because my heart broke for the kids. However, based on her gossipy and judgmental nature ... not to mention my little 3 day weekend fail; I was concerned about what kind of reference Wendy would provide if I chose to quit.
So in 2019, I found myself happily unemployed. The timing here worked out beautifully because Angelface knew neighbors due to have their first baby in 2020. I ended up working for this lovely family until August of 2023. The mom (Joy) and the Dad (Mr. Cool) were such a relief to my entire mental and physical health. We became friends as well, and over time I told them about Wendy. Between Joy, Angelface, Mr. Cool, Nice Guy, my husband, and family I began to realize just hoe toxic Wendy really was to my mental health. My husband never liked her but understood my feelings towards the kids.
For almost a year Wendy would randomly call or FaceTime me .... more often than not while drunk. She would rave about how much she and the kids missed me. We would get together for a meal, and she had me over for a couple birthday parties for the kids. I found myself almost always being the only sober adult watching the kids as the adults partied. Wendy often went back to her gossiping, trash talking, and "jokes" about my husband spending time with women. She would offer underhanded compliments. "It's so nice to see you wearing a dress instead of those tacky T-shirts." You get the drift. She even INFORMED me that since her neighbor was pregnant I could quit my job with Joy and Mr. Cool. She had told her neighbor that I would work for her now, and since they were next door, I would watch her own kids too. I shut that down saying that I was quite happy working with Joy and Mr. Cool. I even lied about what they paid thinking it would detur her further. NOPE yet again. She said that I should quit anyway so her life would be easier with me around. Once more, I told her that wasn't going to happen.
AT LONG LAST, I am coming to the end of my tortuous endurment with Wendy.
A week later, she called and asked if I had quit yet. I said that I had no intention of leaving an "$800" a week job. (Not even close to that with my 3 day a week job, but she didn't need to know the truth.) She told me to let her know when I quit, then changed the subject towards gossiping about that first family and their problems. I told her that I don't feel comfortable gossiping about people who can't speak for themselves. That pissed her off, so she turned it on me again. She said of course I don't want to talk about them since my husband was cheating on me with 2 different women. I angrily corrected her. She has no reason to think my husband is cheating, and I trust him and our friends. Just because she thinks her boyfriend cheats, and she cheats, that doesn't mean everybody does. She then said we could talk when I calmed down and after I quit my job.
After hanging up, I proceeded to block Wendy on everything! Facebook, phone calls, texting, face timing, Instagram, and even Snapchat (which I hadn't used in over a year). I also blocked her mom, and any body that had been friendly simply because Wendy knew them and wanted me to have their information too. I gave her no warning at all. I was beyond passed off, and refused to be talked out of my very gratifying decision.
I told my husband, family, and friends that was now free of Wendy. Not a single person tried to tell me to make ammends. The only guilt that I feel is towards those poor kids. For once though, I put myself first. Joy and Angelface were both extremely supportive when I told them that I had Ghosted Wendy. Both even mentioned how proud they were of me for FINALLY truly stand-up for myself. They were NOT fans of Wendy!!!
I never ended up quitting my job with Joy and Mr. Cool inorder to babysit Wendy's neighbor. I also continued to babysit for Angelface and Nice Guy.
About 7 or 8 months ago, I ran into Wendy at a playground between our two homes. She was with now G5 and B2. I had Joy and Mr. Cool's daughter with me. I was polite, almost obscenely so. I was friendly towards the kids, who were stand off-ish. I offered to let Little Miss play with them, but they weren't interested. Little Miss wanted to do her own thing, so off we went to play. We left after only 15 minutes because Little Miss said "that lady" is scaring her.
That night, my husband got a Facebook message from Wendy. She described my cruelty towards her kids by ignoring them. She said that it was so hateful that I blocked her on everything after all she had done for us. This message went on and on. My husband left it unread for months before my morbid curiosity caused me to open the silly thing. We never responded, but instead he finally bl9cked her too.
Ok, if you read that bloody novel of a post, you are a ROCK STAR!! I don't have any regrets towards my eventual choice, except towards the kids. It breaks my heart knowing what kind of parents they are enduring. I often regret not calling CPS, but there isn't a shadow of doubt that would have retaliated .... most likely violently.
I did eventually get back in contact with that very first Nanny family. They had indeed broken up, but both are happier and healthier now. I warned them that Wendy enjoyed gossiping and spreading rumors about them. Neither were surprised, and both had broken contact with Wendy long ago. They supported my choice to break ties with her as well. Shocking, right!?!
I no longer work full time for Joy and Mr. Cool, as they wanted Little Miss to get used to being around more kids before starting school. I do still sporadically babysit for them and Angelface and Nice Guy though. The two couples have referred me to several other families in the neighborhood, so I stay pretty busy with much more sane individuals.
Maybe I was an A-Hole, and petty. I'm cool with being thought of that way towards Wendy. At least now, I have much kinder people in my life.
EDITED/UPDATE: It has come to my attention that some may feel unfulfilled on the petty revenge side. For this former doormat, removing myself as her very cheap childcare was my revenge. I realize that many may not feel it was enough, but at the time, it was a MAJOR achievement for me. I had worked 8 to 10 hours a day for 5 days a week to receive $300.
When "invited" to parties, I ended up providing free childcare while the other adults got drunk. I don't like the taste of alcohol or the feeling of being buzzed or drunk, so I don't partake. I feared what would happen to the ignored kids, so I found myself watching them.
I never had a lot of friends, so for a long time, I truly thought Wendy was my friend. It took conversations with my husband, my mom, Angelface, Joy, and others for me to see the reality of my situation.
Some may say this post is in fact gossiping about her. To a point, yes I will agree. I did change everybody's names though.
Ultimately, I have always questioned whether or not I was fair or did the right thing by Ghosting and blocking Wendy. I often second guess my choice; especially when thinking about those kids.
I have tried to be more alert about the people around me since this experience. I do still find myself being too nice and accepting of some ways in which I am treated. I have tried to build more boundaries though.
2024.05.13 19:38 TypewriterTypeWrote [SF] 'Diamonds' Part 1 (Part of the 'Human Nature' series)
PART 1
“Don’t touch!” Abe commanded, slapping Max’s hand away. They were both bent over at the waist, admiring.“Sorry, it’s just… so… what is it?”
“I call it the Alchemic Thaumaturgator.”
“Of course you do. Is that because you couldn’t think of anything simpler, or you just liked the way it rolls off the tongue?” Max smirked.
“Mmm, it’s a work in progress.” He flung a sideways glare at him.
“Sure. So what is one of these?”
“It’s complicated and delicate and to be honest it’s a bit of a mystery, even to me.”
“Right.” There was a moment of silence as they continued scrutinising.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Abe murmured, almost to himself.
“I mean, yeah, of course….”
“Don’t look at me like that, I can’t tell you what I don’t know!” Abe stood up and let out a disgruntled huff.
“Hmm. Well, it’s confusing enough to give you nausea just looking at it so I’m sure they’d love it as an offering for the Nobel Prize, especially with a name like ‘Alcomic Thordy-whatsit.’”
“Well, maybe, if it gets that far. I nearly broke it last week, which is why I’m telling you,” Abe stood up straighter, one hand on his hip and the other pointed firmly at Max, “to strictly to keep your curious hands to yourself, ok? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.”
“Ok ok, I won’t touch it. But really, it looks like it should be in a museum somewhere. Or a Cabinet of Curiosities...”
“Little good would it do in either of those places.” Abe turned to Max and clasped both his hands in his own. “Listen, you are my closest friend and this thing is very important to me. I wouldn’t leave it with you if I didn’t think you were perfectly capable of safeguarding it, so please don’t worry, I know it’s in good hands.”
“If you really think I’m up to it?”
“I do.”
“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment!” Max threw his arms in the air in a sarcastic show of tah-dah! “Go forth, oh Knight of Overly-Complex Science, go do what you have to do and I’ll keep an eye on this beast for you. Shove it on the table and I’ll look after it and Will Not Touch It.”
Abe looked put out, but comically so. “Is that really what you think I sound like?” He laughed. “I’ll put it over here, then. Get in touch if you need me, any time. You have my contacts?”
“I do…” Max fumbled around his pockets. “They’re… here. Got them right here.”
“Good. In which case I’ll leave you to your own devices. See you soon, and thank you.”
“See you soon.”
“Take care. Oh, one more thing. If you talk to it, it talks back.” Abe shut the door behind himself.
***
“So, you’re an Alchronic Thormome… grater? Doesn’t sound right… So tell me, what is one of them?” Max stared at the thing, perplexed.
It reminded him of what the love-child would be between a glass roller coaster and a steampunk jellyfish, though it bore absolutely no resemblance at all to a jellyfish, and fascinated him far more than that nature documentary he had been watching last week ever could. Jellyfish bobbing around and being brainless and boring, and when they weren’t they were stinging people to death and getting eaten by turtles. Even the name is boring. Jelly. Fish. Like those squidgy, dry-goo kids toys that you’re supposed to throw at the window but gets hair stuck to it when it falls on the carpet. Yuck.
Which was weird, considering this monstrosity he had been tasked with looking after was definitely the most interesting and intricate and pretty thing he had probably ever clapped eyes on. It had a heaviness to it, a purpose. And it felt like it was watching him.
Better steer clear for a while. It looks weird, he had been told things that absolutely made it sound weird and to be honest, it frightened him a little.
He wasn’t usually one to be afraid. Hell, he’d always been the brawn of his sturdy group of friends, right since he was a kid. He had worked his way up the proverbial ladder and had been widely recognised as the guy you don’t screw with at his school, though he wasn’t particularly proud of how he got there, (there had been a lot of fights behind the bike sheds and nicked sandwiches under the threat of blackmail at lunch). But he had forgotten all that and settled himself into being the relatively good-looking, popular, flirtatious guy who did a moderately average job in the eyes of his colleagues and had a moderate measure of success with the ladies.
Made no sense then that this contraption he had been lumbered with for a stint had shaken him by its sheer solidness on his front room table. It seemed to be unmovable in its presence, though it was light as a feather when it had been brought in and that fact in itself threw him because how can something that looked so substantial weigh that little? His bloody breakfast weighed more!
“What the hell are you?” Max wondered out loud.
He sat and stared at the thing for the longest time, watching to see if it would move. Only the sparkly inner swirled. Nothing more. It gave him the feeling of lying on the bottom of the ocean, staring at the sun beams though the surface until it started to fade. His eyes stared to fade. His mind went blank. He was being sucked down a long, dark tunnel of still water by his chest, he was sinking and swimming and becoming the empty space around him, it seemed he could feel the particles in the air as they vibrated and resounded in his ears, felt himself being blinded…
Max blinked and snapped back into the room, found himself standing in front of the machine. The studded brass bands holding the tubes together rotated slowly, silently.
Yeah, there’s something not right about that thing. Something unnatural.
Slowly backing out of the room and trying very hard not to show the Alcolic Thormatador… Thermanter… the thing that it was making him uncomfortable, he sidled through the doorway and into the hall. Yeah, that thing is just plain wrong.
In the corridor he paused, tried to laugh at himself.
This thing is just metal and glass and sparkly water, he thought. It doesn’t have the brainpower to understand that I feel some kind of way about it and even if it did, what is it going to do? It’s an invention, a machine and nothing more and machines are made by people, made by my friend, so what the hell is there to be afraid of?
He reached the kitchen, surprised at his own existential awareness that seemed to come quite fluidly, which was most unlike him. Maybe he was getting soft in the head. He heard that happened at a certain time of life but that phenomenon would be a bit premature. He wasn’t much past his third decade, thank you very much!
Max filled a mug from the water boiler and threw in a teabag and a few sugars. He squeezed the bag against the side of the mug until the dregs started dropping, plapped it in the sink and poured in milk. He stirred his tea well, just as always, but now the clinking of the mug took on an added layer of comfort when he knew what was in the front room. He wasn’t in a dark tunnel where he couldn’t do anything but watch, he was in his own kitchen that he had had rebuilt last year. He picked out the worktops and cupboards, he chose the shiny silver appliances, he bought the gourmet herbs and put them on the window sill, slightly over-watered and flooding their drip trays until they almost overflowed. He was in his own kitchen, familiar down to the millimetre, and solid. Nothing could touch him here.
No, he thought, it’s just an invention. A thing.
He put the spoon down with certainty on the worktop and squared his shoulders: he marched down the hall towards the front room with his tea in his left hand and the right balled up into a fist. He paused for a second outside the door. No sound.
This is my house, I won’t be intimidated in my own damned house.
He rounded the corner, planted his feet wide and glared hard at the thing.
“Look, I don’t know what you are,” he said to the machine, “but you don’t look dangerous. And seeing as we’re going to be spending some time together, I’m just going to ignore you and you can ignore me, ok? No making me feel like I’m being watched, no making me feel like I’m swimming around somewhere in space, no more weird stuff and I won’t put you in the loft. We’ll coexist in blissful harmony, like water and jellyfish.”
The Alchemic Thaumaturgator just sat there, glistening.
“Ok. Good. Fine.”
He grabbed the fern and the shamefully stunted lucky bamboo (that damned plant his cat was always rubbing his face on) that were perched next to the door and shoved them onto the table in front of the machine, mostly obscuring it from view. Better.
Max backed up and sat on the couch under the window, across the room from the table and that freakish unicorn turd of a contraption. He wrenched his eyes away for just long enough to put on the television and throw one final look over at the thing on his table, searching for it amongst the foliage. It hadn’t moved. It just sat there. He gestured at it rudely with a slightly shaking hand.
The soothing sound of the narrator drew him back into his TV and another nature documentary, this time about the great apes of the rainforests of Western Africa. This was much more interesting. He swivelled sideways in his chair to face the screen directly, sipping away at his tea.
“See,” he said towards the table, “this is exactly what…”
He glanced back and promptly fell out of his chair. His tea went flying as his mug thudded to the floor in an all too under-dramatic fashion compared to what his adrenaline was doing.
The thing was lighting up! It was glowing! Only a little bit but it was actually putting out light!
“Jeez!” Max shouted at it from the floor. “What is that? How is that happening? What is it doing? Stop it! Stop it!”
He scrambled around, on his hands and knees and still on the floor, trying to shut off the sounds of viciously shaken branches and primates howling at each other. The screen mercifully emitted a heavy click and fell into blackness as the remote fell to the floor. In the resounding silence of the room it was just Max, his adrenaline-fuelled breathing and the glass machine.
He stared at it. It absolutely was staring at him, even from between the leaves, there was no doubt, the liquid in the middle was pooling and somehow gathering at the front of the tubes facing the room. The glowing light had already started to fade and the liquid lost concentration and dispersed again, slowly swirling around in all its glittery glory, just as it had before.
Max was still splayed out on the floor, his breathing struggling to return to normal. He stood up and flattened himself shakily against the wall.
“What just happened?” he muttered under his breath. “What the hell was that…”
The thing looked at him, ‘nothing to see here,’ it said, feigning innocence.
“Whatever you are, just stay the hell away from me!” Max shouted at the machine as skirted around the walls until he got to the doorway. The door was ajar but, because his eyes were fixed in horror at the fragments of the machine that were exposed from within the plants, he bumped backwards into the door, nudging it closed and clicking it shut. Fumbling for the handle he tried to wrench it open, only to find the handle in his hand, horrifyingly detached.
He was stuck in there with it.
Panic flooded his body. A sharp twist in his gut and sweat poured from every millimetre of his skin and a faint whine emitted from his mouth.
Deep breaths, he told himself. Deep breaths, you can figure this out. It can’t hurt you, so just sit down and figure it out.
He sat himself back on the sofa, pushing it further back and rucking up the rug into waves in front of him with his feet. Never had he been so afraid of an inanimate object before. Spiders, yes. The open ocean, yes. Heights, yes. But this?
He sat staring at it, filtering his brain through his usual coping processes. He couldn’t beat it, like he had done in school. He couldn’t charm it, like he had done at the office…
“It’s an elaborate Newton’s Cradle, for Christ’s sake! A fancy-man’s Rubik’s cube!” he told himself. “Some science experiment that a five year old could have done. Yeah, I bet he just put some glow stick stuff in the water and mixed it up and told me it’s real to scare me. It doesn’t even look that bad.” He stood up and took a hesitant half step towards it on quavering knees and reluctant feet, fighting the ‘flight’. “See? Can’t hurt me.”
Max blinked. The thing hadn’t even moved. What was so scary about it anyway? The glowing? It was probably the reflection off the TV. He moved the plants from in front of it with outstretched arms and stepped back as far as he could go.
“I’m going to call you Ruth,” he said, getting bold and pointing at it, “because Alcoholic Thermo… whatever is just ridiculous. Ok? And Ruth was my grandma’s name, and I liked her, she was safe as houses.” Sure, his grandma had died of an embolism nearly ten years ago, but he wasn’t going to admit that to this thing that he didn’t even know what an embolism was. Ruth was a safe name and the familiarity was comforting.
He felt the liquid moving towards the front of the glass again, shimmering and pulling him in. He felt his fear spike, then dissolve. It couldn’t hurt him. He was safe. He was in control.
“I think it was mean of him to call you something so ridiculous. But I suppose if he’s going to go for the Nobel Prize they like that kind of thing, don’t they?” He half laughed, took another step towards it. “Those competitions are always stupid though, nobody ever comes up with anything really new, it’s not like they’ve invented hovercraft cars or machines that can take you on holidays to the afterlife, is it?” He had nearly reached the table now. The tubes were glowing a little still and he could see something moving in there. His curiosity peaked over the top of his fear and had a good look at the prospect of getting closer. Curiosity decided to get closer.
Max leaned down, hands on knees, and stared into the ever-moving swirls that flowed through the glass tubing. Arms extended to their full defensive stance, he gently nudged the plants out of the way and took a good look at Ruth. He remembered his friend saying something about studs and elements.
“Hey, there they are! I didn’t see these before! So those… those are elements? Are they elements?” He asked the glass, dumbfoundedly pointing at the stuff he had assumed was glitter but now wasn’t half as sure. He had never seen elements before…
Ripples glowed in the liquid: it had heard him. They moved closer and were warming now, somehow.
“No way!” Max exclaimed, his mouth hanging open. So this is what Abe had meant! “It’s not possible! It’s not real! Is it real? Are you real?” He asked. “Of course you’re real, you’re sitting on my table! Ha! What a stupid question Max. So, if I ask you a question, are you gonna answer me, huh?”
The glass glittered at him, but nothing else.
“Ok, are you alive?”
Nothing.
“Hmph. Maybe it was a trick of the light.”
No answer.
Max flopped into the sofa, his brows furrowed at Ruth.
He found himself talking to himself, trying to dispel the weird energy that his friend’s invention had brought with it.
“This thing is strange. He said if I talk to it then it responds, but I asked it a question and it doesn’t do anything, but when I was watching that monkey progr…”
He stopped short.
“Yeah! Let’s shove that chimp documentary back on, shall we?”
Click, the screen shot into life of every colour of the rainforest, the howls echoing around the room. But Max didn’t watch the TV, he had his eyes firmly fixed on Ruth, remote still in hand in front of her, waiting expectantly.
Nothing. Dammit. Just the glittery same as glittery before.
Max tried not to let the tidal wave of disappointment wash him away. Maybe it wasn’t the show. Maybe it was a prank, a trick of the light after all.
Max bent to put the remote on the arm of the sofa. The light from the TV shone onto the table and Ruth crescendoed into life and started throwing out beams of light that looked like the solar flares he had seen on that awful show about space and rocks and stuff he wasn’t in the least bit interested in but had watched anyway.
But he had figured out the key: he was standing in between Ruth and the screen and his shadow had been overcasting the table! Ruth needed a full view to do… that thing… whatever it was that she was doing with the light.
Ping, pong, ping, pong, his eyes went between Ruth and the monkeys sailing through the trees by their ridiculously long arms, right up until the credits started rolling and she faded to a faint glow again. She still glittered but it wasn’t the same. She definitely needed encouragement. Inspiration, if you will.
Max flicked across through each channel, watching Ruth closely for any changes (of which there were none,) tock, tock, tock went the remote until he found a different channel, one that was obviously designed for people with limited imagination, because wow, even he can outpace the monotonous nasal narrator and he didn’t consider himself a particularly clever man! He wasn’t stupid either, but on the last one when they started to explain what a bacteria is he had lost his rag and shouted at the screen a bit.
“Everyone knows what a bloody bacteria is!” he had yelled. “Tell me something I don’t know, yeesh! Whoever said these documentaries were supposed to be informative obviously hadn’t got two brain cells to run together.” But the cinematography was nice. Lots of nature-looking things to watch, the natural world an’ all.
This time it was about walruses. All flopping around on the sea shore, getting sunburned and jabbing at each other with their overgrown chompers. He had seen this one before, it wasn’t as patronising as the others. Predictably narrated, yes, but not patronising.
He turned up the volume and spun round to look at Ruth.
She was throwing out flares again, hundreds of short wisps!
And just to test the theory, he tocked across onto the menu screen and selected a random game show that he had never heard of. True to form, Ruth dimmed back to her uninspired state of simple glitteritude.
“AHA! I knew it! You’re a sucker for the nature channel too! Aha! Ahahaha!”
Max threw up his arms in celebration, the remote going flying, cheering into the emptiness of the room. Empty, except for him and this thing which apparently had a liking for chimps and sunburnt sea mammals.
Damn, this thing is incredible, he thought. Why the hell, how the hell does it…?
He sat, flabbergasted, mouth agape.
Suddenly he jumped up, scrabbling around behind the sofa trying to find the remote again, where is it where is it where is it…
He flicked the volume up and down and Ruth still put out light. She shone and shone, the beauty!
He started singing to her, “shine on, you crazy diamond!”
She seemed to like that, too.
2024.05.13 18:31 Man_in_the_uk Can anyone recommend a fine brush that gets crap out of tiny gaps in the trim?
So after I was able to spruce up the front grill trim and fog light trims, using G3 Pro, I went around the rest of the trim on the car which amounted to various lines one on the skirting, one on the boot, and a load around the window-frames. However after using this stuff up and down the trim upon wiping clean you can still see white lines left where the product is in between trim. Do any of you use any fine brushes to get that out? If so please can you recommend one, ideally on eBay (uk), Amazon or Halfords.com, thanks in advance.
submitted by Man_in_the_uk to Detailing [link] [comments]
2024.05.13 09:01 EscapingKid Patch Notes - Update 29.2
 | Original Post (pubg.com) submitted by EscapingKid to PUBGConsole [link] [comments] https://preview.redd.it/5nt7qd8p650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=9934ae3506f4280dbc5fb67df9c65ba76936e541 29.2 HighlightsPUBG Patch Report #29.2 on YouTubeLive Maintenance Schedule※ The times shown below are subject to change.
Map Service※ Console players can anticipate the next rotation every Thursday at 7 AM UTC.Schedulehttps://preview.redd.it/1bsklrrp650d1.png?width=562&format=png&auto=webp&s=91ddce08aea13b342de0bc2b03dd0463fbd89205Live Server - Featured Map
Live Server - Normal MatchRandom Map Regions - NA, EU, RU, OC, SA & Consolehttps://preview.redd.it/scbnhttt650d1.png?width=666&format=png&auto=webp&s=f98b87eb5549e1d658584583e4c661f5636a63ab※ Rotations featuring Deston will have a 20% probability for each map. For Weeks 2 and 4, fixed and favored maps will each have a 22% probability and etc. maps will be 11% each. Live Server - Ranked
World: Erangel Classic※ Erangel Classic is available in Normal Match as a featured map and is also supported in Custom Match.※ Erangel Classic preserves the essence of the earlier version of Erangel, its distinctive appearance and atmosphere, all while delivering the enjoyable gameplay experiences that players have grown accustomed to. Service Period (UTC)Normal Match (Featured Map)
Custom Match
Detailshttps://preview.redd.it/d6k8yghv650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=887aad6ec1609bc13a74b3297d38e42b98a2fa1f
GunplayWhile not identical to the old recoil, Erangel Classic's reduced recoil will enable players to relive the nostalgia of the old Erangel map. However, this adjustment excludes certain firearms such as SRs, Handguns, and the Crossbow.
Tommy Gunhttps://preview.redd.it/6f2ero1w650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=343a3008bb65c923d2e900b3e1d184842249c41d
ARs
SMGs
DMRs
LMGs (DP-28, M249, MG3)
Shotguns
UIhttps://preview.redd.it/lo1biziw650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=0f656354b0721347ab61e1d6c82cf4a65e8c4582https://preview.redd.it/89qyl3vw650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=8ae59c4a17ac807fd17e80bd3182335aef2425a9
Spawnhttps://preview.redd.it/jpgbnq8x650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=e9c64049d4d0806d58d9d1f7ce6e9613d5ba4318
World: Rondo※ The following features are available only in Rondo.New Item: Zipline Gunhttps://preview.redd.it/cgmsrxlx650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=1cf710bdb86a39a6186f1d8932205baedc5f77e4Meet the Zipline Gun, a zippy new travel tool that lets you navigate Rondo in a whole new way.
In-Game ChallengesTo make teamwork easier, we're improving In-game Challenges based on player feedback.https://preview.redd.it/vkurm56y650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=b4c26a25abcd646564fc495eb32db1acaa775614
World Misc.
New Feature: Win Streak ShowdownIntroducing Win Streak Showdown, where premade teams compete in Normal Match for achievements beyond the Chicken Dinner.https://preview.redd.it/91ragzly650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=6035b0e2043c6df807b429970982625846777912 How to Participate
Rules
Rewards
Arcade※ The following updates apply to Custom Match as well.Team Deathmatchhttps://preview.redd.it/x8u90z8z650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=bb91d6ff386740aa2c8309b112fed612be4fa5d6
Intense Battle Royale
QoLGroup EmoteThe Team Emote feature has been renamed to Group Emote and now offers broader interaction possibilities. Enjoy emotes with even more players!https://preview.redd.it/rbqybo52750d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=d0d20c6cf448388ceb5366637b3b2ba85c6780d2
Survivor Passhttps://preview.redd.it/849af8k2750d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=5c40e734910cc713013f4c5cd9b2a0cadeae8afdA new Survivor Pass: Off the Grid is prepared for the 29.2 update. Read more details in the May Store Update announcement! WorkshopNew item sets have been added to the Hunter's Chest and Archivist's Chest.https://preview.redd.it/j687hj54750d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=22c0e78fcb0df210c160cc22ed971c574a21135f
UX/UI
Performance
Bug FixesGameplay
World
UX/UI
Items & Skins※ Clipping issue: Graphics that are shown outside the visible part of an image/object.
|
2024.05.13 08:45 EscapingKid Patch Notes - Update 29.2
| | Original Post (pubg.com) submitted by EscapingKid to PUBATTLEGROUNDS [link] [comments] 29.2 HighlightsPUBG Patch Report #29.2 on YouTubeLive Maintenance Schedule※ The times shown below are subject to change.
Map Service※ PC players can anticipate the next rotation every Wednesday at 2 AM UTC, while Console players can expect the same every Thursday at 7 AM UTC.ScheduleLive Server - Featured Map
Live Server - Normal MatchMap Select Regions (AS, SEA)Map Select Regions - KJP, KAKAORandom Map Regions - NA, EU, RU, OC, SA & Console※ Rotations featuring Deston will have a 20% probability for each map. For Weeks 2 and 4, fixed and favored maps will each have a 22% probability and etc. maps will be 11% each.Live Server - Ranked
World: Erangel Classic※ Erangel Classic is available in Normal Match as a featured map and is also supported in Custom Match.※ Erangel Classic preserves the essence of the earlier version of Erangel, its distinctive appearance and atmosphere, all while delivering the enjoyable gameplay experiences that players have grown accustomed to. Service Period (UTC)Normal Match (Featured Map)
Custom Match
Details
GunplayWhile not identical to the old recoil, Erangel Classic's reduced recoil will enable players to relive the nostalgia of the old Erangel map. However, this adjustment excludes certain firearms such as SRs, Handguns, and the Crossbow.
Tommy Gun
ARs
SMGs
DMRs
LMGs (DP-28, M249, MG3)
Shotguns
UIhttps://preview.redd.it/gmusqti1450d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=99df16c7166303624e6c632376dff84da6752ed6
Spawn
World: Rondo※ The following features are available only in Rondo.New Item: Zipline GunMeet the Zipline Gun, a zippy new travel tool that lets you navigate Rondo in a whole new way.
In-Game ChallengesTo make teamwork easier, we're improving In-game Challenges based on player feedback.
World Misc.
New Feature: Win Streak ShowdownIntroducing Win Streak Showdown, where premade teams compete in Normal Match for achievements beyond the Chicken Dinner.How to Participate
Rules
Rewards
Arcade※ The following updates apply to Custom Match as well.Team Deathmatch
Intense Battle Royale
QoLGroup EmoteThe Team Emote feature has been renamed to Group Emote and now offers broader interaction possibilities. Enjoy emotes with even more players!
Survivor PassA new Survivor Pass: Off the Grid is prepared for the 29.2 update. Read more details in the May Store Update announcement! WorkshopNew item sets have been added to the Hunter's Chest and Archivist's Chest.
UX/UI
Performance
Bug FixesGameplay
World
UX/UI
Items & Skins※ Clipping issue: Graphics that are shown outside the visible part of an image/object.
|
2024.05.13 05:05 BlueberryRegular3760 Four great monologues for teenagers
“My Mask up Tutorial” Samuel D. Hunter
Every day at 5:30 am, I put on my makeup. I lay down the perfect foundation that covers my pores, put on my eyeliner to make my outer corners soar. And once the setting spray sets in, I’ve got my mask up. I’m shackled into this morning routine. My very hands are tied to the clasps of my makeup case. With each buckle undone, I feel security’s embrace.The case hides my inner self, never to be seen. My foundation was laid on unstable land. Each crack in my skin widens with obscurity. Every zit threatens to burst out the pus of insecurity. Once the foundation breaks down, it may abolish my brand. I make sure my blush is crimson red to hide the scars of my traumatized past. Then, the blush clogs the scar tissue, so the bloodshot color lasts, and it never covers the scars in my head. I use the contour to lift my face to a happy smile. It rewrites the shadows of my low sunken cheekbones, and lifts them up to make my false confidence shown. For a brief moment, it makes my ego un-fragile. My pointy, thick eyeliner sharpens my drooping eyes. Behind my eyelids are islands of cryin’, and styes that lie high while my vision’s fryin’. To sharpen my eyes would allow them to dry. The mask of makeup has worn down my face. Hiding my soul has dragged it to a lower place. I want nothing more than a soul clean and true, so I’ll take a few wipes, and try something new.I’ll remove the foundation, plow down the cracks to show nature’s creation. Reveal the strawberry freckles I once tried to hide. And, clean out the pores that were clogged so wide. I’ll remove the crimson blush, unsilence the scars I tried to hush. Although trauma’s gnash will feel agonizing at first, I’ll let the scars heal until they’re visible as dust.I’ll remove the contour, un-lift the face that made my fake smile sore. Maybe even realize sometimes it's okay to not be okay. Morphing my face’s shadows only causes delay. I’ll remove my eyeliner, stare at my soul ‘till I see the love behind her. Uncover the truth that my eyes were always sharper when they weren’t hidden behind a steep black sliver. My makeup tutorial became a mask-up tutorial. Morphing my truth to be happy is purely paradoxical. I once longed for the face of another, and now I just miss the face from my mother.
“Psychotherapy” Samuel D. Hunter I will start a revolution in the world of psychotherapy for those who can’t afford it. For little Jimmy that lost his father For little Sally whose mom is too drugged up to care for her. For teenage Sam with no friends at school. And even for Charlotte who spent her adult years in prison. America treats its mental health with bandaids doused in alcohol and loaded with guns. And, it keeps the real solutions locked behind a safe with a passcode that reads “90 dollars per session.” Therapy helped me learn my most important lessons, so I’ll start a non-profit for those who need it, but lack the needed insurance. I’ll keep our community in reassurance that someone will always be here to listen. The study of psychology’s opened my every pore to an empathetic door. And, gifted me the words to heal mental sores. “The Car is Your World” Ilissa Ocko Ted Talk excerpt
In a smoldering black parking lot, there exists your car. The car is your planet. The car’s vents pump carbon into the air, entrapping the noxious heat in the cramped cabin. Yet, you let it happen. You let it melt your car into a pool of plastic and metal. You let it melt your food into a sticky glove-box coating. Your laziness pins you to your leather seat And once it starts to melt, it sticks you down. Within your car, there exists a steering wheel. The wheel’s magnesium rim turns to liquid, rehoming your hands. Your palms could once rest on the firm rubber grip, but now, they must fend in the sea of metals. There was once a time when you tried to escape your car. You tried to build rockets to fly through the windshield, instead of trying to fix what you already had. Yet, you failed to realize that the new car you were looking for was uninhabitable. Its tank was empty, there was no food in the glove box, and the air vents sucked out every last drop of O2. What’s more? Even if you wanted to leave- you couldn’t. The same gas you used to power your car has run dry. You cannot build a rocket with no fuel. Finally, within your car exists you. The carbon from your vents overpowers the oxygen and suffocates you, asphyxiating your lungs and choking you from the inside out. The boiling black leather seats pelt your skin. Much like the carbon, your gasoline greed has grounded you. The locks have melted to an unfamiliar mold, and sealed you shut. If the car is your world, then, the world is our car.Politicians ignore the heat trapped from our star.
“The Butcher” Samuel D. Hunter
Being with you was sweet at first. We went to cafes and fairs and all those other charming places. You fed me the sweetest corn feed. I thought I was the type of pig you would treat as a pet, rather than food. Yet, I ignored your long, blood-stained white apron, and the square razor-sharp knife dangling from your waistband. The corn you fed me soon turned stale and bitter. It swelled my throat and boiled my stomach as I tried to digest it all. It was laced with expired benadryl to make me docile You then threw your sticks and stones. They broke my bones, because you knew your words could hurt me.They held me hostage, waiting in the slaughterhouse. With each friendshipI severed for you, and each skirt I wore that was a little too short, you drew your blade. You beat my legs with its end so I couldn’t run. I scurried and scurried, but when I got to the door, you threatened your life, and I scurried back. The worst part was that the same rules and expectations laid out for me had no application to you. You could compare me to whoever you pleased. You could flirt with who you pleased. And, you could walk out that door when you pleased, because you had the blade, and I had the shattered bones. So, when my legs just barely healed and I stood up, you chopped off my head and walked through the door. You walked out and told the world of how you were the pig, and I was the narcissistic butcher. But my vocal cords were shredded in the beheading, so I couldn’t speak.
I’m not that beheaded pig I once was. My head grew anew, and I evolved to walk and stand as a human.My squeals became words, and my words became boulders crafted from the same blade you once broke me with.
submitted by BlueberryRegular3760 to Monologues [link] [comments]
Every day at 5:30 am, I put on my makeup. I lay down the perfect foundation that covers my pores, put on my eyeliner to make my outer corners soar. And once the setting spray sets in, I’ve got my mask up. I’m shackled into this morning routine. My very hands are tied to the clasps of my makeup case. With each buckle undone, I feel security’s embrace.The case hides my inner self, never to be seen. My foundation was laid on unstable land. Each crack in my skin widens with obscurity. Every zit threatens to burst out the pus of insecurity. Once the foundation breaks down, it may abolish my brand. I make sure my blush is crimson red to hide the scars of my traumatized past. Then, the blush clogs the scar tissue, so the bloodshot color lasts, and it never covers the scars in my head. I use the contour to lift my face to a happy smile. It rewrites the shadows of my low sunken cheekbones, and lifts them up to make my false confidence shown. For a brief moment, it makes my ego un-fragile. My pointy, thick eyeliner sharpens my drooping eyes. Behind my eyelids are islands of cryin’, and styes that lie high while my vision’s fryin’. To sharpen my eyes would allow them to dry. The mask of makeup has worn down my face. Hiding my soul has dragged it to a lower place. I want nothing more than a soul clean and true, so I’ll take a few wipes, and try something new.I’ll remove the foundation, plow down the cracks to show nature’s creation. Reveal the strawberry freckles I once tried to hide. And, clean out the pores that were clogged so wide. I’ll remove the crimson blush, unsilence the scars I tried to hush. Although trauma’s gnash will feel agonizing at first, I’ll let the scars heal until they’re visible as dust.I’ll remove the contour, un-lift the face that made my fake smile sore. Maybe even realize sometimes it's okay to not be okay. Morphing my face’s shadows only causes delay. I’ll remove my eyeliner, stare at my soul ‘till I see the love behind her. Uncover the truth that my eyes were always sharper when they weren’t hidden behind a steep black sliver. My makeup tutorial became a mask-up tutorial. Morphing my truth to be happy is purely paradoxical. I once longed for the face of another, and now I just miss the face from my mother.
“Psychotherapy” Samuel D. Hunter I will start a revolution in the world of psychotherapy for those who can’t afford it. For little Jimmy that lost his father For little Sally whose mom is too drugged up to care for her. For teenage Sam with no friends at school. And even for Charlotte who spent her adult years in prison. America treats its mental health with bandaids doused in alcohol and loaded with guns. And, it keeps the real solutions locked behind a safe with a passcode that reads “90 dollars per session.” Therapy helped me learn my most important lessons, so I’ll start a non-profit for those who need it, but lack the needed insurance. I’ll keep our community in reassurance that someone will always be here to listen. The study of psychology’s opened my every pore to an empathetic door. And, gifted me the words to heal mental sores. “The Car is Your World” Ilissa Ocko Ted Talk excerpt
In a smoldering black parking lot, there exists your car. The car is your planet. The car’s vents pump carbon into the air, entrapping the noxious heat in the cramped cabin. Yet, you let it happen. You let it melt your car into a pool of plastic and metal. You let it melt your food into a sticky glove-box coating. Your laziness pins you to your leather seat And once it starts to melt, it sticks you down. Within your car, there exists a steering wheel. The wheel’s magnesium rim turns to liquid, rehoming your hands. Your palms could once rest on the firm rubber grip, but now, they must fend in the sea of metals. There was once a time when you tried to escape your car. You tried to build rockets to fly through the windshield, instead of trying to fix what you already had. Yet, you failed to realize that the new car you were looking for was uninhabitable. Its tank was empty, there was no food in the glove box, and the air vents sucked out every last drop of O2. What’s more? Even if you wanted to leave- you couldn’t. The same gas you used to power your car has run dry. You cannot build a rocket with no fuel. Finally, within your car exists you. The carbon from your vents overpowers the oxygen and suffocates you, asphyxiating your lungs and choking you from the inside out. The boiling black leather seats pelt your skin. Much like the carbon, your gasoline greed has grounded you. The locks have melted to an unfamiliar mold, and sealed you shut. If the car is your world, then, the world is our car.Politicians ignore the heat trapped from our star.
“The Butcher” Samuel D. Hunter
Being with you was sweet at first. We went to cafes and fairs and all those other charming places. You fed me the sweetest corn feed. I thought I was the type of pig you would treat as a pet, rather than food. Yet, I ignored your long, blood-stained white apron, and the square razor-sharp knife dangling from your waistband. The corn you fed me soon turned stale and bitter. It swelled my throat and boiled my stomach as I tried to digest it all. It was laced with expired benadryl to make me docile You then threw your sticks and stones. They broke my bones, because you knew your words could hurt me.They held me hostage, waiting in the slaughterhouse. With each friendshipI severed for you, and each skirt I wore that was a little too short, you drew your blade. You beat my legs with its end so I couldn’t run. I scurried and scurried, but when I got to the door, you threatened your life, and I scurried back. The worst part was that the same rules and expectations laid out for me had no application to you. You could compare me to whoever you pleased. You could flirt with who you pleased. And, you could walk out that door when you pleased, because you had the blade, and I had the shattered bones. So, when my legs just barely healed and I stood up, you chopped off my head and walked through the door. You walked out and told the world of how you were the pig, and I was the narcissistic butcher. But my vocal cords were shredded in the beheading, so I couldn’t speak.
I’m not that beheaded pig I once was. My head grew anew, and I evolved to walk and stand as a human.My squeals became words, and my words became boulders crafted from the same blade you once broke me with.
2024.05.13 03:42 OriginalPapaya8 The Brazilian Fiat 147 and its derivatives. Long post ahead.
THE BEGINNING
The exclusive Fiat 147, which was directly derived from the European success 127, launched in 1971. The new car, according to the Italians, would fit like a glove to the needs that Brazilians had to get around in a country of continental dimensions: the small 147 was robust, with easy and simple mechanics and, at the same time, provided a low cost maintenance. Furthermore, it had significant fuel economy when compared to other national cars of the time.
Perhaps due to its very compact external dimensions in relation to what was known, the new Fiat car left Brazilians with some insecurity, because, when looking at the national market, it was really compact, which made people think it was a frail and unreliable car.
THE ENGINE AND OTHER THINGS
Initially the compact received the FIASA engine (Fiat Automóveis S.A) which had a displacement of 1,050 cc yielding 55 hp (SAE) which led it to having a 0 - 100 km/h or 0 - 62 mph time of 18,8 seconds and a top speed of 135 km/h or 83 mph but most importantly, the fuel consumption was incredible: 12.3 km/l or 28.9 mpg in the city and 18.8 km/l or 44.2 mpg on the highway. In relation to the Italian 127, the Brazilian car had a more robust body, with more welding points, a fully independent suspension, being independent McPherson strut with coil springs at the front and transverse leaf spring at the rear, things that were necessary to face the harsh and mostly unpaved Brazilian roads. To showcase the new car and shut down the doubts of potential buyers a bold marketing campaign was launched where the little car descended and ascended the 365 steps of the staircase of the Penha church (RJ), famous for the promises of its faithful, without any type of special preparation, showcasing its reliability. In 1979 the ethanol version was launched, making this the first car to use this fuel type in the world, due to the modifications necessary to use this fuel the horsepower increased to 62 hp. Thanks to the burning of ethanol, this version let out a smell that resembled distilled drinks, which earned the car the nickname “Cachacinha”, which is the diminutive of the word “Cachaça” Brazil’s national distilled beverage.
SMALL EXTERIOR, BIG INTERIOR
The 147’s external size was very deceptive, measuring 3.62 m or 11’10” long, 1.54 m or 5’ wide, 1.35 m or 4’5” tall and having a wheelbase of 2.22 m or 7’3”, the car was smaller than the VW Beetle, but thanks to its masterful use of space and and the engine mounted in a transverse position, something never seen in any Brazilian car up to that time, made the interior space and trunk larger than that of its competitors, the trunk had a 352 liter or 12,43 cubic feet of capacity, which was helped by the fact that the spare tire was placed on top of the engine and thus didn't took any space away from the luggage.
DESIGN / FACELIFTS / NEW GENERATIONS
EUROPA FACELIFT (Picture 2): In 1980, the Fiat 147 underwent its first visual restyling, which was concentrated especially on its front. The new front of the hatch had a look that followed the trend of the time, marked by the wedge-shaped hood, the new slightly inclined engine cooling grille, and the polypropylene plastic bumpers that, depending on the version, could be painted in black or grey, the steering lights are now integrated next to the headlights, meanwhile, the side stripes of the sports versions are replaced by side rubbers, while at the rear the only novelty is the new license plate lighting set. With this update, the front of the car became known as the European Front. On a side note, the basic trim level still had the same visual style as the first version up until 1982.
SPAZIO FACELIFT (Picture 3): In 1983 the Spazio restyling brought new features such as new plastic bumpers with a wraparound design, new headlights, new amber direction lights, a new brand logo, on its side it featured new direction repeaters on the fenders, new plastic moldings and new wheels, at the rear the Spazio version had a larger rear window and new, thinner and longer tail lights. Inside, the new features included a new dashboard with a more modern design, a new instrument panel with information such as: speedometer, coolant temperature and fuel level, as well as warning lights.
VARIANTS
FURGONETA: This was the cargo version of the 147, which was nothing more than a 147 without the rear seats and rear windows. On the inside, this version gained a dividing grille to prevent objects in the cargo compartment from being thrown against passengers in the event of an accident or sudden braking.
147 PICK-UP / FIORINO: In 1979, the first compact pickup truck derived from a passenger car, the Fiat 147 Pick-Up, was launched. The pickup used the same platform as the 147 hatch, which resulted in a small bucket with a curious lid that opened to the side. Despite being small, the pickup can carry up to 420 kilos of cargo and could either be equipped with the 1050 cc engine or the 1300 cc one. In 1981, the Fiat 147 pickup was updated, now called Fiat Fiorino, the pickup uses the same platform as the recently launched Panorama, and with the old front, the pickup became larger and had its suspension reinforced to support the new capacity of 500 kg or 1102,31 lbs of load. Other than that, it's worth highlighting the new vertical taillights that allow the pickup to have a larger lid that can open downwards.
FIORINO CARGO VAN: In 1981 the cargo van version was launched, based on the pickup truck, this version was called Fiat Fiorino Furgão. This van stood out for several reasons, including its good load capacity of 2700 liters or 95.34 cubic feet, the two large doors that opened to the sides and the small cargo compartment above the cabin.
PANORAMA STATION WAGON: In addition to the restyling, 1980 was marked by the launch of the Panorama station wagon. Available only in the C and CL versions and equipped with the 1300 cc engine, the Fiat Panorama stood out for its appearance, which already had the restyled front, the large glass area, and the great internal space, thanks to its length 18 cm or 7 inches greater than the hatch, another detail that increased its internal space was the projection on the roof that increased headroom for rear seat occupants. Regarding luggage, this station wagon had a trunk with a capacity of up to 669 liters or 23.62 cubic feet, which could be increased to 1440 liters or 50.85 cubic feet by folding the rear seats.
OGGI SALOON: In 1983 the sedan version of the 147, the Oggi, was launched. Being only available in the CL version, it had qualities such as good interior space and a spacious trunk of 450 liters or 15.8 cubic feet.
TRIM LEVELS
Initially there was only one level available, L but just a bit later two new trim levels were added, the basic version that didn't have a denomination and the top trim level called GL, leaving the L version as the middle of the road level.
147 GL: The GL level had things such as chrome exterior details and new special wheels, a velvety lined interior, front seats with reclining backrest and headrest, tilting lid for the trunk, new exclusive steering wheel and new gauge cluster that had a coolant temperature marker in addition to the speedometer and fuel gauge.
147 GSL: In 1979 a new, more sophisticated version was unveiled, the GLS, the GLS version had external details such as a thin black stripe marking its entire side, the name of the version on both sides of the hood, black door handles, a new brand emblem in the center of the engine grille, as well as chrome bumpers with large rubber bands and rectangular headlights located above the front bumper. Inside, this version featured velvet upholstery, three-point seat belts on the front seats, headrests for rear seat occupants, three-spoke steering wheel, more complete instrument panel with tachometer as well as speedometer, temperature gauge engine and fuel level marker and two more circular markers in the center of the panel with an oil pressure gauge and analog clock. The Fiat 147 GLS had the new 1.3 engine that developed 61 horsepower.
147 RALLYE: That same year the Rallye version with a sporty appeal was released. This version differed from the others by presenting details such as side stripes with the name of the version, wheels painted in black and silver, black bumpers with a spoiler on the front bumper and a small black air intake on the interior cooling grille. Inside, it featured an all-black interior with wraparound front seats that had headrests integrated into them, a sports steering wheel and the same instrument panel as the GLS version. The engine was the same 1.3 as the GLS version, however, thanks to the double barrel carburetor, its power increased to 72 horsepower.
FIORINO CITY: In 1982, Fiat Fiorino gained a new version, the City, a version that was not aimed at work but aimed at a younger audience, it had a touch of sportiness, this one had the new Europa front and a better interior finish.
147 C: This was the new naming for the previous basic version, this version had the novelty of having the same front as the other trim levels.
147 CL: This is basically the previous L middle trim levels version.
147 Top: This is the new name for the GLS version. This was the only version changed. It had details such as plastic appliqués on the sides, the name of the version on both sides of the hood, wheels painted black and silver, front bumper with spoiler, fog lights, rear window wiper and as an option: sunroof. Inside, this version brought even more luxury and sophistication with the same dashboard and steering wheel as the Panorama CL, reclining front seats and a split rear seat.
147 Racing: The 147 rallye version was replaced by this version called Racing. This version had basically the same look as the Top version, with the addition of a small wing at the rear of the roof that brought improvements in performance and fuel economy. Inside, this version differed by having a lower steering column, resulting in a more vertical steering wheel position, in addition to the new four-spoke sports steering wheel, the front seats with high backs and covered in black vinyl with the front part in gray flocked velvet.
147 TR: In 1983 the new sports version of the 147 was launched, the 147 TR. The Fiat 147 TR's appearance was marked by long-range headlights and a rear with two spoilers, one on the roof and the other on the trunk lid below the glass. The interior had high backrest seats, and a dashboard with a rev counter, voltmeter and oil pressure gauge.
OGGI CSS: In 1984, the performance version of the Fiat Oggi, the Oggi CSS, was launched. This version had an exclusive 1400 cc engine powered by ethanol that developed 78 horsepower and 11.2 kgm of torque. The look received several changes such as front deflector, side skirts, wing over the trunk lid, deflector at the end of the roof, as well as auxiliary headlights, exclusive stickers and new aluminum wheels. Its ride height was also lower, the rear suspension was firmer and its clutch was new and made to make the sedan more sporty. Inside, the Oggi received the dashboard and four-spoke steering wheel from the 147 TR.
submitted by OriginalPapaya8 to Fiat [link] [comments]
The exclusive Fiat 147, which was directly derived from the European success 127, launched in 1971. The new car, according to the Italians, would fit like a glove to the needs that Brazilians had to get around in a country of continental dimensions: the small 147 was robust, with easy and simple mechanics and, at the same time, provided a low cost maintenance. Furthermore, it had significant fuel economy when compared to other national cars of the time.
Perhaps due to its very compact external dimensions in relation to what was known, the new Fiat car left Brazilians with some insecurity, because, when looking at the national market, it was really compact, which made people think it was a frail and unreliable car.
THE ENGINE AND OTHER THINGS
Initially the compact received the FIASA engine (Fiat Automóveis S.A) which had a displacement of 1,050 cc yielding 55 hp (SAE) which led it to having a 0 - 100 km/h or 0 - 62 mph time of 18,8 seconds and a top speed of 135 km/h or 83 mph but most importantly, the fuel consumption was incredible: 12.3 km/l or 28.9 mpg in the city and 18.8 km/l or 44.2 mpg on the highway. In relation to the Italian 127, the Brazilian car had a more robust body, with more welding points, a fully independent suspension, being independent McPherson strut with coil springs at the front and transverse leaf spring at the rear, things that were necessary to face the harsh and mostly unpaved Brazilian roads. To showcase the new car and shut down the doubts of potential buyers a bold marketing campaign was launched where the little car descended and ascended the 365 steps of the staircase of the Penha church (RJ), famous for the promises of its faithful, without any type of special preparation, showcasing its reliability. In 1979 the ethanol version was launched, making this the first car to use this fuel type in the world, due to the modifications necessary to use this fuel the horsepower increased to 62 hp. Thanks to the burning of ethanol, this version let out a smell that resembled distilled drinks, which earned the car the nickname “Cachacinha”, which is the diminutive of the word “Cachaça” Brazil’s national distilled beverage.
SMALL EXTERIOR, BIG INTERIOR
The 147’s external size was very deceptive, measuring 3.62 m or 11’10” long, 1.54 m or 5’ wide, 1.35 m or 4’5” tall and having a wheelbase of 2.22 m or 7’3”, the car was smaller than the VW Beetle, but thanks to its masterful use of space and and the engine mounted in a transverse position, something never seen in any Brazilian car up to that time, made the interior space and trunk larger than that of its competitors, the trunk had a 352 liter or 12,43 cubic feet of capacity, which was helped by the fact that the spare tire was placed on top of the engine and thus didn't took any space away from the luggage.
DESIGN / FACELIFTS / NEW GENERATIONS
EUROPA FACELIFT (Picture 2): In 1980, the Fiat 147 underwent its first visual restyling, which was concentrated especially on its front. The new front of the hatch had a look that followed the trend of the time, marked by the wedge-shaped hood, the new slightly inclined engine cooling grille, and the polypropylene plastic bumpers that, depending on the version, could be painted in black or grey, the steering lights are now integrated next to the headlights, meanwhile, the side stripes of the sports versions are replaced by side rubbers, while at the rear the only novelty is the new license plate lighting set. With this update, the front of the car became known as the European Front. On a side note, the basic trim level still had the same visual style as the first version up until 1982.
SPAZIO FACELIFT (Picture 3): In 1983 the Spazio restyling brought new features such as new plastic bumpers with a wraparound design, new headlights, new amber direction lights, a new brand logo, on its side it featured new direction repeaters on the fenders, new plastic moldings and new wheels, at the rear the Spazio version had a larger rear window and new, thinner and longer tail lights. Inside, the new features included a new dashboard with a more modern design, a new instrument panel with information such as: speedometer, coolant temperature and fuel level, as well as warning lights.
VARIANTS
FURGONETA: This was the cargo version of the 147, which was nothing more than a 147 without the rear seats and rear windows. On the inside, this version gained a dividing grille to prevent objects in the cargo compartment from being thrown against passengers in the event of an accident or sudden braking.
147 PICK-UP / FIORINO: In 1979, the first compact pickup truck derived from a passenger car, the Fiat 147 Pick-Up, was launched. The pickup used the same platform as the 147 hatch, which resulted in a small bucket with a curious lid that opened to the side. Despite being small, the pickup can carry up to 420 kilos of cargo and could either be equipped with the 1050 cc engine or the 1300 cc one. In 1981, the Fiat 147 pickup was updated, now called Fiat Fiorino, the pickup uses the same platform as the recently launched Panorama, and with the old front, the pickup became larger and had its suspension reinforced to support the new capacity of 500 kg or 1102,31 lbs of load. Other than that, it's worth highlighting the new vertical taillights that allow the pickup to have a larger lid that can open downwards.
FIORINO CARGO VAN: In 1981 the cargo van version was launched, based on the pickup truck, this version was called Fiat Fiorino Furgão. This van stood out for several reasons, including its good load capacity of 2700 liters or 95.34 cubic feet, the two large doors that opened to the sides and the small cargo compartment above the cabin.
PANORAMA STATION WAGON: In addition to the restyling, 1980 was marked by the launch of the Panorama station wagon. Available only in the C and CL versions and equipped with the 1300 cc engine, the Fiat Panorama stood out for its appearance, which already had the restyled front, the large glass area, and the great internal space, thanks to its length 18 cm or 7 inches greater than the hatch, another detail that increased its internal space was the projection on the roof that increased headroom for rear seat occupants. Regarding luggage, this station wagon had a trunk with a capacity of up to 669 liters or 23.62 cubic feet, which could be increased to 1440 liters or 50.85 cubic feet by folding the rear seats.
OGGI SALOON: In 1983 the sedan version of the 147, the Oggi, was launched. Being only available in the CL version, it had qualities such as good interior space and a spacious trunk of 450 liters or 15.8 cubic feet.
TRIM LEVELS
Initially there was only one level available, L but just a bit later two new trim levels were added, the basic version that didn't have a denomination and the top trim level called GL, leaving the L version as the middle of the road level.
147 GL: The GL level had things such as chrome exterior details and new special wheels, a velvety lined interior, front seats with reclining backrest and headrest, tilting lid for the trunk, new exclusive steering wheel and new gauge cluster that had a coolant temperature marker in addition to the speedometer and fuel gauge.
147 GSL: In 1979 a new, more sophisticated version was unveiled, the GLS, the GLS version had external details such as a thin black stripe marking its entire side, the name of the version on both sides of the hood, black door handles, a new brand emblem in the center of the engine grille, as well as chrome bumpers with large rubber bands and rectangular headlights located above the front bumper. Inside, this version featured velvet upholstery, three-point seat belts on the front seats, headrests for rear seat occupants, three-spoke steering wheel, more complete instrument panel with tachometer as well as speedometer, temperature gauge engine and fuel level marker and two more circular markers in the center of the panel with an oil pressure gauge and analog clock. The Fiat 147 GLS had the new 1.3 engine that developed 61 horsepower.
147 RALLYE: That same year the Rallye version with a sporty appeal was released. This version differed from the others by presenting details such as side stripes with the name of the version, wheels painted in black and silver, black bumpers with a spoiler on the front bumper and a small black air intake on the interior cooling grille. Inside, it featured an all-black interior with wraparound front seats that had headrests integrated into them, a sports steering wheel and the same instrument panel as the GLS version. The engine was the same 1.3 as the GLS version, however, thanks to the double barrel carburetor, its power increased to 72 horsepower.
FIORINO CITY: In 1982, Fiat Fiorino gained a new version, the City, a version that was not aimed at work but aimed at a younger audience, it had a touch of sportiness, this one had the new Europa front and a better interior finish.
147 C: This was the new naming for the previous basic version, this version had the novelty of having the same front as the other trim levels.
147 CL: This is basically the previous L middle trim levels version.
147 Top: This is the new name for the GLS version. This was the only version changed. It had details such as plastic appliqués on the sides, the name of the version on both sides of the hood, wheels painted black and silver, front bumper with spoiler, fog lights, rear window wiper and as an option: sunroof. Inside, this version brought even more luxury and sophistication with the same dashboard and steering wheel as the Panorama CL, reclining front seats and a split rear seat.
147 Racing: The 147 rallye version was replaced by this version called Racing. This version had basically the same look as the Top version, with the addition of a small wing at the rear of the roof that brought improvements in performance and fuel economy. Inside, this version differed by having a lower steering column, resulting in a more vertical steering wheel position, in addition to the new four-spoke sports steering wheel, the front seats with high backs and covered in black vinyl with the front part in gray flocked velvet.
147 TR: In 1983 the new sports version of the 147 was launched, the 147 TR. The Fiat 147 TR's appearance was marked by long-range headlights and a rear with two spoilers, one on the roof and the other on the trunk lid below the glass. The interior had high backrest seats, and a dashboard with a rev counter, voltmeter and oil pressure gauge.
OGGI CSS: In 1984, the performance version of the Fiat Oggi, the Oggi CSS, was launched. This version had an exclusive 1400 cc engine powered by ethanol that developed 78 horsepower and 11.2 kgm of torque. The look received several changes such as front deflector, side skirts, wing over the trunk lid, deflector at the end of the roof, as well as auxiliary headlights, exclusive stickers and new aluminum wheels. Its ride height was also lower, the rear suspension was firmer and its clutch was new and made to make the sedan more sporty. Inside, the Oggi received the dashboard and four-spoke steering wheel from the 147 TR.
2024.05.13 03:15 rbn_alt_accounttt Did anyone else's parents try to convince you you weren't who you actually are?
My mom wishes she had daughters to an extreme degree.
She's always told me she wanted 2 daughters and not one of each. She's told me she wishes I could just be "simple" and "pretty" and told me she wishes I "could just have some weight on my chest". This was years ago, and that happened at an awful time where I actually did start to grow a chest (apparently its some normal condition that goes away). It was awful.
She'd always say things like "look, you finally have them! I always knew youd get them" And "you'd look so good in a tank top with those boobs" and "can you feel them move when you go down the stairs? They look big, I think we should put you in some clothes that fit them nicer". She actually bought me tops and tried to convince me to wear them. She went as far into it as making me put this stuff on me to make myself grow, and made me wear a fucking d size implant just so i could "enjoy them early".
she made me take stupid womens supplements, apply breast and hip growing oil, and eat a ton extra to "support my growing body".
I still remember the time she refused to wash clothes for me until I switched to the new ones she wanted. That lasted a while until I eventually forced her to wash my actual clothes. She went as far as telling me "you have bounce" and to "look how big they're getting! Youre almost summer ready". She even bought me a fucking *bikini* she said "will fit you well" And asked me "how does it feel filling in your new suit with your new *real* body?". I finally overthrew her bullshit, started exercising, mostly making me back to the way I was and she gave up. She hasn't mentioned wanting 2 daughters since.
What tf is wrong with her? Is this normal narcissistic behavior or is this advanced narcissism or something?
Oh and also remembered she once made me wear these implants and this oil for multiple days (the implants were huge and awkward and made me sore) under her stupid tank tops because i wasnt "growing as fast as I should be". I was made to wear them with this oily bs on because "it will make them grow bigger" (it did, unfortunately) and put on the stupid fake boobs and oil on me all the time. I still remember her saying before I was made to have the implant on "wed better get you a shirt size up, i can see you're getting big!" And "they look bigger! Does it feel nice finally having boobs on you?" the bottle had "A to D growth" written on it. Everyday shed make me massage that on 24 7 and it actually did make them larger which sucks.
she bought a kirt, saying "omg, your hips are starting to grow too!" She actually fucking made me wear one saying "your hips are getting big, this way they can breathe!" Fun thing was my hips werent big, i just wasnt as fat. she'd also make me run this OTHER oil around my hips and legs and around the rim of the skirts, telling me "the oil makes you nice and curvy and the skirt wont stretch when you hit a growth spurt". She told me one day "omg, your hips looks wider! You hit a growth spurt! Arent you glad your skirt is still loose? Theyre nice now! Come sit, try them out!" And shit like "i bet that skirt feels nice now, your ass is bigger, it needs the room!" And "are your underwear tight? Maybe we should get you some better suited to your hips!" Even though i didnt have either.
didnt help that her dork ass oil and her womans supplements and her extra food she gave me made my thighs fat and made her stupid clothes stop fitting which only made her try to convince me to try "letting the real me out" and wearing the swimsuit she bought until she could buy me "clothes that will hold your new curves in". She would literally take my clothes away if it didnt fit what she wanted, and i was forced to essentially wear a jacket and snow pants trying to make me feel less uncomfortable even though I was wearing the stupid swimsuit she forced me to wear underneath.
For a while i had to literally be a motherfucking woman, and have breast growth treatments, because she thought she needed a daughter. For context, im very much a guy. Im leaving the day i turn 18. I dont know what the fuck was wrong with her. im pretty sure she wanted me to transition (not trans, even) so she could have a second daughter, but instead she just super confused and embarrassed me. why does she have to be nuts and weird?
edit: wtf i just looked and realized im STILL "big" in the areas where she made me put that growth oil on, and my nipples are super wide, which according to trans resources is permanent growth of actual breast tissue. And the stupid outfits are still in my closet like she wanted me to change my mind or something. Seeing how it fits now, the implants are ridiculously large, like so big they stick off me diagonally, the damn thing says 50dd, and the stupid ass skirt is padded too, so she made me think my hips actually were bigger when they werent.
Ill never forget when she said "Youll feel so good once you become who youve always been" as though i wasnt who i was. Insane. i remember her giving me a mirror in my her supplied outfit, implants and fucking all, and told me "look how pretty you are! you've got hips thighs AND boobs! You've always been a girl, youve just never let it out!"
Im making tons of money now, preparing to leave ASAP. I got a car, soon a few grand, and im ready to just bounce.
submitted by rbn_alt_accounttt to raisedbynarcissists [link] [comments]
She's always told me she wanted 2 daughters and not one of each. She's told me she wishes I could just be "simple" and "pretty" and told me she wishes I "could just have some weight on my chest". This was years ago, and that happened at an awful time where I actually did start to grow a chest (apparently its some normal condition that goes away). It was awful.
She'd always say things like "look, you finally have them! I always knew youd get them" And "you'd look so good in a tank top with those boobs" and "can you feel them move when you go down the stairs? They look big, I think we should put you in some clothes that fit them nicer". She actually bought me tops and tried to convince me to wear them. She went as far into it as making me put this stuff on me to make myself grow, and made me wear a fucking d size implant just so i could "enjoy them early".
she made me take stupid womens supplements, apply breast and hip growing oil, and eat a ton extra to "support my growing body".
I still remember the time she refused to wash clothes for me until I switched to the new ones she wanted. That lasted a while until I eventually forced her to wash my actual clothes. She went as far as telling me "you have bounce" and to "look how big they're getting! Youre almost summer ready". She even bought me a fucking *bikini* she said "will fit you well" And asked me "how does it feel filling in your new suit with your new *real* body?". I finally overthrew her bullshit, started exercising, mostly making me back to the way I was and she gave up. She hasn't mentioned wanting 2 daughters since.
What tf is wrong with her? Is this normal narcissistic behavior or is this advanced narcissism or something?
Oh and also remembered she once made me wear these implants and this oil for multiple days (the implants were huge and awkward and made me sore) under her stupid tank tops because i wasnt "growing as fast as I should be". I was made to wear them with this oily bs on because "it will make them grow bigger" (it did, unfortunately) and put on the stupid fake boobs and oil on me all the time. I still remember her saying before I was made to have the implant on "wed better get you a shirt size up, i can see you're getting big!" And "they look bigger! Does it feel nice finally having boobs on you?" the bottle had "A to D growth" written on it. Everyday shed make me massage that on 24 7 and it actually did make them larger which sucks.
she bought a kirt, saying "omg, your hips are starting to grow too!" She actually fucking made me wear one saying "your hips are getting big, this way they can breathe!" Fun thing was my hips werent big, i just wasnt as fat. she'd also make me run this OTHER oil around my hips and legs and around the rim of the skirts, telling me "the oil makes you nice and curvy and the skirt wont stretch when you hit a growth spurt". She told me one day "omg, your hips looks wider! You hit a growth spurt! Arent you glad your skirt is still loose? Theyre nice now! Come sit, try them out!" And shit like "i bet that skirt feels nice now, your ass is bigger, it needs the room!" And "are your underwear tight? Maybe we should get you some better suited to your hips!" Even though i didnt have either.
didnt help that her dork ass oil and her womans supplements and her extra food she gave me made my thighs fat and made her stupid clothes stop fitting which only made her try to convince me to try "letting the real me out" and wearing the swimsuit she bought until she could buy me "clothes that will hold your new curves in". She would literally take my clothes away if it didnt fit what she wanted, and i was forced to essentially wear a jacket and snow pants trying to make me feel less uncomfortable even though I was wearing the stupid swimsuit she forced me to wear underneath.
For a while i had to literally be a motherfucking woman, and have breast growth treatments, because she thought she needed a daughter. For context, im very much a guy. Im leaving the day i turn 18. I dont know what the fuck was wrong with her. im pretty sure she wanted me to transition (not trans, even) so she could have a second daughter, but instead she just super confused and embarrassed me. why does she have to be nuts and weird?
edit: wtf i just looked and realized im STILL "big" in the areas where she made me put that growth oil on, and my nipples are super wide, which according to trans resources is permanent growth of actual breast tissue. And the stupid outfits are still in my closet like she wanted me to change my mind or something. Seeing how it fits now, the implants are ridiculously large, like so big they stick off me diagonally, the damn thing says 50dd, and the stupid ass skirt is padded too, so she made me think my hips actually were bigger when they werent.
Ill never forget when she said "Youll feel so good once you become who youve always been" as though i wasnt who i was. Insane. i remember her giving me a mirror in my her supplied outfit, implants and fucking all, and told me "look how pretty you are! you've got hips thighs AND boobs! You've always been a girl, youve just never let it out!"
Im making tons of money now, preparing to leave ASAP. I got a car, soon a few grand, and im ready to just bounce.
2024.05.13 00:13 OriginalPapaya8 The Brazilian Fiat 147 and its derivatives. Long post ahead.
 | THE BEGINNING: The exclusive Fiat 147, which was directly derived from the European success 127, launched in 1971. The new car, according to the Italians, would fit like a glove to the needs that Brazilians had to get around in a country of continental dimensions: the small 147 was robust, with easy and simple mechanics and, at the same time, provided a low cost maintenance. Furthermore, it had significant fuel economy when compared to other national cars of the time. submitted by OriginalPapaya8 to WeirdWheels [link] [comments] Perhaps due to its very compact external dimensions in relation to what was known, the new Fiat car left Brazilians with some insecurity, because, when looking at the national market, it was really compact, which made people think it was a frail and unreliable car. THE ENGINE AND OTHER THINGS; Initially the compact received the FIASA engine (Fiat Automóveis S.A) which had a displacement of 1,050 cc yielding 55 hp (SAE) which led it to having a 0 - 100 km/h or 0 - 62 mph time of 18,8 seconds and a top speed of 135 km/h or 83 mph but most importantly, the fuel consumption was incredible: 12.3 km/l or 28.9 mpg in the city and 18.8 km/l or 44.2 mpg on the highway. In relation to the Italian 127, the Brazilian car had a more robust body, with more welding points, a fully independent suspension, being independent McPherson strut with coil springs at the front and transverse leaf spring at the rear, things that were necessary to face the harsh and mostly unpaved Brazilian roads. To showcase the new car and shut down the doubts of potential buyers a bold marketing campaign was launched where the little car descended and ascended the 365 steps of the staircase of the Penha church (RJ), famous for the promises of its faithful, without any type of special preparation, showcasing its reliability. In 1979 the ethanol version was launched, making this the first car to use this fuel type in the world, due to the modifications necessary to use this fuel the horsepower increased to 62 hp. Thanks to the burning of ethanol, this version let out a smell that resembled distilled drinks, which earned the car the nickname “Cachacinha”, which is the diminutive of the word “Cachaça” Brazil’s national distilled beverage. SMALL EXTERIOR, BIG INTERIOR: The 147’s external size was very deceptive, measuring 3.62 m or 11’10” long, 1.54 m or 5’ wide, 1.35 m or 4’5” tall and having a wheelbase of 2.22 m or 7’3”, the car was smaller than the VW Beetle, but thanks to its masterful use of space and and the engine mounted in a transverse position, something never seen in any Brazilian car up to that time, made the interior space and trunk larger than that of its competitors, the trunk had a 352 liter or 12,43 cubic feet of capacity, which was helped by the fact that the spare tire was placed on top of the engine and thus didn't took any space away from the luggage. DESIGN / FACELIFTS / NEW GENERATIONS; EUROPA FACELIFT (Picture 2): In 1980, the Fiat 147 underwent its first visual restyling, which was concentrated especially on its front. The new front of the hatch had a look that followed the trend of the time, marked by the wedge-shaped hood, the new slightly inclined engine cooling grille, and the polypropylene plastic bumpers that, depending on the version, could be painted in black or grey, the steering lights are now integrated next to the headlights, meanwhile, the side stripes of the sports versions are replaced by side rubbers, while at the rear the only novelty is the new license plate lighting set. With this update, the front of the car became known as the European Front. On a side note, the basic trim level still had the same visual style as the first version up until 1982. SPAZIO FACELIFT (Picture 3): In 1983 the Spazio restyling brought new features such as new plastic bumpers with a wraparound design, new headlights, new amber direction lights, a new brand logo, on its side it featured new direction repeaters on the fenders, new plastic moldings and new wheels, at the rear the Spazio version had a larger rear window and new, thinner and longer tail lights. Inside, the new features included a new dashboard with a more modern design, a new instrument panel with information such as: speedometer, coolant temperature and fuel level, as well as warning lights. VARIANTS FURGONETA: This was the cargo version of the 147, which was nothing more than a 147 without the rear seats and rear windows. On the inside, this version gained a dividing grille to prevent objects in the cargo compartment from being thrown against passengers in the event of an accident or sudden braking. 147 PICK-UP / FIORINO: In 1979, the first compact pickup truck derived from a passenger car, the Fiat 147 Pick-Up, was launched. The pickup used the same platform as the 147 hatch, which resulted in a small bucket with a curious lid that opened to the side. Despite being small, the pickup can carry up to 420 kilos of cargo and could either be equipped with the 1050 cc engine or the 1300 cc one. In 1981, the Fiat 147 pickup was updated, now called Fiat Fiorino, the pickup uses the same platform as the recently launched Panorama, and with the old front, the pickup became larger and had its suspension reinforced to support the new capacity of 500 kg or 1102,31 lbs of load. Other than that, it's worth highlighting the new vertical taillights that allow the pickup to have a larger lid that can open downwards. FIORINO CARGO VAN: In 1981 the cargo van version was launched, based on the pickup truck, this version was called Fiat Fiorino Furgão. This van stood out for several reasons, including its good load capacity of 2700 liters or 95.34 cubic feet, the two large doors that opened to the sides and the small cargo compartment above the cabin. PANORAMA STATION WAGON: In addition to the restyling, 1980 was marked by the launch of the Panorama station wagon. Available only in the C and CL versions and equipped with the 1300 cc engine, the Fiat Panorama stood out for its appearance, which already had the restyled front, the large glass area, and the great internal space, thanks to its length 18 cm or 7 inches greater than the hatch, another detail that increased its internal space was the projection on the roof that increased headroom for rear seat occupants. Regarding luggage, this station wagon had a trunk with a capacity of up to 669 liters or 23.62 cubic feet, which could be increased to 1440 liters or 50.85 cubic feet by folding the rear seats. OGGI SALOON: In 1983 the sedan version of the 147, the Oggi, was launched. Being only available in the CL version, it had qualities such as good interior space and a spacious trunk of 450 liters or 15.8 cubic feet. TRIM LEVELS: Initially there was only one level available, L but just a bit later two new trim levels were added, the basic version that didn't have a denomination and the top trim level called GL, leaving the L version as the middle of the road level. 147 GL: The GL level had things such as chrome exterior details and new special wheels, a velvety lined interior, front seats with reclining backrest and headrest, tilting lid for the trunk, new exclusive steering wheel and new gauge cluster that had a coolant temperature marker in addition to the speedometer and fuel gauge. 147 GSL: In 1979 a new, more sophisticated version was unveiled, the GLS, the GLS version had external details such as a thin black stripe marking its entire side, the name of the version on both sides of the hood, black door handles, a new brand emblem in the center of the engine grille, as well as chrome bumpers with large rubber bands and rectangular headlights located above the front bumper. Inside, this version featured velvet upholstery, three-point seat belts on the front seats, headrests for rear seat occupants, three-spoke steering wheel, more complete instrument panel with tachometer as well as speedometer, temperature gauge engine and fuel level marker and two more circular markers in the center of the panel with an oil pressure gauge and analog clock. The Fiat 147 GLS had the new 1.3 engine that developed 61 horsepower. 147 RALLYE: That same year the Rallye version with a sporty appeal was released. This version differed from the others by presenting details such as side stripes with the name of the version, wheels painted in black and silver, black bumpers with a spoiler on the front bumper and a small black air intake on the interior cooling grille. Inside, it featured an all-black interior with wraparound front seats that had headrests integrated into them, a sports steering wheel and the same instrument panel as the GLS version. The engine was the same 1.3 as the GLS version, however, thanks to the double barrel carburetor, its power increased to 72 horsepower. FIORINO CITY: In 1982, Fiat Fiorino gained a new version, the City, a version that was not aimed at work but aimed at a younger audience, it had a touch of sportiness, this one had the new Europa front and a better interior finish. 147 C: This was the new naming for the previous basic version, this version had the novelty of having the same front as the other trim levels. 147 CL: This is basically the previous L middle trim levels version. 147 Top: This is the new name for the GLS version. This was the only version changed. It had details such as plastic appliqués on the sides, the name of the version on both sides of the hood, wheels painted black and silver, front bumper with spoiler, fog lights, rear window wiper and as an option: sunroof. Inside, this version brought even more luxury and sophistication with the same dashboard and steering wheel as the Panorama CL, reclining front seats and a split rear seat. 147 Racing: The 147 rallye version was replaced by this version called Racing. This version had basically the same look as the Top version, with the addition of a small wing at the rear of the roof that brought improvements in performance and fuel economy. Inside, this version differed by having a lower steering column, resulting in a more vertical steering wheel position, in addition to the new four-spoke sports steering wheel, the front seats with high backs and covered in black vinyl with the front part in gray flocked velvet. 147 TR: In 1983 the new sports version of the 147 was launched, the 147 TR. The Fiat 147 TR's appearance was marked by long-range headlights and a rear with two spoilers, one on the roof and the other on the trunk lid below the glass. The interior had high backrest seats, and a dashboard with a rev counter, voltmeter and oil pressure gauge. OGGI CSS: In 1984, the performance version of the Fiat Oggi, the Oggi CSS, was launched. This version had an exclusive 1400 cc engine powered by ethanol that developed 78 horsepower and 11.2 kgm of torque. The look received several changes such as front deflector, side skirts, wing over the trunk lid, deflector at the end of the roof, as well as auxiliary headlights, exclusive stickers and new aluminum wheels. Its ride height was also lower, the rear suspension was firmer and its clutch was new and made to make the sedan more sporty. Inside, the Oggi received the dashboard and four-spoke steering wheel from the 147 TR. |
2024.05.12 23:12 toweliel Used, 15-20k EUR car. No SUVs
Background: currently have a Saab 9-5 Aero, 2006. 335k km. Very comfortable sleeper car, albeit crappy on fuel economy. In local market value 2k in current condition.
Issue is that rust is catching up to it, rear wheel arches, dog legs, side skirts + starter motor needs changing, need a tranny oil change and I am expecting turbo to go in a few years. Mirrors can't be adjusted anymore, there is a permanent check engine light. Probably something else will break along the way. If I were to keep it, it would cost me around 3k to get right for the next 3-4 years until engine or something else finally gives up. I'm leaning towards selling it.
Priorities and needs: Reliability, comfort, not SUV, reasonable on fuel, not a diesel, heated seats. Wants: awd or rwd, not slow, android auto. Budget: 15-20k EUR range
I have narrowed it down to these options: 1) 2017-2019 Škoda Superb 4x4 2.0 TSI. Pros: quick, comfortable, lots of space, good rust protection from factory, should be reliable-ish. Cons: bad infotainment system, DSG is tricky if not serviced/treated well, heard about minor nagging issues like window actuators and mirrors stopping to fold etc. Eats a bit of oil like all VAG petrols and it's not very economical. 2) 2012-2016 Lexus GS450h. Pros: Quick, comfortable, Toyota reliability, nice interior, good on fuel. Cons: bad rust protection from factory, no Android auto/carplay, is generally older. 3) The smart choice. 2019 Toyota Corolla Touring Sports 2.0 hybrid. Pros: Economical, reliable, Android auto, lots of modern options like auto cruise control, blind spot warnings etc. Cons: bad rust protection from factory, relatively less comfortable and not as nice place to be in, not a fun car.
4) Invest in Saab and try to keep it on the road for a few years more. I have calculated all running costs, including maintenance, repairs, fuel, insurance, tax. It would be at least 2k per year cheaper to run even with higher fuel consumption and upcoming repairs. But I don't have confidence that it will leave me stranded somewhere one day.
So asking reddit hive mind here, what would you do?
submitted by toweliel to whatcarshouldIbuy [link] [comments]
Issue is that rust is catching up to it, rear wheel arches, dog legs, side skirts + starter motor needs changing, need a tranny oil change and I am expecting turbo to go in a few years. Mirrors can't be adjusted anymore, there is a permanent check engine light. Probably something else will break along the way. If I were to keep it, it would cost me around 3k to get right for the next 3-4 years until engine or something else finally gives up. I'm leaning towards selling it.
Priorities and needs: Reliability, comfort, not SUV, reasonable on fuel, not a diesel, heated seats. Wants: awd or rwd, not slow, android auto. Budget: 15-20k EUR range
I have narrowed it down to these options: 1) 2017-2019 Škoda Superb 4x4 2.0 TSI. Pros: quick, comfortable, lots of space, good rust protection from factory, should be reliable-ish. Cons: bad infotainment system, DSG is tricky if not serviced/treated well, heard about minor nagging issues like window actuators and mirrors stopping to fold etc. Eats a bit of oil like all VAG petrols and it's not very economical. 2) 2012-2016 Lexus GS450h. Pros: Quick, comfortable, Toyota reliability, nice interior, good on fuel. Cons: bad rust protection from factory, no Android auto/carplay, is generally older. 3) The smart choice. 2019 Toyota Corolla Touring Sports 2.0 hybrid. Pros: Economical, reliable, Android auto, lots of modern options like auto cruise control, blind spot warnings etc. Cons: bad rust protection from factory, relatively less comfortable and not as nice place to be in, not a fun car.
4) Invest in Saab and try to keep it on the road for a few years more. I have calculated all running costs, including maintenance, repairs, fuel, insurance, tax. It would be at least 2k per year cheaper to run even with higher fuel consumption and upcoming repairs. But I don't have confidence that it will leave me stranded somewhere one day.
So asking reddit hive mind here, what would you do?
2024.05.12 19:36 indyman_123 'The Hiding' [Seer of York Book 1] by Alethea Lyons - Book Review
Originally posted at SFF Insiders.
~Blurb:~
Arcane archivist Harper has always been plagued by dreams of grotesque creatures and bloody deaths. When she bumps into a ghostwalker in the Shambles and has a visceral experience of his execution, she knows it’s a foretelling. Yet fear of the Queen’s Guard stops her speaking out. When her vision indeed comes true, the unusual markings on the ghostwalker’s corpse, combined with his neatly excised vocal cords, send a ripple of terror through York.
The witch hunt is on. As the body count rises, Harper knows her magic is the only way to find the killer – if she can avoid being hanged as a witch. To protect both human and supernatural, Harper walks the thin line between their worlds. She and her demonhunter foster-sister form a multi-faith team with a forensic scientist, a spirit Harper accidentally summoned, and a techno-witch, to catch the killer before more people die.
~Review:~
‘The Hiding’ caught my attention while I was browsing through ‘BookSirens’ for a potential next read. First off, I must say, the cover is really amazing and stands out in quite some manner. That in itself was reason enough for my piqued interest. The description was very intriguing as well, and sounded something right down my alley. And so, I was more than eager to get my hands on the digital ARC on offer, which I eventually did without any hesitation. Hence, I would like to extend my deepest of thanks to the author, the publishers, and BookSirens for giving readers like me the opportunity to review this dark fantasy debut.
What is hidden from sense,
Will be hidden from mind,
Forgotten, unknowing,
Forever entwined.
York, famous for its ghosts, was the most haunted city in England… and was proud of it too. But that’s not the only thing it was famous for. ‘The Shambles’ was the last place anyone with sense would expect to find real magic. The twisting ginnels and alleyways branching from the street promised portals to dark adventures in other realms. Magic seemed to fizz like static in the air. Shoppers disappeared around corners, or possibly were whisked off to faraway queendoms. Each shop dazzled, selling everything from jewellery to paper, from antiques to modern art. And yet, it still gave the illusion that “fae” might be hiding in the gloaming mists… How’s that for setting-up a setting, eh?
Welcome to a world which is “infected” by “supes” (aka the ‘supernaturals’), and York, alongside England, is no exception. Humans, spirits, and the fae (the ‘Faerie’) roamed the streets here in what was like just another day. But the line separating them all was pretty thin, especially when darkness took over…
‘The Veil’ acted as the barrier between the human world and Faerie, kept strong all over England through generations. But that wasn’t the only defense mechanism protecting the people from the otherworldly. The ‘Queen’s Guard’ and the ‘Council of Faiths’ were two such institutions. The former’s official position was that no supernatural had survived something collectively referred to as ‘the Purge’, an event which ultimately had also led to the foundation of the latter. Together, by employing draconian enforcement measures throughout in the present times, they ensured that the “mortal realm” was kept separated from the ethereal one. Even now, hundreds of years later, humans patrolled the great wall surrounding York, always vigilant against incursion from those they called ‘supernatural.’ They came armed with fire and iron, dill and mint, silver crucifixes and blood red hamsa. The core materials changed little over the centuries, honed by each generation to destroy.
But the balance of everything in York was about to be shattered in the most chilling of ways…
“Never scream…”
A tangled medley of disembodied whispers, all saying the same two words, over and over.
“Never scream…”
Meet Harper Ashbury, a junior archivist and collector at the Saint Peter’s Cathedral in York. A specialist in the field of supernatural history, she helped to keep dangerous books out of the public eye, and researched ways to protect people from the supernatural. Working for the church under the guidance of the Archbishop of York himself was one thing, but Harper harbored a secret… one that was not at all welcome by anyone in York, both human or otherwise.
Apart from the horrific nightmares, the eerie visions, and the constant amnesia, Harper could “See” things… thanks to her “Sight”. Her past and her family were a complete blur to her, and she was desperate to find the answers to the seemingly dark and bleak events long gone by. Taking her in after an “accident”, the De Santos had become the family she never had. But they were not just any other ordinary family. The De Santos were demonhunters. The ones who fought against the supernaturals to protect the world from demons and the forces of evil. Curfews were for ordinary people. A De Santos was not scared of the dark. A De Santos was one with the dark.
Grace De Santos, Harper’s foster sister, was a vet by profession, and the only De Santos who wasn’t into demonhunting for the sole reason so that she could stay with Harper and make sure her archivist sister was safe. But the duo was about to be thrust into something far more dangerous than anything they had previously encountered, and their relations were about to be tested to the limits as York, the “night-safe” city, was not at all safe anymore…
The shocking and quite unusual death of a “ghostwalker” sends ripples across the city. Was it just a “death” in the first place, or was it a possible murder? Someone, or something, was carefully targeting people in the night and brutally killing them. With the police out of their depth having no cause of death and no suspects, and the Guard not willing to share anything with the Council, the Archbishop decides to take matters into his own hands. There was nothing a man as important as the archbishop could want with a junior archivist. There was only one reason he would summon her. To hunt something and kill it. And in his own words – “… In this matter, my faith in people is greater than my faith in science. You and Grace are uniquely placed to see the truth.”
The race against time begins as the bodies start to pile up in the most chilling of circumstances. With a helping hand from Dr. Saqib Siddique, a forensic supernaturalist, and a “not evil; just mischievous” spirit/demon, the sister duo embarks upon a path that is both dangerous and equally deadly if one is not careful enough. And one just can’t be careful enough in a place such as York… Can the group set aside their beliefs and differences to act as one and stop the killer in time?
All choice in the matter had been taken from her: use her abilities and risk death or bury them and remain forever lost. Magic was the only recourse left to find her home.
Most people might say they didn’t believe ghosts or supernaturals still walked the streets of England, but deep down, they were never sure.
Harper didn’t believe in ghosts, but she did believe in human evil.
To find the truth, she would need to face the darkness.
~The good:~
· To go alongside the amazing cover and the intriguing description, the whole setting of York, and the world around it in general, was superbly written and depicted throughout. It was as if I was a part of it myself! (real-life black & white pictures of York were present, which helped the cause!).
· The writing was just top notch by all means. It was vivid, highly atmospheric, and genuinely immersive all the way. The multi third-person POV was great, and a fun read.
· The story was excellent, engaging, and very exciting till the last page.
· The characters were very well written, and were memorable in more ways than one (a certain “individual” more so than the others!).
· The themes of religion and beliefs were pretty strong in general, and well depicted.
· The ending was great in my opinion, and sets up the next instalment pretty nicely.
~The “not so” good:~
In all honesty, I don’t have a single thing to complain about, believe it or not!
~Some quotes/dialogues and text to set your adrenaline rolling (as it did mine!):~
· ‘Never show fear, no matter how dark it is, no matter how strong your enemy. Never show fear.’
‘But feel fear. Feel fear. It’s God’s warning. It keeps you alive.’
· “Hurt them. Disable them. Live to fight another day. This is no honourable fight between gentlefolk. This is a fight for survival. Your survival and the survival of the innocents who depend on you. Fight dirty. Fight to win.”
· The ghostwalker removed his hat and bowed low. “Do not linger,” he cautioned his audience. “The night draws close and the mists rise. Death still walks the streets of York. Ghosts, witches, and demons watch from the shadows. No matter how many lies those in power tell, nowhere is truly night-safe. Be careful it is not your tale I tell on future nights. The bridge here is the fastest way back to your cars. Do not stray from the path, for where the ghosts do not walk, the Queen’s Guard surely will, and innocence is harder to prove than guilt.”
· Mist swirled around the car and danced in the fog lamps. The light scraped across black tarmac. Cat’s eyes gleamed, waiting to pounce, razor claws swiping at tires. The moon hovered behind naked silhouettes of trees and stars twinkled through their branches like an adornment of fairy lights. Frolicking stars, fallen from the sky, flickered around the trunk of an old oak, illuminating a skirt of long grasses. Then the tree was gone, consumed by the unending darkness. Harper clutched her shawl closer around her shoulders and settled back in her seat.
· No one comes out when it’s like this, she reminded herself, but it was a hollow comfort. No one human would be out. Everyone knew someone who had a friend whose cousin, or sibling, or child had been lost in the mist. Logic said they fell in the river and drowned, or met some unsavoury human, a quick knife between the ribs. Whispers said something inhuman lurked in the mists and stole souls away to another land. Then there were the people who came back changed, their eyes hollow, jerky movements like marionettes, a dark edge to their looks, hard and uncaring.
· The cemetery was pitch-black but for the wavering light of the guard’s torch. Even that thin beam of brightness didn’t reassure Harper, rather it created more darkness, throwing long shadows behind each blade of grass. Darkness piled upon darkness, pressing in, consuming, suffocating. Clouds overpowered the moonlight as the stars twinkled out, handful by handful.
~Final thoughts:~
A dark fantasy debut which is vivid, highly atmospheric, and sure to set your adrenaline rolling in excitement and intrigue alike. Simply put, ‘The Hiding’ by Alethea Lyons is right up there with one of my favorite reads of the year. York as a setting was so immersive and well depicted that you might end up feeling you’re a part of it yourself! The characters were great, the plot was superb, and the world was excellently put forth. Oh, and if you could not tell already, the writing was top notch by all means. An engaging read throughout with an ending so good that I can’t wait for the next installment! I HIGHLY RECOMMEND that you check it out!
submitted by indyman_123 to Fantasy [link] [comments]
~Blurb:~
Arcane archivist Harper has always been plagued by dreams of grotesque creatures and bloody deaths. When she bumps into a ghostwalker in the Shambles and has a visceral experience of his execution, she knows it’s a foretelling. Yet fear of the Queen’s Guard stops her speaking out. When her vision indeed comes true, the unusual markings on the ghostwalker’s corpse, combined with his neatly excised vocal cords, send a ripple of terror through York.
The witch hunt is on. As the body count rises, Harper knows her magic is the only way to find the killer – if she can avoid being hanged as a witch. To protect both human and supernatural, Harper walks the thin line between their worlds. She and her demonhunter foster-sister form a multi-faith team with a forensic scientist, a spirit Harper accidentally summoned, and a techno-witch, to catch the killer before more people die.
~Review:~
‘The Hiding’ caught my attention while I was browsing through ‘BookSirens’ for a potential next read. First off, I must say, the cover is really amazing and stands out in quite some manner. That in itself was reason enough for my piqued interest. The description was very intriguing as well, and sounded something right down my alley. And so, I was more than eager to get my hands on the digital ARC on offer, which I eventually did without any hesitation. Hence, I would like to extend my deepest of thanks to the author, the publishers, and BookSirens for giving readers like me the opportunity to review this dark fantasy debut.
What is hidden from sense,
Will be hidden from mind,
Forgotten, unknowing,
Forever entwined.
York, famous for its ghosts, was the most haunted city in England… and was proud of it too. But that’s not the only thing it was famous for. ‘The Shambles’ was the last place anyone with sense would expect to find real magic. The twisting ginnels and alleyways branching from the street promised portals to dark adventures in other realms. Magic seemed to fizz like static in the air. Shoppers disappeared around corners, or possibly were whisked off to faraway queendoms. Each shop dazzled, selling everything from jewellery to paper, from antiques to modern art. And yet, it still gave the illusion that “fae” might be hiding in the gloaming mists… How’s that for setting-up a setting, eh?
Welcome to a world which is “infected” by “supes” (aka the ‘supernaturals’), and York, alongside England, is no exception. Humans, spirits, and the fae (the ‘Faerie’) roamed the streets here in what was like just another day. But the line separating them all was pretty thin, especially when darkness took over…
‘The Veil’ acted as the barrier between the human world and Faerie, kept strong all over England through generations. But that wasn’t the only defense mechanism protecting the people from the otherworldly. The ‘Queen’s Guard’ and the ‘Council of Faiths’ were two such institutions. The former’s official position was that no supernatural had survived something collectively referred to as ‘the Purge’, an event which ultimately had also led to the foundation of the latter. Together, by employing draconian enforcement measures throughout in the present times, they ensured that the “mortal realm” was kept separated from the ethereal one. Even now, hundreds of years later, humans patrolled the great wall surrounding York, always vigilant against incursion from those they called ‘supernatural.’ They came armed with fire and iron, dill and mint, silver crucifixes and blood red hamsa. The core materials changed little over the centuries, honed by each generation to destroy.
But the balance of everything in York was about to be shattered in the most chilling of ways…
“Never scream…”
A tangled medley of disembodied whispers, all saying the same two words, over and over.
“Never scream…”
Meet Harper Ashbury, a junior archivist and collector at the Saint Peter’s Cathedral in York. A specialist in the field of supernatural history, she helped to keep dangerous books out of the public eye, and researched ways to protect people from the supernatural. Working for the church under the guidance of the Archbishop of York himself was one thing, but Harper harbored a secret… one that was not at all welcome by anyone in York, both human or otherwise.
Apart from the horrific nightmares, the eerie visions, and the constant amnesia, Harper could “See” things… thanks to her “Sight”. Her past and her family were a complete blur to her, and she was desperate to find the answers to the seemingly dark and bleak events long gone by. Taking her in after an “accident”, the De Santos had become the family she never had. But they were not just any other ordinary family. The De Santos were demonhunters. The ones who fought against the supernaturals to protect the world from demons and the forces of evil. Curfews were for ordinary people. A De Santos was not scared of the dark. A De Santos was one with the dark.
Grace De Santos, Harper’s foster sister, was a vet by profession, and the only De Santos who wasn’t into demonhunting for the sole reason so that she could stay with Harper and make sure her archivist sister was safe. But the duo was about to be thrust into something far more dangerous than anything they had previously encountered, and their relations were about to be tested to the limits as York, the “night-safe” city, was not at all safe anymore…
The shocking and quite unusual death of a “ghostwalker” sends ripples across the city. Was it just a “death” in the first place, or was it a possible murder? Someone, or something, was carefully targeting people in the night and brutally killing them. With the police out of their depth having no cause of death and no suspects, and the Guard not willing to share anything with the Council, the Archbishop decides to take matters into his own hands. There was nothing a man as important as the archbishop could want with a junior archivist. There was only one reason he would summon her. To hunt something and kill it. And in his own words – “… In this matter, my faith in people is greater than my faith in science. You and Grace are uniquely placed to see the truth.”
The race against time begins as the bodies start to pile up in the most chilling of circumstances. With a helping hand from Dr. Saqib Siddique, a forensic supernaturalist, and a “not evil; just mischievous” spirit/demon, the sister duo embarks upon a path that is both dangerous and equally deadly if one is not careful enough. And one just can’t be careful enough in a place such as York… Can the group set aside their beliefs and differences to act as one and stop the killer in time?
All choice in the matter had been taken from her: use her abilities and risk death or bury them and remain forever lost. Magic was the only recourse left to find her home.
Most people might say they didn’t believe ghosts or supernaturals still walked the streets of England, but deep down, they were never sure.
Harper didn’t believe in ghosts, but she did believe in human evil.
To find the truth, she would need to face the darkness.
~The good:~
· To go alongside the amazing cover and the intriguing description, the whole setting of York, and the world around it in general, was superbly written and depicted throughout. It was as if I was a part of it myself! (real-life black & white pictures of York were present, which helped the cause!).
· The writing was just top notch by all means. It was vivid, highly atmospheric, and genuinely immersive all the way. The multi third-person POV was great, and a fun read.
· The story was excellent, engaging, and very exciting till the last page.
· The characters were very well written, and were memorable in more ways than one (a certain “individual” more so than the others!).
· The themes of religion and beliefs were pretty strong in general, and well depicted.
· The ending was great in my opinion, and sets up the next instalment pretty nicely.
~The “not so” good:~
In all honesty, I don’t have a single thing to complain about, believe it or not!
~Some quotes/dialogues and text to set your adrenaline rolling (as it did mine!):~
· ‘Never show fear, no matter how dark it is, no matter how strong your enemy. Never show fear.’
‘But feel fear. Feel fear. It’s God’s warning. It keeps you alive.’
· “Hurt them. Disable them. Live to fight another day. This is no honourable fight between gentlefolk. This is a fight for survival. Your survival and the survival of the innocents who depend on you. Fight dirty. Fight to win.”
· The ghostwalker removed his hat and bowed low. “Do not linger,” he cautioned his audience. “The night draws close and the mists rise. Death still walks the streets of York. Ghosts, witches, and demons watch from the shadows. No matter how many lies those in power tell, nowhere is truly night-safe. Be careful it is not your tale I tell on future nights. The bridge here is the fastest way back to your cars. Do not stray from the path, for where the ghosts do not walk, the Queen’s Guard surely will, and innocence is harder to prove than guilt.”
· Mist swirled around the car and danced in the fog lamps. The light scraped across black tarmac. Cat’s eyes gleamed, waiting to pounce, razor claws swiping at tires. The moon hovered behind naked silhouettes of trees and stars twinkled through their branches like an adornment of fairy lights. Frolicking stars, fallen from the sky, flickered around the trunk of an old oak, illuminating a skirt of long grasses. Then the tree was gone, consumed by the unending darkness. Harper clutched her shawl closer around her shoulders and settled back in her seat.
· No one comes out when it’s like this, she reminded herself, but it was a hollow comfort. No one human would be out. Everyone knew someone who had a friend whose cousin, or sibling, or child had been lost in the mist. Logic said they fell in the river and drowned, or met some unsavoury human, a quick knife between the ribs. Whispers said something inhuman lurked in the mists and stole souls away to another land. Then there were the people who came back changed, their eyes hollow, jerky movements like marionettes, a dark edge to their looks, hard and uncaring.
· The cemetery was pitch-black but for the wavering light of the guard’s torch. Even that thin beam of brightness didn’t reassure Harper, rather it created more darkness, throwing long shadows behind each blade of grass. Darkness piled upon darkness, pressing in, consuming, suffocating. Clouds overpowered the moonlight as the stars twinkled out, handful by handful.
~Final thoughts:~
A dark fantasy debut which is vivid, highly atmospheric, and sure to set your adrenaline rolling in excitement and intrigue alike. Simply put, ‘The Hiding’ by Alethea Lyons is right up there with one of my favorite reads of the year. York as a setting was so immersive and well depicted that you might end up feeling you’re a part of it yourself! The characters were great, the plot was superb, and the world was excellently put forth. Oh, and if you could not tell already, the writing was top notch by all means. An engaging read throughout with an ending so good that I can’t wait for the next installment! I HIGHLY RECOMMEND that you check it out!
2024.05.12 16:42 invariant_overlord Tampa Concert was AMAZING, buuuut
First off, Allison Russell naming the Hozier fans “Dryads”? ICONIC. Even if he was under the weather, Andrew was AMAZING. It was my first time seeing him and it was SO MAGICAL, I still can’t believe it happened 😩👏🏼❤️ Also, I met so so SO many sweet, positive, BEAUTIFUL people!
There was a pack of sweet gals who refused to let me walk by myself to my car and escorted each other to their own cars, another really really amazing gal who texted me to check on me, and the girlies beside me who literally grabbed my hands and screamed with me when Hozier popped up beside us? Y’ll have my whole heart 😭❤️
Now laying in bed with my Hozier hoodie and my ears ringing, I gotta call out some major ick from the Tampa crowd. Cause really.. some of that behavior dampened the mood. Even the gals beside me were upset.
(Also sorry, Idk why the font got HUGE halfway in)
Maybe that’s me being pet-peevey, but other than that, it was literally an AMAZING night!!!!
I’m so lucky to have been there and met so many beautiful people 👏🏼 I LOOOOOVED the comradery and sisterhood in women sticking together at night or watching each others drinks. Legit, first concert I have seen where the ladies (or fem-folks)are NOT actively tearing each other apart.
Can’t wait til my next Hozier outing, hopefully I’ll see my fellow Dryads ❤️!
submitted by invariant_overlord to Hozier [link] [comments]
There was a pack of sweet gals who refused to let me walk by myself to my car and escorted each other to their own cars, another really really amazing gal who texted me to check on me, and the girlies beside me who literally grabbed my hands and screamed with me when Hozier popped up beside us? Y’ll have my whole heart 😭❤️
Now laying in bed with my Hozier hoodie and my ears ringing, I gotta call out some major ick from the Tampa crowd. Cause really.. some of that behavior dampened the mood. Even the gals beside me were upset.
(Also sorry, Idk why the font got HUGE halfway in)
1: Using the seats or pit to block people’s view and do Tik-Tok dances. It’s a concert, Bro. People PAID to be there and enjoy it, not get shoved around or blocked by you twerking and grabbing yourself and lifting your skirt in public 🥴 It’s tacky, sit down. Do that at home..
2: Talking the ENTIRE concert. NAY, dare I say, YELLING at each other because you bought the Ampitheathre pass and are there just to fill a quota. Believe me, nobody wants to hear you argue with your spouse about gym etiquette while Hozier’s right next to us singing “Cherry Wine”. It’s disrespectful to the artist and the fans there to enjoy it.. You can talk, just don’t yell and try not to talk during quiet songs???
3: Just be mindful of others. I know it’s cramped, but don’t elbow me in the ribs and then get rude when my socially anxious ass apologizes regardless of me getting hit. You don’t need to run or shove or steal spots or skip lines. We’ll get there when we get there and we’ll all get to bask in the presence of Andrew.
4 is more of a personal pet peeve cause if I had to be the person behind this person, it’d make me hella uncomfortable and also from a sanitary stand point??? But wear whatever you want, I’m not the fashion gestapo.
A few people wore straight up thongs (one basically had a micro-thong) under tights or net dresses then sat on the stadium seats? It really cannot be good for you doing that 🥴 And when you stand up or if you get sweaty, people have to se your bare butt the entire time. There was quite a few kids with their parents where I was, tbh I’d be UNCOMFY bringing my parent seeing full ass at a Hozier concert, but again wear what you want but be mindful of the venue and others and your own health cause I DOUBT they clean those seats often 🥴Maybe that’s me being pet-peevey, but other than that, it was literally an AMAZING night!!!!
I’m so lucky to have been there and met so many beautiful people 👏🏼 I LOOOOOVED the comradery and sisterhood in women sticking together at night or watching each others drinks. Legit, first concert I have seen where the ladies (or fem-folks)are NOT actively tearing each other apart.
Can’t wait til my next Hozier outing, hopefully I’ll see my fellow Dryads ❤️!
2024.05.12 04:12 Odd_Weather9349 How would you design your very own tornado intercept vehicle?
I’m piggybacking off the cool post about a transparent above ground storm shelter and asking how you would design the ultimate TIV, money no object. I’ll start with mine since I’ve been thinking about it for a while.
I’d start with a Bentley Continental Flying Spur as my base vehicle. 99% of stormchasing is just driving from place to place, so I’d make it comfortable. Plus, it has 620 hp, all wheel drive, 4 seats, and weighs about 3 tons stock with a very low and slippery silhouette.
As for modifications, I’d get it armored to head-of-state level standard, tier B7. This is 15mm ballistic steel designed to resist high caliber armor piercing bullets and roadside bombs. It protects both the cabin and key mechanical components like the engine, gas tank (the size of which I would increase) and driveline. I’d finish off the body panels with about an inch of truck bed liner which I believe would completely eliminate the chance of hail dents. The whole package would also probably add another 3,000 pounds of weight which is good for safety.
I’d then add air suspension and aero skirts to drop it flat to the ground and seal the underbody. I’d replace the stock tires with run flat or even airless off road tires. I see guys get stuck in the mud all the time and it won’t happen to me. The adjustable suspension would allow me also to raise the car for muddy conditions or floodwater.
As for the interior I would add a full drag car style roll cage and racing harness. If I do get picked up, I’m not going anywhere. I’d replace the windows not with bulletproof glass (which shatters on impact, necessitating replacement and impeding visibility), but instead with the thickest lexan that fits. It would be shatterproof and offer similar impact protection to regular bulletproof glass. I could confidently core punch softball size hailstorms with impunity.
What I’d be left with is something much more aerodynamic, comfortable and reliable than the dominator or similar. It would probably weigh a bit less but I have enough power to just add more ballast if I really needed it.
So how would you do it? Did I miss anything obvious? If I won the lottery I’d build this tomorrow, would like to see what other people come up with.
submitted by Odd_Weather9349 to tornado [link] [comments]
I’d start with a Bentley Continental Flying Spur as my base vehicle. 99% of stormchasing is just driving from place to place, so I’d make it comfortable. Plus, it has 620 hp, all wheel drive, 4 seats, and weighs about 3 tons stock with a very low and slippery silhouette.
As for modifications, I’d get it armored to head-of-state level standard, tier B7. This is 15mm ballistic steel designed to resist high caliber armor piercing bullets and roadside bombs. It protects both the cabin and key mechanical components like the engine, gas tank (the size of which I would increase) and driveline. I’d finish off the body panels with about an inch of truck bed liner which I believe would completely eliminate the chance of hail dents. The whole package would also probably add another 3,000 pounds of weight which is good for safety.
I’d then add air suspension and aero skirts to drop it flat to the ground and seal the underbody. I’d replace the stock tires with run flat or even airless off road tires. I see guys get stuck in the mud all the time and it won’t happen to me. The adjustable suspension would allow me also to raise the car for muddy conditions or floodwater.
As for the interior I would add a full drag car style roll cage and racing harness. If I do get picked up, I’m not going anywhere. I’d replace the windows not with bulletproof glass (which shatters on impact, necessitating replacement and impeding visibility), but instead with the thickest lexan that fits. It would be shatterproof and offer similar impact protection to regular bulletproof glass. I could confidently core punch softball size hailstorms with impunity.
What I’d be left with is something much more aerodynamic, comfortable and reliable than the dominator or similar. It would probably weigh a bit less but I have enough power to just add more ballast if I really needed it.
So how would you do it? Did I miss anything obvious? If I won the lottery I’d build this tomorrow, would like to see what other people come up with.
2024.05.12 04:08 watermelon4487 In honor of Mother's Day, what was a ridiculous rule your nmom had?
For me it was:
submitted by watermelon4487 to raisedbynarcissists [link] [comments]
- Don't say "fart" or "sucks" (she doesn't like those words)
- Don't drive with open toed shoes (if I get in an accident my foot will get sliced off)
- Don't drive with the windows open (someone could pull a gun on me while I'm at a red light)
- Don't shower when I'm home alone (someone could break into the house and try to hurt me)
- Don't hang out with black people ("what will the neighbors think?")
- Don't date black men (black women will be angry at me because I'm "stealing their men")
- Don't curse (you'll get a reputation of having a "sailor's mouth" or "potty mouth")
- Don't paint my nails in my room with the door closed (she doesn't like the smell)
- Don't go out with friends (the house will be "so empty" if it's just her and my ndad at home)
- Don't date until I'm 16 (at 17 she caught me kissing a boy who walked me home and yelled at me)
- Don't wear tight skirts (boys will think I'm a slut)
- Don't wear Livestrong bracelets (she thought they were sex bracelets)
- Don't get social media (creepy men will kidnap me)
- Don't go out in public with a shirt with the name of my elementary school on it (a creepy man will see it and try to kidnap me)
- Don't go to my first high school dance (the senior boys will try to dance with me and grope me)
- Don't withhold information about my job or address from her (she's entitled to know)
- Don't be a picky eater (boys won't want to date someone who only eats off the kid's menu)
- Don't park in the driveway (she will have to park on the street and someone will side swipe her car and she won't be able to go to work)
- Don't dye my hair (I won't be able to get a job)
- Don't have sex (if I get pregnant my life will be over)
- Don't get birth control (she tried it and didn't like it)
- Don't walk around the house in a sports bra (men in the house will see me)
- Don't spend time hanging out with friends (I should do something productive like volunteer)
- Don't hang out with friends if you need a ride (she's tired of being the pick up/drop off parent)
- Don't buy bras that aren't black or beige (colorful bras are for "fun times")
- Don't get changed in front of windows in my bedroom (the boy who lives next door might try to look at me)
- Don't invite friends over to the house (the house is a mess)
- Don't set boundaries (it's "unhealthy" not to talk to people)
2024.05.11 23:53 -ell_iptical- I (19NB) have been dating my boyfriend (18M) for 1 year and recently he has become much more touchy. What should I do?
I hope this isn’t against any rules here (I’m new). I’m looking for advice and opinions on my situation here. Recently I’ve started to notice my boyfriend touches me inappropriately while we’re watching tv at his house. By touching I mean grabbing my thigh WAY too high up if I’m wearing shorts or a skirt. If I’m wearing ripped jeans he will forcefully put his hand through the holes just to touch up to my underwear!
My last straw was recently when I was wearing ripped jeans and he put his hand through the holes and was centimeters away from my private part. He moved his hand OVER my private part (with underwear) and I grabbed his hand and pulled his hand away from me. I felt completely disgusted like I needed to shower.
I notice he does the same thing in the car. He’ll grab my thigh as high as he can go even if I have pants on. It’s gotten to the point where I don’t feel comfortable showing any kind of skin. It doesn’t matter what kind of pants or shorts I wear though he will always try to touch me.
I’ve told him “I don’t want to be touched inappropriately” and he immediately responds with a bunch of apologies and acknowledges it for next time. He does the same thing each time. He touches me again each time.
To be honest, I’ve been dating this guy for a year. I’m honestly in love with him. Everything besides this is perfect. He’s a great person, a great boyfriend, and we’ve even talked about marriage some day because of how much we click.
That’s why I don’t know what to do about this situation. Every time it happens I feel so disgusted and dirty. It keeps me up at night with eyes full of tears. If any of y’all have any advice to give much would be appreciated!
submitted by -ell_iptical- to SexualHarassment [link] [comments]
My last straw was recently when I was wearing ripped jeans and he put his hand through the holes and was centimeters away from my private part. He moved his hand OVER my private part (with underwear) and I grabbed his hand and pulled his hand away from me. I felt completely disgusted like I needed to shower.
I notice he does the same thing in the car. He’ll grab my thigh as high as he can go even if I have pants on. It’s gotten to the point where I don’t feel comfortable showing any kind of skin. It doesn’t matter what kind of pants or shorts I wear though he will always try to touch me.
I’ve told him “I don’t want to be touched inappropriately” and he immediately responds with a bunch of apologies and acknowledges it for next time. He does the same thing each time. He touches me again each time.
To be honest, I’ve been dating this guy for a year. I’m honestly in love with him. Everything besides this is perfect. He’s a great person, a great boyfriend, and we’ve even talked about marriage some day because of how much we click.
That’s why I don’t know what to do about this situation. Every time it happens I feel so disgusted and dirty. It keeps me up at night with eyes full of tears. If any of y’all have any advice to give much would be appreciated!
2024.05.11 23:32 ohkayohkay6 My wife dating a cross dresser
Edit obviously the title should say "my LIFE" and not my wife! Lol but you can't edit titles!
I wanted to make sort of a light hearted and positive post about my experience dating and living with a cross dresser. I have known my bf since we were in high school and we reconnected through mutual friends about a year and a half ago and have been best friends, soul mates and side by side ever since.
When the truth came out, I quickly decided that I wanted to be supportive and I would at least try to accommodate him, I'm not going to lie, it was strange at first, he started wearing panties a lot more, seeing them peeking out of his pants was always a little surprise. He started wearing leggings around the house, I'd come home from work and he'd be working in his office, sending important emails and writing up contracts, wearing a cami and yoga pants. It would catch me off guard every time, not in a bad way, just in a "oh yeah, this is a thing now" kinda way.
If you are bringing company back with you and you have a cross dresser at home, always give him a heads up, we had a close call early on, me and my sister got in, I knew he was home, he was locked in his office and I had to discreetly slip him an outfit without my sister seeing so he could come out of the room! Lol lesson learned
Getting dressed in the morning, half asleep grabbing clothes out of the dryer, I reach in feel around for underwear and grabbed a pair, go to put them on.... wait these are too big, they aren't mine!
Our closet looks a bit different these days too, we moved into a new house a few months ago, with a great big walk in closet that has a little makeup table and a dressing room area, I was giving my sister a tour of the house and show her the closet, she looks around and says "damn girl I see are taking over his side of the closet too!" Umm uh huh! Sure did! Lol
Now that's actually one of the benefits to dating a cross dresser, he's not incredibly bigger than me so we can fit in a lot of each other's clothes. Basically my wardrobe has expanded! I've worn a few of his skirts and dresses to work, and one got hella compliments. We both thought that was pretty cool and I got to laugh to myself the whole day when I told people "yeah, my boyfriend picked it out for me" lol
We do "girls night in" a lot, we wear matching pj's do face masks, paint out nails, I do his hair, we eat pizza and watch horror movies, it's always a fun night and he absolutely loves it, accommodating his cross dressing with very little effort with the added bonus of actually having a good time!
The gender switch, sometimes when he's dressed up I'll put on his clothes, a backwards hat and cat call him, "damn you got some nice curves on you girrrl!" It's silly, if anyone saw it they'd probably die of secondhand embarrassment but what can I say? It's fun lol
Going shopping is fun too, he's not a big shopper but if it's for clothes he loves it and it means a lot to him, we have a system of signals and codes so nobody knows we are shopping for him, unless of course we get anything matching and the cashier asks me if I meant to get the same thing in two different sizes, "yeah girl, I know just ring it up please" and speaking of shopping, I promise you, you haven't seen happiness until you surprise a cross dresser with a new dress, you'd think I just surprised him with a new car! It's fun seeing him get excited and knowing how much it means to him makes it worth every penny.
This isn't for everyone, and I don't blame anyone for feeling whatever emotions they feel when they find out their partner is a cross dresser, we didn't necessarily sign up for this and everyone's situation is different. This is our situation, I embraced it I supported him and I think it sort of bonded us more, like he trusts me so much that he's willing to share this deep secret with me. I hope at least one wife or gf sees this and it makes it a little easier for them to figure this out. Communication and trust is key.
submitted by ohkayohkay6 to crossdressers_wives [link] [comments]
I wanted to make sort of a light hearted and positive post about my experience dating and living with a cross dresser. I have known my bf since we were in high school and we reconnected through mutual friends about a year and a half ago and have been best friends, soul mates and side by side ever since.
When the truth came out, I quickly decided that I wanted to be supportive and I would at least try to accommodate him, I'm not going to lie, it was strange at first, he started wearing panties a lot more, seeing them peeking out of his pants was always a little surprise. He started wearing leggings around the house, I'd come home from work and he'd be working in his office, sending important emails and writing up contracts, wearing a cami and yoga pants. It would catch me off guard every time, not in a bad way, just in a "oh yeah, this is a thing now" kinda way.
If you are bringing company back with you and you have a cross dresser at home, always give him a heads up, we had a close call early on, me and my sister got in, I knew he was home, he was locked in his office and I had to discreetly slip him an outfit without my sister seeing so he could come out of the room! Lol lesson learned
Getting dressed in the morning, half asleep grabbing clothes out of the dryer, I reach in feel around for underwear and grabbed a pair, go to put them on.... wait these are too big, they aren't mine!
Our closet looks a bit different these days too, we moved into a new house a few months ago, with a great big walk in closet that has a little makeup table and a dressing room area, I was giving my sister a tour of the house and show her the closet, she looks around and says "damn girl I see are taking over his side of the closet too!" Umm uh huh! Sure did! Lol
Now that's actually one of the benefits to dating a cross dresser, he's not incredibly bigger than me so we can fit in a lot of each other's clothes. Basically my wardrobe has expanded! I've worn a few of his skirts and dresses to work, and one got hella compliments. We both thought that was pretty cool and I got to laugh to myself the whole day when I told people "yeah, my boyfriend picked it out for me" lol
We do "girls night in" a lot, we wear matching pj's do face masks, paint out nails, I do his hair, we eat pizza and watch horror movies, it's always a fun night and he absolutely loves it, accommodating his cross dressing with very little effort with the added bonus of actually having a good time!
The gender switch, sometimes when he's dressed up I'll put on his clothes, a backwards hat and cat call him, "damn you got some nice curves on you girrrl!" It's silly, if anyone saw it they'd probably die of secondhand embarrassment but what can I say? It's fun lol
Going shopping is fun too, he's not a big shopper but if it's for clothes he loves it and it means a lot to him, we have a system of signals and codes so nobody knows we are shopping for him, unless of course we get anything matching and the cashier asks me if I meant to get the same thing in two different sizes, "yeah girl, I know just ring it up please" and speaking of shopping, I promise you, you haven't seen happiness until you surprise a cross dresser with a new dress, you'd think I just surprised him with a new car! It's fun seeing him get excited and knowing how much it means to him makes it worth every penny.
This isn't for everyone, and I don't blame anyone for feeling whatever emotions they feel when they find out their partner is a cross dresser, we didn't necessarily sign up for this and everyone's situation is different. This is our situation, I embraced it I supported him and I think it sort of bonded us more, like he trusts me so much that he's willing to share this deep secret with me. I hope at least one wife or gf sees this and it makes it a little easier for them to figure this out. Communication and trust is key.
2024.05.11 14:24 HayzWrites Keith's Transformation Ch 4 [M30s/M30s/F30s][crossdressing][femdom][chastity][first time bi][blowjob]
Keith's Transformation Ch 4 [M30s/M30s/F30s][crossdressing][femdom][chastity][first time bi][blowjob]
Friday morning came, meaning it had been a week since their session, and Keith couldn’t stop wondering about the surprise Jasmine had mentioned. His cock was still locked away, and though he had grown used to the weight, it served as a constant reminder. He had to laugh at the irony, the cage making him horny while also preventing him from so much as getting hard, much less getting relief.
As he started getting ready for the day, he was intrigued to find a pair of silk panties and a note in his underwear drawer. He could nearly hear the words written in Jasmine’s dominant voice. “I think you should wear these today. I want to make sure you’re in the mood for tonight.” His cock fought against the cage as his thoughts fought between sexy fantasies of what was coming, and the embarrassment of wearing panties all day. Nevertheless he pulled them on, leaving his folded boxers in the drawer.
His day passed in a daze, barely able to focus on the work he was doing. His heart skipped a beat every time someone came to his desk to ask a question, and through every meeting, sure someone would notice somehow. When the end of the day came, he rushed to pack up and head out, politely declining offers to go out for a drink from a few co-workers on his team.
Dinner was mercilessly normal. Jasmine gave nothing away, almost as if she hadn’t been taunting him about tonight for a week. It wasn’t until later, as he was bent over loading the dishwasher, that she made her move. She came up behind him, hand rubbing over his ass and whispered in his ear “When you’re done there, come upstairs so we can get ready for your surprise. You’ve been such a patient girl for me.” His cock twitched against the cage as she walked off and he hurried to finish loading the last of the plates.
He came into the room as she finished laying out his outfit for the night, but he was surprised to see she wasn’t dressed yet. She looked at him expectantly and he stripped and started to put on his outfit for the night. It started with a pair of black lacy panties that swallowed up his caged package, leaving just the hint of a bulge. This was followed shortly by soft fishnet leggings, though he left the heels for now. A lacy bra matched the panties, and he was surprised to find that some clever padding and positioning turned his natural, slightly flabby chest into a perky pair of A cups, complete with a hint of cleavage. Finally, he pulled the dress on top, taking a few moments to adjust the mesh sleeves and straps, and stepped into a pair of high heels.
Once he was dressed, she sat him on the bed and grabbed her makeup. This was new, but he sat obediently as she went at him with brushes and pencils. Satisfied, she gave his ass a slap before leaving to get ready herself.
Keith stared in disbelief at the woman he saw in the full-length mirror in front of him. A pair of crimson, three-inch heels started the outfit, giving way to fishnets running up her smooth legs. The centerpiece of the outfit was a black and red gothic Lolita dress. Fluffy ruffles and frills of lace gave a playful edge to the short skirt and revealing top. Transparent black mesh covered her arms below the shoulder. The top was low cut, dipping low enough to give just a peak of her small but firm cleavage. Straps ran from the top to a trimmed collar around her neck. Her dark hair was left down, falling just short of her shoulders, framing her face. Her lips were painted with a deep red that looked nearly black, giving sharp contrast to her pale skin. Light mascara and eye shadow drew attention to her piercing blue eyes that seemed to look through Keith’s soul as he stared.
The sight left Keith in a daze, there was no way he was looking at himself. There wasn’t a trace of himself in the reflection, no matter where he looked. No, this wasn’t him anymore. Sure, Keith was the one looking into the mirror, but Kelly was staring back at him.
“How the hell did I get here?” He asked himself, then shook his head to clear his thoughts as he heard Jasmine coming back.
His eyes widened as he saw her outfit for the night. She stood before him in a white suit that had just a hint of pearlescent shine. Matching pearl earrings glinted from among her flowing hair. The suit jacket was fastened by just one button right below her cleavage, showing and framing a lacy crimson corset displaying her impressive cleavage. The crisp suit pants stopped right above her ankles, giving clear view of blood red heels to match the corset. Her own makeup was impeccably done. Around her neck was a thin silver chain. Dangling on the end, resting just above her cleavage, was a small padlock key.
“Ready to go Kelly?” She asked, taking his hand before he could respond. His heart was pounding as she grabbed her purse and pulled him to the garage. She ushered him into the passenger side of the car and climbed in. She saw the panic clear on his face and took his hand, smiling at him.
“We don’t have to go out, we can just go back upstairs. But I want to see you suck a real cock, and I think you want to be a good girl and show me, don’t you?” His submissive urge to please her warred with his humiliation, the two feelings mixing and setting off a storm of desire in his chest. She whispered in his ear and his fate was sealed. “Are you going to be my good girl?” Keith nodded weakly. He, or tonight rather she, was Jasmine’s to command.
Jasmine drove them through the town, one hand resting on Kelly’s leg for support, pulling into the parking lot of a small local bar. Once again taking her hand as they entered the bar, Kelly could feel multiple pairs of eyes on them as they entered. She supposed they did make quite the pair. Jasmine led her to a booth in the corner, leaving her to sit as she went for drinks.
A few minutes into their drinks and chatting someone approached their booth. Kelly nearly jumped in surprised as he said hi, but Jasmine clapped in excitement. “John! You’re right on time. This is Kelly, she’s who I was telling you about. Kelly this is John, he’s going to help us tonight.” She said with a knowing wink in her direction.
A few drinks and a short walk later, the three of them found themselves in a hotel room Jasmine had reserved for the night. As soon as they got in the room, Jasmine grabbed Kelly by the hair and pulled her towards the bed. John pulled off his shirt and pants, but as he was hooking in his thumbs in the waistband of his underwear he was stopped by Jasmine. “Leave the boxers, I want her to get the full reveal.” He shrugged and came to sit on the edge of the bed in front of them.
Jasmine pulled Kelly’s head in front of his crotch then leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Now be a good girl and give me a good show.” Kelly shuddered, her dick fighting to rise in her cage, as she looked at the obvious bulge in front of her. Jasmine let her go and moved to sit in a chair off to the side, unbuttoning her suit jacket as she sat. “I’m waiting slut.” Kelly slowly pulled off his boxers, eyes widening as his cock came into view. Already hard, he was even bigger than the strap-on Jasmine had trained her with. Licking her lips, she opened her mouth and took the head in with no hesitation. She paused for a minute, not used to the taste and the warmth compared to the dildos she was used to sucking. John’s hand came to rest lightly on her head and she went to work.
She started slow, sucking gently on the head as she swirled her tongue around, then moving down his shaft slowly. She wrapped one hand around the base of his shaft and stroked slowly as she bobbed over the first few inches of his dick. His hand pushed lightly on the back of her head, fingers twisting in her hair as she sucked and licked. Her hand moved down to play with his balls as she lowered her mouth completely down his shaft. She looked up at him with lust in her eyes as she deepthroated his dick, reveling in his soft groans as his cock stretched her throat.
Over in the chair, Jasmine’s pants were around her ankles and her fingers were rubbing her clit furiously. Her gaze fixed on the sight of Kelly on her knees, her throat bulging around John’s thick cock. “God yes baby, you’re such a good girl.” She moaned out, slipping two fingers inside herself. “Show me what a good cock sucker you are.” Kelly redoubled her efforts and started to slide faster up and down his dick. John groaned, letting her go for a few minutes before tightening his grip and taking control. He held her head in place and started thrusting at a brutal pace. Drool dripped off Kelly’s chin as he fucked her face, using her mouth fast and hard. Kelly’s dick was leaking precum into her panties as she was used like a cheap toy.
It didn’t take long before John groaned loudly and pulled her as far as he could down his dick. She felt his dick throb as he pumped his cum directly down her throat and heard Jasmine moan out loudly as her own orgasm overtook her. John pulled her off his dick, causing the last few shots of cum to fill her mouth and splash across her face. Pulling her glistening fingers from her pussy, Jasmine smiled a wicked smile as she looked at Kelly’s cum smeared face.
“Good girl. You did so well. Now for the main event...”
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Friday morning came, meaning it had been a week since their session, and Keith couldn’t stop wondering about the surprise Jasmine had mentioned. His cock was still locked away, and though he had grown used to the weight, it served as a constant reminder. He had to laugh at the irony, the cage making him horny while also preventing him from so much as getting hard, much less getting relief.
As he started getting ready for the day, he was intrigued to find a pair of silk panties and a note in his underwear drawer. He could nearly hear the words written in Jasmine’s dominant voice. “I think you should wear these today. I want to make sure you’re in the mood for tonight.” His cock fought against the cage as his thoughts fought between sexy fantasies of what was coming, and the embarrassment of wearing panties all day. Nevertheless he pulled them on, leaving his folded boxers in the drawer.
His day passed in a daze, barely able to focus on the work he was doing. His heart skipped a beat every time someone came to his desk to ask a question, and through every meeting, sure someone would notice somehow. When the end of the day came, he rushed to pack up and head out, politely declining offers to go out for a drink from a few co-workers on his team.
Dinner was mercilessly normal. Jasmine gave nothing away, almost as if she hadn’t been taunting him about tonight for a week. It wasn’t until later, as he was bent over loading the dishwasher, that she made her move. She came up behind him, hand rubbing over his ass and whispered in his ear “When you’re done there, come upstairs so we can get ready for your surprise. You’ve been such a patient girl for me.” His cock twitched against the cage as she walked off and he hurried to finish loading the last of the plates.
He came into the room as she finished laying out his outfit for the night, but he was surprised to see she wasn’t dressed yet. She looked at him expectantly and he stripped and started to put on his outfit for the night. It started with a pair of black lacy panties that swallowed up his caged package, leaving just the hint of a bulge. This was followed shortly by soft fishnet leggings, though he left the heels for now. A lacy bra matched the panties, and he was surprised to find that some clever padding and positioning turned his natural, slightly flabby chest into a perky pair of A cups, complete with a hint of cleavage. Finally, he pulled the dress on top, taking a few moments to adjust the mesh sleeves and straps, and stepped into a pair of high heels.
Once he was dressed, she sat him on the bed and grabbed her makeup. This was new, but he sat obediently as she went at him with brushes and pencils. Satisfied, she gave his ass a slap before leaving to get ready herself.
Keith stared in disbelief at the woman he saw in the full-length mirror in front of him. A pair of crimson, three-inch heels started the outfit, giving way to fishnets running up her smooth legs. The centerpiece of the outfit was a black and red gothic Lolita dress. Fluffy ruffles and frills of lace gave a playful edge to the short skirt and revealing top. Transparent black mesh covered her arms below the shoulder. The top was low cut, dipping low enough to give just a peak of her small but firm cleavage. Straps ran from the top to a trimmed collar around her neck. Her dark hair was left down, falling just short of her shoulders, framing her face. Her lips were painted with a deep red that looked nearly black, giving sharp contrast to her pale skin. Light mascara and eye shadow drew attention to her piercing blue eyes that seemed to look through Keith’s soul as he stared.
The sight left Keith in a daze, there was no way he was looking at himself. There wasn’t a trace of himself in the reflection, no matter where he looked. No, this wasn’t him anymore. Sure, Keith was the one looking into the mirror, but Kelly was staring back at him.
“How the hell did I get here?” He asked himself, then shook his head to clear his thoughts as he heard Jasmine coming back.
His eyes widened as he saw her outfit for the night. She stood before him in a white suit that had just a hint of pearlescent shine. Matching pearl earrings glinted from among her flowing hair. The suit jacket was fastened by just one button right below her cleavage, showing and framing a lacy crimson corset displaying her impressive cleavage. The crisp suit pants stopped right above her ankles, giving clear view of blood red heels to match the corset. Her own makeup was impeccably done. Around her neck was a thin silver chain. Dangling on the end, resting just above her cleavage, was a small padlock key.
“Ready to go Kelly?” She asked, taking his hand before he could respond. His heart was pounding as she grabbed her purse and pulled him to the garage. She ushered him into the passenger side of the car and climbed in. She saw the panic clear on his face and took his hand, smiling at him.
“We don’t have to go out, we can just go back upstairs. But I want to see you suck a real cock, and I think you want to be a good girl and show me, don’t you?” His submissive urge to please her warred with his humiliation, the two feelings mixing and setting off a storm of desire in his chest. She whispered in his ear and his fate was sealed. “Are you going to be my good girl?” Keith nodded weakly. He, or tonight rather she, was Jasmine’s to command.
Jasmine drove them through the town, one hand resting on Kelly’s leg for support, pulling into the parking lot of a small local bar. Once again taking her hand as they entered the bar, Kelly could feel multiple pairs of eyes on them as they entered. She supposed they did make quite the pair. Jasmine led her to a booth in the corner, leaving her to sit as she went for drinks.
A few minutes into their drinks and chatting someone approached their booth. Kelly nearly jumped in surprised as he said hi, but Jasmine clapped in excitement. “John! You’re right on time. This is Kelly, she’s who I was telling you about. Kelly this is John, he’s going to help us tonight.” She said with a knowing wink in her direction.
A few drinks and a short walk later, the three of them found themselves in a hotel room Jasmine had reserved for the night. As soon as they got in the room, Jasmine grabbed Kelly by the hair and pulled her towards the bed. John pulled off his shirt and pants, but as he was hooking in his thumbs in the waistband of his underwear he was stopped by Jasmine. “Leave the boxers, I want her to get the full reveal.” He shrugged and came to sit on the edge of the bed in front of them.
Jasmine pulled Kelly’s head in front of his crotch then leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Now be a good girl and give me a good show.” Kelly shuddered, her dick fighting to rise in her cage, as she looked at the obvious bulge in front of her. Jasmine let her go and moved to sit in a chair off to the side, unbuttoning her suit jacket as she sat. “I’m waiting slut.” Kelly slowly pulled off his boxers, eyes widening as his cock came into view. Already hard, he was even bigger than the strap-on Jasmine had trained her with. Licking her lips, she opened her mouth and took the head in with no hesitation. She paused for a minute, not used to the taste and the warmth compared to the dildos she was used to sucking. John’s hand came to rest lightly on her head and she went to work.
She started slow, sucking gently on the head as she swirled her tongue around, then moving down his shaft slowly. She wrapped one hand around the base of his shaft and stroked slowly as she bobbed over the first few inches of his dick. His hand pushed lightly on the back of her head, fingers twisting in her hair as she sucked and licked. Her hand moved down to play with his balls as she lowered her mouth completely down his shaft. She looked up at him with lust in her eyes as she deepthroated his dick, reveling in his soft groans as his cock stretched her throat.
Over in the chair, Jasmine’s pants were around her ankles and her fingers were rubbing her clit furiously. Her gaze fixed on the sight of Kelly on her knees, her throat bulging around John’s thick cock. “God yes baby, you’re such a good girl.” She moaned out, slipping two fingers inside herself. “Show me what a good cock sucker you are.” Kelly redoubled her efforts and started to slide faster up and down his dick. John groaned, letting her go for a few minutes before tightening his grip and taking control. He held her head in place and started thrusting at a brutal pace. Drool dripped off Kelly’s chin as he fucked her face, using her mouth fast and hard. Kelly’s dick was leaking precum into her panties as she was used like a cheap toy.
It didn’t take long before John groaned loudly and pulled her as far as he could down his dick. She felt his dick throb as he pumped his cum directly down her throat and heard Jasmine moan out loudly as her own orgasm overtook her. John pulled her off his dick, causing the last few shots of cum to fill her mouth and splash across her face. Pulling her glistening fingers from her pussy, Jasmine smiled a wicked smile as she looked at Kelly’s cum smeared face.
“Good girl. You did so well. Now for the main event...”
2024.05.11 13:56 nulll_ DEADCOAST Book 1: "HEAT and the Grizzly Reds" - Intro / Chapter 1 - 15-20 Min Read -- Dystopian Future -- Science Fiction.
NOTE FROM AUTHOR: Hello Hello! I am a first-time writer embarking on my first dumpster fire; input is most welcome. I'm not the best self-editor, so get your hiking boots on. It's rough out there. Whenever I read it, I find or create more errors (:
OPTIONAL READS: For the Retro Computer or Programming Enthusiast OR if you are open to other formats of story telling. I tried to combine my love for programming as an UNDERSTANDABLE way to tell a story through a Visual Experience in the Command Line Interface;
A Stand-Alone VISUAL ASCII 'Programming Terminal' Story Prologue. Follow through(Screen Shots of my Command Line Interface) the UNE-EYE Observational Satellite Terminal as Kable extracts Classified Data about his Beloved Military Unit, THE HUMMINGBIRDS, a flying exoskeleton unit. This includes the origin story of a Technology Tree in Book 1.
The story unfolds with the chilling invasion of Vancouver, marking a turning point as DAGGR makes its ambitions clear, culminating in the assassination of the Canadian Prime Minister. This act of aggression leaves the country reeling, exposing vulnerabilities and igniting a global reaction.
The UNE-EYE satellite is central to the international response, a significant narrative element representing the world's most advanced orbital tracking system. Once decommissioned in favour of privacy, the Dutch reactivated the satellite as a strategic move to monitor DAGGR's movements and coordinate a unified international effort against the aggressors. This revival of UNE-EYE symbolizes a crucial turning point, highlighting the global stakes and the interconnectedness of nations in the face of a common enemy.
As Canada grapples with its plight, the DAMU (Deserted American Military Units) rise in solidarity, breaching borders to fight alongside their Canadian counterparts. This act of defiance is mirrored by international forces, including the Netherlands and Ukraine, each bringing their unique strengths to the coalition, underscored by the strategic oversight provided by the UNE-EYE satellite.
Amidst the geopolitical chaos, a man who had all but given up, a boxer on the ropes, emerges from Vancouver's Gastown. Known as HEAT, this leader of the Grizzly Reds becomes a symbol of resistance and hope. HEAT's story, and that of the Grizzly Reds, is one of resilience, rallying not only Canadians but also global citizens to stand against DAGGR's tyranny.
" Deadcoast Book 1: Heat and the Grizzly Reds" is a compelling narrative of survival, alliance, and resistance. It deftly weaves together elements of advanced technology, international politics, and the indomitable human spirit. The inclusion of the UNE-EYE satellite serves as a testament to the complexities of modern warfare and the critical role of global surveillance and coordination in maintaining security and freedom. But something else stirs amongst it. The UNE still shrouds its use, albeit assuring it is for record-keeping purposes- there is no way to be sure. Join HEAT and the Grizzly Reds as they navigate the challenges of Time, War, Science and liberating their fellow man in Vancouver. THE GRIZZLIES NEED YOU, in this action-packed, emotional saga, speaks to the resilience and camaraderie inherent in the human condition.
CHAPTER 1 - The Blood Spattered Maples
ILLUSTRATED VERSION -> HERE <-
The early morning sun cast a serene glow over Vancouver, its golden rays gently coaxing the city from its slumber. The harbour lay still, bathed in a tranquil blend of crimson and amber, defiantly calm as if aware of the day's latent potential for tumult. The awakening streets, pulsating with the vibrant beat of daily enterprise, transformed into bustling arteries of life.
Amidst this urban renaissance, Ryan stood by his apartment window, one eye still tinged a fading shade of deep lavender from last night's ordeals. He absorbed the duality of the world outside – a peaceful façade masking an undercurrent of chaos, much like his own existence. The apartment, a silent guardian of his life's chapters, was awash with tangible memories; some stood proudly like trophies, and others lingered like indelible scars.
"Eugh, need to sort out this money mess," Ryan muttered, his voice a gravelly mix of resolve and weariness. He gingerly touched the bruise beneath his eye, a stark reminder of the previous night's fight. He wasn't just a boxer but a living, breathing paradox. His undefeated record of 12-0 was more than a tally of victories; it was a map of a life spent dancing in and out of shadows. At 17, he was a beacon of hope for Canadian Olympic Futures. Now, at 33, he was a spotlight in his subconscious, illuminating the relentless passage of time and a road riddled with 'what ifs.' Eleven of those wins were echoes from a past steeped in the sweat and blood of the ring before life's currents swept him into the city's gritty underbelly. There, he became an enforcer, not out of choice but a necessity, bound by ties, not of blood but of unbreakable bonds forged in adversity. Stepping back into the ring at 33, Ryan wasn't chasing glory; he was hunting redemption, a chance to rewrite a narrative that had veered off course.
Today's boxing was far from what he once knew; it had transformed into a digital spectacle, a charade he refused to partake in. The sport now paraded fighters adorned with loud chains and face tattoos, pretending to live a life of crime they don't. Vile symbols of fame he doesn't wish for. Ryan had always skirted the fringes of the spotlight, respecting the sport but despising what it had become - a glorified masquerade that he believed led the youth astray. He stared out at the awakening city, contemplating his place in this ever-changing world, just as the first notes of a familiar yet unwelcome voice crackled from the vintage radio on his shelf.
"Ah, jimmy2piece," he scoffed, the name leaving a bitter taste. The vintage radio crackled on, announcing the dazzling exploits of the heavyweight boxing champion, an embodiment of everything Ryan detested about the sport's current state. Ryan's hand lingered over the old radio, a relic amidst the bountiful thrift and trinket that abundantly filled his apartment. The announcer's voice, overly flamboyant in its praise of 'jimmy2piece,' clashed with the morning's tranquillity, grating against Ryan's every nerve. With a flick brimming with contempt, he silenced the intrusive chatter. The ensuing silence was a stark reminder of his path's divergence from the once-noble art of boxing to a life mired in moral ambiguity.
"Enough of this nonsense," he muttered, the disdain in his voice mirroring the snarl on his lips as he spun the dial back to silence.
*Click*
Ryan was a man of contemplation; opening his balcony door, he let the morning breeze mingle with the memories that haunted him daily. These reflections were a tormenting ritual, no matter the joys and love surrounding him. His only respite was constant movement – hobbies, work, art – anything to fend off the sharp claws of the past that threatened to shred the remnants of his self-respect. He had lost ten years to choices and actions that replayed in his mind relentlessly every single day.
"This 'jimmy2shoes' or whatever...pal throws pillows, a poser pretending he's about that gang life; I can see it in his eyes, he's not a killer," he grumbled, gazing out at the awakening city. This day promised a respite from his underground fights – at least for a while. His recent backstreet brawls, a far cry from the glory of the boxing ring, were what paid the bills now. "At least I've bought myself three more months..."
Leaning on the railing of his miniature balcony, Ryan cradled a cup of steaming coffee, his gaze drifting over the streets below. At this moment, the chaos of his life seemed distant, replaced by a transient calm. Despite his bruised, rough presentation, a certain peace enveloped him, a rare stillness that belied the storm of his existence. His thoughts meandered through the serene hum of the city and the gentle brush of the ocean breeze. The skyscape, with clouds dancing to the ocean's rhythm, offered a brief escape from his turbulent past.
Memories of Robin, his mentor and friend, floated into his consciousness. Robin's untimely death in Dubai was a wound that never healed. The sacrifices he had made to keep Robin safe, only to be absent on the fateful trip that claimed his friend's life, weighed heavily on him. "Why did it have to be you, Robin?" he whispered to the horizon, the question, a haunting torment upon his daily routines.
Ryan was a thinker; as he slid over his ashtray from the stool, he sparked up A morning 'dart' (cigarette), as he called them. His past began to creep into his head, as it did every morning. With each inhalation of addiction-soothing nicotine, his blazing thoughts followed as his brain began to become fully active from his sleep. It was a raven on his shoulder tormenting him, pecking at him ever haunting his consciousness. No matter the love he may have found or the happiness, friends, or family surrounding him. The time to reflect was always grim and consistently unbearable. If he stood still, the Ravel's claws sunk more profoundly; the only reprieve was constant distractions. It's why he kept so busy, creative, and active. Ryan constantly kept moving with hobbies, work, or art. Pushing off the switchblade thoughts ready to cut into his subconscious and bleed out whatever self-respect he had left that day. He threw away ten years of his life, and he relives them every. Single. Day.
"Damn man, what's the point of it all?" Ryan's voice was barely a whisper, lost in the morning breeze. His gaze lingered on the horizon, eyes clouded with confusion and pain. "Robin's gone, and here I am, a ship adrift; up shits creek without a paddle. What good can I do? What purpose do I serve? My skillset? My knowledge? Ive wasted my life, nothing is applicable." The questions hung in the air, unanswered. Ryan's life had indeed been a storm of violence and turmoil, from the gritty days working alongside Robin, watching his back to his hard-fought victories in the boxing ring. He had dreamt of leaving the world of fights behind, yet fate seemed to have woven a different path for him, one that he couldn't escape...
The distant sound of boat horns broke his train of thought. These weren't the usual rhythmic calls that echoed along Vancouver's shores; they carried a sense of urgency, growing louder and more frantic by the second. Ryan leaned forward, squinting into the morning light. The sight that greeted him was anything but ordinary. Dark, ominous and foreboding shapes were cutting through the waters toward the Seawall – military-grade ships that seemed like phantoms against the sun's bright backdrop.
"What the...?" Ryan murmured, a wry smile touching his lips as he recalled a line from a 1930s radio show. "Ah yes, the 'Anti-Frackers' upping their game, bravo!" He often found solace in humour, a shield against the world's harsh realities. Ryan was an unbreakable anvil to the world, always struck to sharpen others' steel. But what about his iron resolve? He bore the burdens so others didn't have to, a silent guardian shouldering the world's weight in stoic silence. Yet beneath that armour of stoicism beat the heart of a man grappling with his vulnerabilities, a man with a core as soft as it was intense.
Just like that- The world as we knew it, changed forever.
The morning's peace shattered abruptly as sirens wailed into life, slicing through the air with a sense of impending doom. The tranquil dawn was now a backdrop to a nightmare unfolding in real time. Ryan's eyes, mirroring the turbulent hues of a stormy sea, narrowed in primal alertness. These were not friendly vessels coming to grace the city's harbour; they were harbingers of chaos, their arrival a silent scream in the gardens of Vancouver's tranquility. As the city around him carried on, blissfully unaware of the looming threat, Ryan's mind shifted into high gear, honed by years of confrontation, conflict and reading other peoples intentions. He understood the unspoken language of death, the subtle shift in the air that preluded catastrophe. The serene calm that had greeted the day now seemed like the deceptive stillness before a devastating storm.
PFFFFT~~
Ryan's coffee ejected out his mouth, a clean mist dispersed, dancing in the ocean winds.
His eyes widened in shock. "That... No, that's not right. That honeycomb structure on the bow – that's rumoured military tech, not something you'd find on a civilian vessel. That's definitely not one of our decommissioned ships; Canada has always had a modest military budget- It's not the U.S. either; they've moved on to those massive city carriers," he muttered, recalling the recent unveiling of the U.S.'s latest naval behemoth designed to be a self-sustaining war ecosystem.
"These are destroyers...carriers...and what in the world are those landing crafts?" His voice trailed off as a wave of realization washed over him. A heavy breath escaped his lips, his heartbeat thundering in unison with a growing sense of dread. This kind of military might, sleek and menacing, was straight out of the pages of a dystopian novel. Ryan's pulse quickened, adrenaline coursing through his veins, mingling with an unsettling fear. Vancouver, with its serene beauty and peaceful reputation, was the last place one would expect a military invasion. Yet, as he stood there, the city around him persevered in blissful ignorance. Laughter and the sounds of daily life echoed up to his balcony, starkly juxtaposed against the darkening horizon of his thoughts.
Something sinister was unfolding, and he felt an urgent need to act. "Ah, damn it!" he exclaimed, frustration boiling over as he hurled his mug to the ground, where it shattered into razer sharp ceramic shards—a glimpse of futures past.
The walls of Ryan's apartment, once a gallery of memories from a life half-lived, now felt like they were closing in on him. The space that had been his refuge, adorned with mementos of a tumultuous past, suddenly felt like a prison. He felt trapped, not by physical barriers, but by the weight of the unfolding crisis. Who could he call? Who would believe him about an impending military assault? Was there even time?
Each option seemed as hopeless as the next, leaving him feeling powerless. His fists, which had once brought him victory in the ring, now seemed futile in the face of this immense and unknown threat.
BOOM
A thunderous crash tore through the city's fabric, piercing the veil of laughter and routine. Giggles changed to Shrieks, the buzzing of cars in the city turned screeching of panicked tires. It was a boom resonating with such force that it seemed to shake the very resolve of the most robust steel, a sound that demands attention and captivates a person, a sound of death; it rattles you to the bone. This explosion marked a pivotal moment that would forever alter the course of Vancouver's history and, indeed, the world's.
The resounding echo of the first explosion heralded a declaration of war on all that was ordinary. In Ryan, the shockwave ignited a transformation. Despair morphed into an unyielding determination, a fire kindled deep within. His skin prickled, each hair standing on end as if his nerves were braille, spelling out the moment's urgency.
"Are they firing at us?" Ryan's voice was a mix of disbelief and rising panic. The thought seemed almost too surreal to entertain. He hesitated momentarily, grappling with the reality of the situation. The explosion's roar, so fierce it shook the foundations of his apartment, jolted him back to the present. Racing back to his balcony, what he saw confirmed his darkest fears.
The ships in the harbour were no longer silent, ominous spectators; they had unleashed their fury, sending plumes of smoke and debris skyward. Vancouver's skyline, once a proud testament to peace and progress, now served as a harrowing backdrop to an unfolding apocalypse. Below, the streets descended into chaos. People scattered in a frantic attempt to escape, their screams piercing the air, a chorus of dawning terror.
Ryan's heart pounded against his chest, each beat a call to action. He was no hero, never the 'good guy' in his story, but he did value life above all. Standing there, witnessing his city being torn apart, he knew he couldn't remain a passive observer. Indecision and shock gave way to resolve.
"MOTHA FU-" he cursed, his words lost in the burst of an explosion, spotted at the last second.
The world around him had erupted into a maelstrom of fire and fury.
An air burst shell detonated with ferocious intensity a mere 50 meters from Ryan's sanctuary. The explosion ripped through the building, an unforgiving hatred that jolted reality itself. The blast wave, a monstrous force of destruction, assaulted his apartment, shattering the windows with an ease that mocked Vancouver's fragility. Glass shards, transformed into lethal projectiles, hurtled through the air with a hunter's precision, each piece seeking its target. Instinctively, Ryan lunged for cover, his only protection a vintage oak promotional board, a relic of a bygone era. This wooden guardian, decorated with the iconic image of Stan Lee, stood as a stoic defender, a symbol of comic heroism now repurposed to shield flesh and blood from the brutal onslaught.
A low hum erupts from the depths of his being as the fireball swirled around him. "Breathe... I can't... don't fall asleep... don't...sleep..." he whispered, fighting the encroaching darkness. His cobalt eyes, glazing over open, fighting to the last light, flickered between consciousness and oblivion. The distant, muffled voices of mentors past echoed in his mind, a fading chorus in the theatre of his memories. Ryan looked to his left, cast one last lingering look at the Vancouver sky, a canvas of blue that seemed so distant now. As his vision began to narrow, a tunnel drawing him away from the light, Ryan felt the grip of darkness pulling him under heavy, yet weightless. Once so vivid and alive, the world around him was fading into shadows.
Amid shrapnel-induced unconsciousness, Ryan's mind catapulted him back to a pivotal moment from his youth – the Ontario Canadian Olympic Trials.
The stadium's noise swirled around him, but it was an entirely different world within the ring. There, it was just Ryan and his opponent, every move a testament to the sacrifices he and Robin(Ryan's longtime mentor both inside, and outside the ring) had made together.
Ryan's style in the ring was unique, a blend of calculated ferocity in speed and agility. He adopted the elusive, angular movements that Robin had honed while serving alongside the hardened Ukrainians on the frontlines of Kyiv. This style was compelling and unpredictable, frustrating his opponents with swift and efficient strikes. Ryan's ability to slip away from counters, almost serpentine in its execution, left them grasping at straws.
Point fighting for the Olympics was a system that worked well with Ryan's style but not necessarily with his mindset. Ryan was a fighter at heart, and sometimes, when pushed, the disciplined techniques would give way to a rawer form of combat. Robin, who always believed in Ryan's potential, saw this as his greatest fault and biggest asset to "push past." In his gruff but encouraging voice, Robin would often spew "The stink in that mind, You've got a head on you that'd make an onion cry," highlighting Ryan's occasionally impulsive nature, and inability to control his emotions when it mattered. This characteristic made Ryan fearless in the ring but also sloppy, open, and vulnerable. It often led him into trouble outside of the solace in prizefighting.
In these trials, Ryan's physical attributes – his slender frame, broad shoulders, wide back and a peculiarly long wingspan that gave him an imposing presence in his weight class – it made him stand out. His frame synchronized with his style, creating a truly unique spectacle of genetic gifts, hard work, and skill.
These memories blended nostalgia and pain as they flickered through Ryan's mind. They were reminders of a path once trodden, a journey shaped by the influence of a mentor and the determination of a fighter's spirit.
As the Olympic Trials set to begin, Robin looked to Ryan to instill confidence for his upcoming bouts, but Ryan was in his element. It was fight day, the fun day, the day to show off all of the hard work. Ryan had confidence, and his style in the ring displayed it in full. He moved with an angular rhythm that was both art and battle – slipping, landing a quick stiff counter cross, then gracefully stepping out of reach inches from returning fire. He made it look fun and easy, as if playing with his prey before fangs clench throat, delivering the killing bite. Looking closer, you can only see fire and determination in his bright eyes. He found purpose in the beautiful science of boxing. His strategy was that of a technical boxer, The Counterpuncher; 1. To bait his opponent into committing, then counter, fight long, fight smart. 2. Beat em' up, Frustrate em', then start slinging the heat in the uppercuts and lead hooks.
The bell rang and the fight was officially underway. Ryan controlled the ring with his long frame. Each exchange was rapid yet controlled, a dance of precise strikes and evasive maneuvers. The world's complexities faded in these moments, leaving only Ryan and the pure essence of the sport he loved. He felt invincible, a force of nature within the confines of the ring. To Ryan, the fight was more than a competition; it was a performance, an exhilarating escape from the mundane. It was true Purpose.
The intensity of the round reached a frustrating outburst by his opponent, who grabbed Ryan by the back of his head– 'SPLIT' called by the referee, his hand placed between them. A judge calls for a correction, catching the referee's attention only for a split second. In this second, Ryan's Opponent saw an opportunity. Lifting his head to move away, Ryan locks eyes with his Opponent, sporting a grin and delivering a sly headbutt as a parting gift. It's against the rules, but part of the game's harsh reality if gone unnoticed. Expelling energy and detesting it was a waste of fuel. It was a jolting reminder of "at all times"(protect yourself), a stark contrast to the discipline and respect Ryan upheld, starting his boxing journey in Thailand under "Muay Thai" rules, ideology of the worrior spirit and discipline. There was a sense of Honor in Lumpinee Stadium.
The outcome of these unsavoury tactics here is an advantage for the opponent. Ryan's inner pools erupt, his mind swirled with raging white waters, crashing and colliding against each other, two oceans with opposite currents meeting in his consciousness. His once technical thoughts, muscle memory mixed with fight iq burst with flames, erupting and incinerating all strategy in his path. His eyes widened, open like he'd found his primal genetic ancestry hidden deep within. The slaughter and the war of history. The bloodshed of 1000 lifetimes. He felt it all. Manic in thought. Ryan wanted to take his glove off and rip his cheeks open from the inside out--
BREAK - Ryan snaps back into it, erupting in stoic, silent, primal rage.
The ground rushed up to meet him as he crashed onto the canvas, the taste of iron and the sting of defeat mingling in his mouth. The crowd's roar faded into a distant echo, a stark reminder of how quickly the tides of battle could turn. Robin's voice sliced through the ringing from the corner, resonating with a force that commanded attention.
"Get your shit together, JUMPIN JESUS RYAN! HEART OF GOLD AND HEAD OF STONE – GET UP, YOU LITTLE COWARD! YOU'RE LETTING IT WIN, AGAIN! STOP THIS ONION HEAD NONSENSE AND DANCE, BOX THIS FELLA – YOU'RE BETTER THAN THIS, ACT LIKE IT, BELIEVE IN IT!"
His words were more than just a call to action; they were a lifeline thrown into the stormy seas of Ryan's mind. Each syllable was drenched in the raw, unfiltered wisdom that only a life spent in the cauldron of combat could forge. Robin's tone was a volatile cocktail of fury and concern, the urgency palpable in his voice. His palms crashed against the ring mat; each hit thunderous punctuation to his fiery sermon.
"You've got the talent, kid, but it's as good as ash if you keep burning it to the ground. I'M HERE FOR YOU, IM RIGHT HERE. SNAP OUT OF IT AND BOX THIS PLASTIC PATTY! MOVE GOD DAMNIT, GET UP!"
On the canvas, Ryan lay dazed, the echo of Robin's voice ringing in his ears. It was more than a mere pep talk; it was a wake-up call that struck a chord deep within him. Amidst the haze of the crowd murmurs and the pulsating pain that coursed through his body, clarity began to emerge. Lying there, Ryan grasped the essence of Robin's message –
"coward? letting it win? Playing my ego are ya Robin...hes right though. Im throwing this shit away."
This moment, sprawled on the canvas under the glaring lights and the crowd's gaze, became a crucible of transformation. The raw emotion and the hard-hitting truth in Robin's words ignited a spark in Ryan. It was time to rise, shake off the shadows of rage, and embrace a fighter's true spirit like he had learned in Thailand – not just with fists but with heart and mind in unison.
Staggered yet stirred by the dual impact of the physical hit and Robin's piercing words, A padded fist crushed into the rings canvas, followed by a kneee and the eruption of the crowd. Ryan was back, and he began to pull himself up from the canvas. His resolve, momentarily dimmed, now reignited with a fierce, clear, calculated intensity. Memories of the gruelling hours spent in the gym flooded back to him – the relentless sparring sessions, the time spent in Thailand, the sweat and toil, and the invaluable lessons etched into his being under Robin's stern tutelage.
With a renewed spirit, Ryan stepped back into the battle, his movements now embodying controlled power and a fluidity to his step. He recalled his time fighting beside the backdrop of the "Sarama" a traditional Thai music played when in combat. The times of learning to move, fight with the music, to flow, to be fluid, to be concise. Ryan finally put it all together in the heat of battle. He had merged his inherent ferocity with the disciplined technique that Robin relentlessly drilled into him, and the mindfull practises of the years he spent under Burklerk Pinsinchai in the jungles of Chiang Mai. His style was now fully displayed, raw and visceral yet refined by countless hours of practice in mind, body and spirit.
The final rounds bell clang to a start in a clinic of skill and sheer willpower. Ryan, driven by a blend of desperation and unwavering determination, unleashed a barrage of calculated and explosive strikes. Each punch and maneuver was a nod to the efficient, no-nonsense Ukrainian style that Robin had imparted to him. Ryan moved rhythmically across the mat, steps measured and precise, executing short, angular movements and deft outside counterpunches. He had returned to his element – the dance of combat, where he felt most alive, a symphony of movement where every step and punch was a testament to his life's journey and experiences as a human being first, and as a fighter second.
In this wake-up call, Ryan reinvigorated and reminded himself of his love for the sport, the exhilarating blend of art and athleticism. He was not just fighting to win; he was celebrating boxing, combat, honouring the path he had walked with Robin, and reclaiming what it meant to be a true fighter through Burklurk Pinsinchai's Teachings.
The round pressed on, and Ryan executed his maneuvers with a surgeon's precision. First;
-- The counterpuncher; a display in timing and accuracy, delivered with the full force of training and innate skill. --
ONE!…TWO!…THREE!…FOUR!…FIVE!…SIX!...SEVEN!..EIGHT!
Ryan's opponent stands, admirable, but futile, driven by sheer will but hampered by sluggish movements, the man rose to his feet, it was clear the fight was reaching its zenith.
The opponent, gathering his remaining strength for a final stand, launched a jab, a last-ditch effort relying more on brute force than finesse. But this was a fatal mistake in Ryan's world – playing right into what Ryan was best at. Counters.
Ryan read the move with the clarity of a seasoned fighter. As the jab came, he effortlessly slipped to the right, evading the punch with a short angular step that spoke of his ring intelligence. Instantly, he countered with the same sharp cross from his right hand, followed by a devastating hook that cut through the air with lethal intent in his left. Grasping at straws, reeling from the counter, Ryans opponent threw a desperate, looping last stand punch, Ryan dipped down and left, rolling the punch with an elegance that made it seem almost effortless. He was Hunting for the Kill Shot. Seizing the moment, Ryan unleashed a ferocious left uppercut, the force of the blow lifting his opponent's chin skyward. He followed up with a right overhand, but just before impact, he halted the punch. There was no need for it; his opponent was already collapsing, the "Lights were on, but no one was Home". The fight was effectively over, Ryan's last combination is the final note, a crescendo that echoed through the ring.
As his opponent hit the canvas, the crowd erupted. Ryan stood in the center of the ring, his chest heaving, every fibre of his being alight with the thrill of victory. This wasn't just a win; it was a performance, a display of skill, heart, and the indomitable spirit of a fighter who had walked through fire and flames to the otherside and emerge victorious.
The final bell Rings with not a single chair in the arena warm; a thunderous clap erupts from the crowd. It was more than just applause; it was an acknowledgment of a battle fiercely fought by both men. In that moment ringside, in a triumphant victory, Ryan and Robin shared a look that spoke volumes, a connection far beyond the usual bounds of mentor and protégé. Their bond, tempered in the crucible of hardship and struggle, was now sealed in the glory of this defining triumph.
Standing amidst the cheers and the adrenaline-fueled euphoria, Ryan found himself momentarily lost in the tide of memories. It was a poignant reminder of the journey that had brought him here, a path marked by triumphs and losses. Robin's teachings transcended the confines of boxing; they were life lessons imprinted deep onto him. Ryan began to slowly step out of the ring; the weight of these reflections settled upon him. The victory was sweet, but it carried the weight of all sacrificed to achieve it. Robin's presence was felt strongly, a guiding force that continued to shape his path, illuminating the way forward even in the most challenging times.
submitted by nulll_ to HFY [link] [comments]
OPTIONAL READS: For the Retro Computer or Programming Enthusiast OR if you are open to other formats of story telling. I tried to combine my love for programming as an UNDERSTANDABLE way to tell a story through a Visual Experience in the Command Line Interface;
A Stand-Alone VISUAL ASCII 'Programming Terminal' Story Prologue. Follow through(Screen Shots of my Command Line Interface) the UNE-EYE Observational Satellite Terminal as Kable extracts Classified Data about his Beloved Military Unit, THE HUMMINGBIRDS, a flying exoskeleton unit. This includes the origin story of a Technology Tree in Book 1.
####
INDEX
- DEADCOAST - THE HUMMINGBIRDS PROLOGUE -> HERE <-
- DEADCOAST - COMPLETE ILLUSTRATED INTRO -> HERE <-
- HEAT & GRIZZLY REDS - CHAPTER 1 ILLUSTRATED -> HERE <-
The story unfolds with the chilling invasion of Vancouver, marking a turning point as DAGGR makes its ambitions clear, culminating in the assassination of the Canadian Prime Minister. This act of aggression leaves the country reeling, exposing vulnerabilities and igniting a global reaction.
The UNE-EYE satellite is central to the international response, a significant narrative element representing the world's most advanced orbital tracking system. Once decommissioned in favour of privacy, the Dutch reactivated the satellite as a strategic move to monitor DAGGR's movements and coordinate a unified international effort against the aggressors. This revival of UNE-EYE symbolizes a crucial turning point, highlighting the global stakes and the interconnectedness of nations in the face of a common enemy.
As Canada grapples with its plight, the DAMU (Deserted American Military Units) rise in solidarity, breaching borders to fight alongside their Canadian counterparts. This act of defiance is mirrored by international forces, including the Netherlands and Ukraine, each bringing their unique strengths to the coalition, underscored by the strategic oversight provided by the UNE-EYE satellite.
Amidst the geopolitical chaos, a man who had all but given up, a boxer on the ropes, emerges from Vancouver's Gastown. Known as HEAT, this leader of the Grizzly Reds becomes a symbol of resistance and hope. HEAT's story, and that of the Grizzly Reds, is one of resilience, rallying not only Canadians but also global citizens to stand against DAGGR's tyranny.
" Deadcoast Book 1: Heat and the Grizzly Reds" is a compelling narrative of survival, alliance, and resistance. It deftly weaves together elements of advanced technology, international politics, and the indomitable human spirit. The inclusion of the UNE-EYE satellite serves as a testament to the complexities of modern warfare and the critical role of global surveillance and coordination in maintaining security and freedom. But something else stirs amongst it. The UNE still shrouds its use, albeit assuring it is for record-keeping purposes- there is no way to be sure. Join HEAT and the Grizzly Reds as they navigate the challenges of Time, War, Science and liberating their fellow man in Vancouver. THE GRIZZLIES NEED YOU, in this action-packed, emotional saga, speaks to the resilience and camaraderie inherent in the human condition.
ILLUSTRATED VERSION -> HERE <-
The early morning sun cast a serene glow over Vancouver, its golden rays gently coaxing the city from its slumber. The harbour lay still, bathed in a tranquil blend of crimson and amber, defiantly calm as if aware of the day's latent potential for tumult. The awakening streets, pulsating with the vibrant beat of daily enterprise, transformed into bustling arteries of life.
Amidst this urban renaissance, Ryan stood by his apartment window, one eye still tinged a fading shade of deep lavender from last night's ordeals. He absorbed the duality of the world outside – a peaceful façade masking an undercurrent of chaos, much like his own existence. The apartment, a silent guardian of his life's chapters, was awash with tangible memories; some stood proudly like trophies, and others lingered like indelible scars.
"Eugh, need to sort out this money mess," Ryan muttered, his voice a gravelly mix of resolve and weariness. He gingerly touched the bruise beneath his eye, a stark reminder of the previous night's fight. He wasn't just a boxer but a living, breathing paradox. His undefeated record of 12-0 was more than a tally of victories; it was a map of a life spent dancing in and out of shadows. At 17, he was a beacon of hope for Canadian Olympic Futures. Now, at 33, he was a spotlight in his subconscious, illuminating the relentless passage of time and a road riddled with 'what ifs.' Eleven of those wins were echoes from a past steeped in the sweat and blood of the ring before life's currents swept him into the city's gritty underbelly. There, he became an enforcer, not out of choice but a necessity, bound by ties, not of blood but of unbreakable bonds forged in adversity. Stepping back into the ring at 33, Ryan wasn't chasing glory; he was hunting redemption, a chance to rewrite a narrative that had veered off course.
Today's boxing was far from what he once knew; it had transformed into a digital spectacle, a charade he refused to partake in. The sport now paraded fighters adorned with loud chains and face tattoos, pretending to live a life of crime they don't. Vile symbols of fame he doesn't wish for. Ryan had always skirted the fringes of the spotlight, respecting the sport but despising what it had become - a glorified masquerade that he believed led the youth astray. He stared out at the awakening city, contemplating his place in this ever-changing world, just as the first notes of a familiar yet unwelcome voice crackled from the vintage radio on his shelf.
"Ah, jimmy2piece," he scoffed, the name leaving a bitter taste. The vintage radio crackled on, announcing the dazzling exploits of the heavyweight boxing champion, an embodiment of everything Ryan detested about the sport's current state. Ryan's hand lingered over the old radio, a relic amidst the bountiful thrift and trinket that abundantly filled his apartment. The announcer's voice, overly flamboyant in its praise of 'jimmy2piece,' clashed with the morning's tranquillity, grating against Ryan's every nerve. With a flick brimming with contempt, he silenced the intrusive chatter. The ensuing silence was a stark reminder of his path's divergence from the once-noble art of boxing to a life mired in moral ambiguity.
"Enough of this nonsense," he muttered, the disdain in his voice mirroring the snarl on his lips as he spun the dial back to silence.
*Click*
Ryan was a man of contemplation; opening his balcony door, he let the morning breeze mingle with the memories that haunted him daily. These reflections were a tormenting ritual, no matter the joys and love surrounding him. His only respite was constant movement – hobbies, work, art – anything to fend off the sharp claws of the past that threatened to shred the remnants of his self-respect. He had lost ten years to choices and actions that replayed in his mind relentlessly every single day.
"This 'jimmy2shoes' or whatever...pal throws pillows, a poser pretending he's about that gang life; I can see it in his eyes, he's not a killer," he grumbled, gazing out at the awakening city. This day promised a respite from his underground fights – at least for a while. His recent backstreet brawls, a far cry from the glory of the boxing ring, were what paid the bills now. "At least I've bought myself three more months..."
Leaning on the railing of his miniature balcony, Ryan cradled a cup of steaming coffee, his gaze drifting over the streets below. At this moment, the chaos of his life seemed distant, replaced by a transient calm. Despite his bruised, rough presentation, a certain peace enveloped him, a rare stillness that belied the storm of his existence. His thoughts meandered through the serene hum of the city and the gentle brush of the ocean breeze. The skyscape, with clouds dancing to the ocean's rhythm, offered a brief escape from his turbulent past.
Memories of Robin, his mentor and friend, floated into his consciousness. Robin's untimely death in Dubai was a wound that never healed. The sacrifices he had made to keep Robin safe, only to be absent on the fateful trip that claimed his friend's life, weighed heavily on him. "Why did it have to be you, Robin?" he whispered to the horizon, the question, a haunting torment upon his daily routines.
Ryan was a thinker; as he slid over his ashtray from the stool, he sparked up A morning 'dart' (cigarette), as he called them. His past began to creep into his head, as it did every morning. With each inhalation of addiction-soothing nicotine, his blazing thoughts followed as his brain began to become fully active from his sleep. It was a raven on his shoulder tormenting him, pecking at him ever haunting his consciousness. No matter the love he may have found or the happiness, friends, or family surrounding him. The time to reflect was always grim and consistently unbearable. If he stood still, the Ravel's claws sunk more profoundly; the only reprieve was constant distractions. It's why he kept so busy, creative, and active. Ryan constantly kept moving with hobbies, work, or art. Pushing off the switchblade thoughts ready to cut into his subconscious and bleed out whatever self-respect he had left that day. He threw away ten years of his life, and he relives them every. Single. Day.
"Damn man, what's the point of it all?" Ryan's voice was barely a whisper, lost in the morning breeze. His gaze lingered on the horizon, eyes clouded with confusion and pain. "Robin's gone, and here I am, a ship adrift; up shits creek without a paddle. What good can I do? What purpose do I serve? My skillset? My knowledge? Ive wasted my life, nothing is applicable." The questions hung in the air, unanswered. Ryan's life had indeed been a storm of violence and turmoil, from the gritty days working alongside Robin, watching his back to his hard-fought victories in the boxing ring. He had dreamt of leaving the world of fights behind, yet fate seemed to have woven a different path for him, one that he couldn't escape...
The distant sound of boat horns broke his train of thought. These weren't the usual rhythmic calls that echoed along Vancouver's shores; they carried a sense of urgency, growing louder and more frantic by the second. Ryan leaned forward, squinting into the morning light. The sight that greeted him was anything but ordinary. Dark, ominous and foreboding shapes were cutting through the waters toward the Seawall – military-grade ships that seemed like phantoms against the sun's bright backdrop.
"What the...?" Ryan murmured, a wry smile touching his lips as he recalled a line from a 1930s radio show. "Ah yes, the 'Anti-Frackers' upping their game, bravo!" He often found solace in humour, a shield against the world's harsh realities. Ryan was an unbreakable anvil to the world, always struck to sharpen others' steel. But what about his iron resolve? He bore the burdens so others didn't have to, a silent guardian shouldering the world's weight in stoic silence. Yet beneath that armour of stoicism beat the heart of a man grappling with his vulnerabilities, a man with a core as soft as it was intense.
Just like that- The world as we knew it, changed forever.
The morning's peace shattered abruptly as sirens wailed into life, slicing through the air with a sense of impending doom. The tranquil dawn was now a backdrop to a nightmare unfolding in real time. Ryan's eyes, mirroring the turbulent hues of a stormy sea, narrowed in primal alertness. These were not friendly vessels coming to grace the city's harbour; they were harbingers of chaos, their arrival a silent scream in the gardens of Vancouver's tranquility. As the city around him carried on, blissfully unaware of the looming threat, Ryan's mind shifted into high gear, honed by years of confrontation, conflict and reading other peoples intentions. He understood the unspoken language of death, the subtle shift in the air that preluded catastrophe. The serene calm that had greeted the day now seemed like the deceptive stillness before a devastating storm.
PFFFFT~~
Ryan's coffee ejected out his mouth, a clean mist dispersed, dancing in the ocean winds.
His eyes widened in shock. "That... No, that's not right. That honeycomb structure on the bow – that's rumoured military tech, not something you'd find on a civilian vessel. That's definitely not one of our decommissioned ships; Canada has always had a modest military budget- It's not the U.S. either; they've moved on to those massive city carriers," he muttered, recalling the recent unveiling of the U.S.'s latest naval behemoth designed to be a self-sustaining war ecosystem.
"These are destroyers...carriers...and what in the world are those landing crafts?" His voice trailed off as a wave of realization washed over him. A heavy breath escaped his lips, his heartbeat thundering in unison with a growing sense of dread. This kind of military might, sleek and menacing, was straight out of the pages of a dystopian novel. Ryan's pulse quickened, adrenaline coursing through his veins, mingling with an unsettling fear. Vancouver, with its serene beauty and peaceful reputation, was the last place one would expect a military invasion. Yet, as he stood there, the city around him persevered in blissful ignorance. Laughter and the sounds of daily life echoed up to his balcony, starkly juxtaposed against the darkening horizon of his thoughts.
Something sinister was unfolding, and he felt an urgent need to act. "Ah, damn it!" he exclaimed, frustration boiling over as he hurled his mug to the ground, where it shattered into razer sharp ceramic shards—a glimpse of futures past.
The walls of Ryan's apartment, once a gallery of memories from a life half-lived, now felt like they were closing in on him. The space that had been his refuge, adorned with mementos of a tumultuous past, suddenly felt like a prison. He felt trapped, not by physical barriers, but by the weight of the unfolding crisis. Who could he call? Who would believe him about an impending military assault? Was there even time?
Each option seemed as hopeless as the next, leaving him feeling powerless. His fists, which had once brought him victory in the ring, now seemed futile in the face of this immense and unknown threat.
BOOM
A thunderous crash tore through the city's fabric, piercing the veil of laughter and routine. Giggles changed to Shrieks, the buzzing of cars in the city turned screeching of panicked tires. It was a boom resonating with such force that it seemed to shake the very resolve of the most robust steel, a sound that demands attention and captivates a person, a sound of death; it rattles you to the bone. This explosion marked a pivotal moment that would forever alter the course of Vancouver's history and, indeed, the world's.
The resounding echo of the first explosion heralded a declaration of war on all that was ordinary. In Ryan, the shockwave ignited a transformation. Despair morphed into an unyielding determination, a fire kindled deep within. His skin prickled, each hair standing on end as if his nerves were braille, spelling out the moment's urgency.
"Are they firing at us?" Ryan's voice was a mix of disbelief and rising panic. The thought seemed almost too surreal to entertain. He hesitated momentarily, grappling with the reality of the situation. The explosion's roar, so fierce it shook the foundations of his apartment, jolted him back to the present. Racing back to his balcony, what he saw confirmed his darkest fears.
The ships in the harbour were no longer silent, ominous spectators; they had unleashed their fury, sending plumes of smoke and debris skyward. Vancouver's skyline, once a proud testament to peace and progress, now served as a harrowing backdrop to an unfolding apocalypse. Below, the streets descended into chaos. People scattered in a frantic attempt to escape, their screams piercing the air, a chorus of dawning terror.
Ryan's heart pounded against his chest, each beat a call to action. He was no hero, never the 'good guy' in his story, but he did value life above all. Standing there, witnessing his city being torn apart, he knew he couldn't remain a passive observer. Indecision and shock gave way to resolve.
"MOTHA FU-" he cursed, his words lost in the burst of an explosion, spotted at the last second.
The world around him had erupted into a maelstrom of fire and fury.
An air burst shell detonated with ferocious intensity a mere 50 meters from Ryan's sanctuary. The explosion ripped through the building, an unforgiving hatred that jolted reality itself. The blast wave, a monstrous force of destruction, assaulted his apartment, shattering the windows with an ease that mocked Vancouver's fragility. Glass shards, transformed into lethal projectiles, hurtled through the air with a hunter's precision, each piece seeking its target. Instinctively, Ryan lunged for cover, his only protection a vintage oak promotional board, a relic of a bygone era. This wooden guardian, decorated with the iconic image of Stan Lee, stood as a stoic defender, a symbol of comic heroism now repurposed to shield flesh and blood from the brutal onslaught.
A low hum erupts from the depths of his being as the fireball swirled around him. "Breathe... I can't... don't fall asleep... don't...sleep..." he whispered, fighting the encroaching darkness. His cobalt eyes, glazing over open, fighting to the last light, flickered between consciousness and oblivion. The distant, muffled voices of mentors past echoed in his mind, a fading chorus in the theatre of his memories. Ryan looked to his left, cast one last lingering look at the Vancouver sky, a canvas of blue that seemed so distant now. As his vision began to narrow, a tunnel drawing him away from the light, Ryan felt the grip of darkness pulling him under heavy, yet weightless. Once so vivid and alive, the world around him was fading into shadows.
Amid shrapnel-induced unconsciousness, Ryan's mind catapulted him back to a pivotal moment from his youth – the Ontario Canadian Olympic Trials.
The stadium's noise swirled around him, but it was an entirely different world within the ring. There, it was just Ryan and his opponent, every move a testament to the sacrifices he and Robin(Ryan's longtime mentor both inside, and outside the ring) had made together.
Ryan's style in the ring was unique, a blend of calculated ferocity in speed and agility. He adopted the elusive, angular movements that Robin had honed while serving alongside the hardened Ukrainians on the frontlines of Kyiv. This style was compelling and unpredictable, frustrating his opponents with swift and efficient strikes. Ryan's ability to slip away from counters, almost serpentine in its execution, left them grasping at straws.
Point fighting for the Olympics was a system that worked well with Ryan's style but not necessarily with his mindset. Ryan was a fighter at heart, and sometimes, when pushed, the disciplined techniques would give way to a rawer form of combat. Robin, who always believed in Ryan's potential, saw this as his greatest fault and biggest asset to "push past." In his gruff but encouraging voice, Robin would often spew "The stink in that mind, You've got a head on you that'd make an onion cry," highlighting Ryan's occasionally impulsive nature, and inability to control his emotions when it mattered. This characteristic made Ryan fearless in the ring but also sloppy, open, and vulnerable. It often led him into trouble outside of the solace in prizefighting.
In these trials, Ryan's physical attributes – his slender frame, broad shoulders, wide back and a peculiarly long wingspan that gave him an imposing presence in his weight class – it made him stand out. His frame synchronized with his style, creating a truly unique spectacle of genetic gifts, hard work, and skill.
These memories blended nostalgia and pain as they flickered through Ryan's mind. They were reminders of a path once trodden, a journey shaped by the influence of a mentor and the determination of a fighter's spirit.
As the Olympic Trials set to begin, Robin looked to Ryan to instill confidence for his upcoming bouts, but Ryan was in his element. It was fight day, the fun day, the day to show off all of the hard work. Ryan had confidence, and his style in the ring displayed it in full. He moved with an angular rhythm that was both art and battle – slipping, landing a quick stiff counter cross, then gracefully stepping out of reach inches from returning fire. He made it look fun and easy, as if playing with his prey before fangs clench throat, delivering the killing bite. Looking closer, you can only see fire and determination in his bright eyes. He found purpose in the beautiful science of boxing. His strategy was that of a technical boxer, The Counterpuncher; 1. To bait his opponent into committing, then counter, fight long, fight smart. 2. Beat em' up, Frustrate em', then start slinging the heat in the uppercuts and lead hooks.
The bell rang and the fight was officially underway. Ryan controlled the ring with his long frame. Each exchange was rapid yet controlled, a dance of precise strikes and evasive maneuvers. The world's complexities faded in these moments, leaving only Ryan and the pure essence of the sport he loved. He felt invincible, a force of nature within the confines of the ring. To Ryan, the fight was more than a competition; it was a performance, an exhilarating escape from the mundane. It was true Purpose.
The intensity of the round reached a frustrating outburst by his opponent, who grabbed Ryan by the back of his head– 'SPLIT' called by the referee, his hand placed between them. A judge calls for a correction, catching the referee's attention only for a split second. In this second, Ryan's Opponent saw an opportunity. Lifting his head to move away, Ryan locks eyes with his Opponent, sporting a grin and delivering a sly headbutt as a parting gift. It's against the rules, but part of the game's harsh reality if gone unnoticed. Expelling energy and detesting it was a waste of fuel. It was a jolting reminder of "at all times"(protect yourself), a stark contrast to the discipline and respect Ryan upheld, starting his boxing journey in Thailand under "Muay Thai" rules, ideology of the worrior spirit and discipline. There was a sense of Honor in Lumpinee Stadium.
The outcome of these unsavoury tactics here is an advantage for the opponent. Ryan's inner pools erupt, his mind swirled with raging white waters, crashing and colliding against each other, two oceans with opposite currents meeting in his consciousness. His once technical thoughts, muscle memory mixed with fight iq burst with flames, erupting and incinerating all strategy in his path. His eyes widened, open like he'd found his primal genetic ancestry hidden deep within. The slaughter and the war of history. The bloodshed of 1000 lifetimes. He felt it all. Manic in thought. Ryan wanted to take his glove off and rip his cheeks open from the inside out--
BREAK - Ryan snaps back into it, erupting in stoic, silent, primal rage.
░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░ ░ ░░░ ░░░ ░░ ░ ▒ ▒▒▒▒ ▒ ▒▒▒▒ ▒ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▓ ▓▓ ▓▓▓▓ ▓ ▓▓▓ ▓ ▓▓▓ █ ███ ██ █ ████ █ ███████ █ ████ █ ████ ██ ██ █ █████████████████████████████████████The fight escalated, Ryan's disciplined technique unravelled under the seething tide of his rage. The finesse and agility that once defined his footwork gave way to a heavier, more aggressive stance. His feet, usually light and swift under his commanding frame, now felt anchored to the floor, each step driven more by fury than finesse. This transformation in style played perilously into his opponent's advantage. Ryan, usually a master of stick-and-move tactics, found himself engaging in close-quarter brawls, trading his advantage for a risky gamble. His in-and-out maneuvers, once a blur of grace, turned into brutish, in-the-pocket exchanges. This was a terrain where his more muscular and compact opponent had the upper hand. A raw, primal contest of power replaced the tactical dance that Ryan excelled at. Ryan's precise strikes became wild swings, his movements predictable to his seasoned adversary. Seizing the moment, the opponent unleashed a devastating barrage of inside hooks with their compact frame. A vicious right hook, lands clean in the exchange, thrown with the grace of a milkbag, the power hooks brute force, cut through Ryan's defences. The blow landed with a bone-jarring impact, sending a shockwave through Ryan's frame. His world spun as he stumbled, his once dominant presence in the ring now faltering under the weight of his unchecked emotions.
The ground rushed up to meet him as he crashed onto the canvas, the taste of iron and the sting of defeat mingling in his mouth. The crowd's roar faded into a distant echo, a stark reminder of how quickly the tides of battle could turn. Robin's voice sliced through the ringing from the corner, resonating with a force that commanded attention.
"Get your shit together, JUMPIN JESUS RYAN! HEART OF GOLD AND HEAD OF STONE – GET UP, YOU LITTLE COWARD! YOU'RE LETTING IT WIN, AGAIN! STOP THIS ONION HEAD NONSENSE AND DANCE, BOX THIS FELLA – YOU'RE BETTER THAN THIS, ACT LIKE IT, BELIEVE IN IT!"
His words were more than just a call to action; they were a lifeline thrown into the stormy seas of Ryan's mind. Each syllable was drenched in the raw, unfiltered wisdom that only a life spent in the cauldron of combat could forge. Robin's tone was a volatile cocktail of fury and concern, the urgency palpable in his voice. His palms crashed against the ring mat; each hit thunderous punctuation to his fiery sermon.
"You've got the talent, kid, but it's as good as ash if you keep burning it to the ground. I'M HERE FOR YOU, IM RIGHT HERE. SNAP OUT OF IT AND BOX THIS PLASTIC PATTY! MOVE GOD DAMNIT, GET UP!"
On the canvas, Ryan lay dazed, the echo of Robin's voice ringing in his ears. It was more than a mere pep talk; it was a wake-up call that struck a chord deep within him. Amidst the haze of the crowd murmurs and the pulsating pain that coursed through his body, clarity began to emerge. Lying there, Ryan grasped the essence of Robin's message –
"coward? letting it win? Playing my ego are ya Robin...hes right though. Im throwing this shit away."
This moment, sprawled on the canvas under the glaring lights and the crowd's gaze, became a crucible of transformation. The raw emotion and the hard-hitting truth in Robin's words ignited a spark in Ryan. It was time to rise, shake off the shadows of rage, and embrace a fighter's true spirit like he had learned in Thailand – not just with fists but with heart and mind in unison.
Staggered yet stirred by the dual impact of the physical hit and Robin's piercing words, A padded fist crushed into the rings canvas, followed by a kneee and the eruption of the crowd. Ryan was back, and he began to pull himself up from the canvas. His resolve, momentarily dimmed, now reignited with a fierce, clear, calculated intensity. Memories of the gruelling hours spent in the gym flooded back to him – the relentless sparring sessions, the time spent in Thailand, the sweat and toil, and the invaluable lessons etched into his being under Robin's stern tutelage.
With a renewed spirit, Ryan stepped back into the battle, his movements now embodying controlled power and a fluidity to his step. He recalled his time fighting beside the backdrop of the "Sarama" a traditional Thai music played when in combat. The times of learning to move, fight with the music, to flow, to be fluid, to be concise. Ryan finally put it all together in the heat of battle. He had merged his inherent ferocity with the disciplined technique that Robin relentlessly drilled into him, and the mindfull practises of the years he spent under Burklerk Pinsinchai in the jungles of Chiang Mai. His style was now fully displayed, raw and visceral yet refined by countless hours of practice in mind, body and spirit.
The final rounds bell clang to a start in a clinic of skill and sheer willpower. Ryan, driven by a blend of desperation and unwavering determination, unleashed a barrage of calculated and explosive strikes. Each punch and maneuver was a nod to the efficient, no-nonsense Ukrainian style that Robin had imparted to him. Ryan moved rhythmically across the mat, steps measured and precise, executing short, angular movements and deft outside counterpunches. He had returned to his element – the dance of combat, where he felt most alive, a symphony of movement where every step and punch was a testament to his life's journey and experiences as a human being first, and as a fighter second.
In this wake-up call, Ryan reinvigorated and reminded himself of his love for the sport, the exhilarating blend of art and athleticism. He was not just fighting to win; he was celebrating boxing, combat, honouring the path he had walked with Robin, and reclaiming what it meant to be a true fighter through Burklurk Pinsinchai's Teachings.
The round pressed on, and Ryan executed his maneuvers with a surgeon's precision. First;
-- The counterpuncher; a display in timing and accuracy, delivered with the full force of training and innate skill. --
- He deftly slipped his opponent's cross, a move as fluid as it was swift.
- He angled off, creating a space wide enough for his next move.
- With an almost predatory precision, Ryan unleashed a powerful right cross, targeting his opponent's cheek from the angle he had just created. But Ryan wasn't done yet.
- He slipped out again, evading any potential counter from his disoriented opponent. The rhythm, he danced in and out with his precise timing, perfected down to inches and angles.
- In a final, decisive movement of the exchange, Ryan slipped in. He timed his step with a long cross that came off-beat, catching his opponent utterly off-guard. The punch landed with a satisfying impact, culminating in a perfectly executed combination. As he watched his opponent stagger, Ryan couldn't help but think, 'cya sleepy boi,' a silent acknowledgment of his dominance in this singular exchange.
ONE!…TWO!…THREE!…FOUR!…FIVE!…SIX!...SEVEN!..EIGHT!
Ryan's opponent stands, admirable, but futile, driven by sheer will but hampered by sluggish movements, the man rose to his feet, it was clear the fight was reaching its zenith.
The opponent, gathering his remaining strength for a final stand, launched a jab, a last-ditch effort relying more on brute force than finesse. But this was a fatal mistake in Ryan's world – playing right into what Ryan was best at. Counters.
Ryan read the move with the clarity of a seasoned fighter. As the jab came, he effortlessly slipped to the right, evading the punch with a short angular step that spoke of his ring intelligence. Instantly, he countered with the same sharp cross from his right hand, followed by a devastating hook that cut through the air with lethal intent in his left. Grasping at straws, reeling from the counter, Ryans opponent threw a desperate, looping last stand punch, Ryan dipped down and left, rolling the punch with an elegance that made it seem almost effortless. He was Hunting for the Kill Shot. Seizing the moment, Ryan unleashed a ferocious left uppercut, the force of the blow lifting his opponent's chin skyward. He followed up with a right overhand, but just before impact, he halted the punch. There was no need for it; his opponent was already collapsing, the "Lights were on, but no one was Home". The fight was effectively over, Ryan's last combination is the final note, a crescendo that echoed through the ring.
As his opponent hit the canvas, the crowd erupted. Ryan stood in the center of the ring, his chest heaving, every fibre of his being alight with the thrill of victory. This wasn't just a win; it was a performance, a display of skill, heart, and the indomitable spirit of a fighter who had walked through fire and flames to the otherside and emerge victorious.
The final bell Rings with not a single chair in the arena warm; a thunderous clap erupts from the crowd. It was more than just applause; it was an acknowledgment of a battle fiercely fought by both men. In that moment ringside, in a triumphant victory, Ryan and Robin shared a look that spoke volumes, a connection far beyond the usual bounds of mentor and protégé. Their bond, tempered in the crucible of hardship and struggle, was now sealed in the glory of this defining triumph.
Standing amidst the cheers and the adrenaline-fueled euphoria, Ryan found himself momentarily lost in the tide of memories. It was a poignant reminder of the journey that had brought him here, a path marked by triumphs and losses. Robin's teachings transcended the confines of boxing; they were life lessons imprinted deep onto him. Ryan began to slowly step out of the ring; the weight of these reflections settled upon him. The victory was sweet, but it carried the weight of all sacrificed to achieve it. Robin's presence was felt strongly, a guiding force that continued to shape his path, illuminating the way forward even in the most challenging times.