Short poems on moving on

 I (23F) am really struggling to move forward in life. For context I recently switched jobs from sales to Pizza Delivery. My last manager was just awful to deal with, she cared more about putting money in her own wallet than her workers safety. About 2 months ago I transferred to a pizza delivery company because my friend was just raving about how much better it would be for me to work there. She told me I would be making just as much money and the work environment was comfortable with kind customers/employees. Literally a month into working I got in a car accident with a car I JUST took a bank loan out to pay for. (He was wanting to drive at least 300 feet in the bike lane to turn right at a light way behind me. Traffic was at a complete stop and backed up, the two lanes to the left of me had traffic stopped with a gap for me to turn left back into work. He was driving so fast when he got in the turning lane I didn’t see him until I was making my turn and it completely totaled my car… my radiator sits in the very front of my car.) my insurance still has not gotten back to me about who is at fault and I had to sell my car because the towing company wanted $500 to give me my car back and I didn’t have the money. I am now without a car having to work as an insider making not even half of what I was making before. I’m stuck with a $4,000 car loan with no car to show for, and I’m barely able to find rides to work every day. I can barely afford to pay for my bills, my boyfriends has to help me pay them every 2 weeks because I keep running short in money. We barely have money for food at this point and i just don’t see me making enough money to be able to afford another car. I can’t afford to take out another loan since I also have snap payments for $5,000 of work I had done on my car to get it up and running. I can switch my job and still barely have enough money to live at this point, with no opportunity to save for another vehicle. I am so lost at, I worked so hard just to end up here, no vehicle, making less money than before, and I’m CONSTANTLY getting sick and vomiting from the stress. I don’t even have the money to see a therapist for a single session.. I really need some advice I don’t know what more I can do except work my life away praying for miracles. Even words of encouragement would be appreciated at this point. Every time I think about my life situation I start bawling. 

“Incredible!”
The rebel reeled from the punch, the fist slamming through his protective helmet and cracking his jaw. He choked out a sob at the pain and the feeling of several of his teeth being knocked down his throat.
“This? This is what you send to try and rebel against the Imperium?! THIS?!”
A harsh kick was sent into the rebels stomach, making him cough up the rations he had that morning and a few of the once missing teeth. He grabbed his stomach and his body made to tilt forward and lay in the dust.
Only he was stopped as an armored gauntlet grabbed him by the throat and forced him to stand. His hands came up and grabbed at his attackers wrist as he stared into his own grim reaper.
Said killer wore the helmet of the Macraggian Auxilia, his faceplate being that of a stylized skull. His rank was shown proudly in the form of a centurions plum, blue and white horsehair picked out atop a gilded mount on the top of his helmet.
“Incredible. It’s truly incredible what passes for rebellion these days hm?”
The soldiers behind the centurion laughed or smiled as they watched their leader hoist the rebel up as if the rebel was some game beast that was just recently hunted. Pressure in the form of steam shot out of the centurions wrist, betraying the hidden augmented limb under the armor. The rebel tried to speak, scratching at the Centurion’s arm.
“What? Speak up damn you, and speak clearly. I have no time or patience to hear some long speech about tyranny or whatever else. We have your city to burn insurgent.”
And burn it would. Two large tanks with massive flamers could be seen in the back, protected by infantry and assault vehicles. The main force would break the walls, the infantry would kill the people, and the tanks would burn the rest to ashes.
“Aghh….thill….you….thasard!”
The rebel said, spitting blood and bone fragments from his shattered jaw through what was left of his faceplate.
“Ah. Nothing interesting to say. Oh well.”
The rebel tried in vain to speak again but was silenced as the centurion forced a power gladius through his mouth. He was then unceremoniously dropped to the dust, choking on blood as he watched the Macraggian soldiers march on his home. The last thing he saw before dying was his killer, taking his helmet off and smiling in a wide, cocky manner. ————————————————————————
“Don’t spare the body men, he was a rebel. March over him.”
Tiberius Victor, Centurion of the 3rd Macraggain Legion, yelled as he wiped the grim that had built up over his helmet. He scowled at the filth that adorned his armor and sighed.
“Bloody rebels will pay for more than just rebellion. Look at this! They scratched my faceplate! And that bastard I just killed dared to spit blood at me! Oh they will pay tenfold.”
He chuckled and shrugged as he replaced his helmet. He rolled his head and drew the lapistol he had holstered at his side. He examined it for a moment before shaking his head.
“Ugh….to easy.”
He holstered the pistol again and flourished his gladius as he grabbed the handholds of a Leman Russ tank that was about to pass him by. He climbed up until he stood on top of the tank and crouched down, using his newfound height to look over his army and the objective.
The city was massive….but so were the last three he had burned. Both Imperial Army and even Ultramarine Legion Command had told him he was too far ahead and that he needed to slow down. But where was the fun in that? Besides, the campaign has been far too easy thus far. He had suffered very few casualties, his men were never hungry and his tanks never ran dry on fuel, and the enemy bled. Oh how they bled.
He sighed.
“Easy. Far too easy. Captain?”
The command hatch the tank he rode popped open and a woman in the dirty coveralls and goggled helmet of a tank commander. She looked around, rubbing her eyes before turning and smiling widely. She gave a crisp salute, one which he lazily returned, before nodding.
“Aye my Centurion?”
“Do we have any more wine about? I’m parched from all these victories we keep piling on.”
The captain cringed then turned towards the city.
“Uh….my centurion? Wouldn’t you rather have some water?”
Tiberius turned his head towards the captain, the tilt of his head betraying the cocky smile hidden beneath that the captain and the rest of the army had come to love and hate.
“Captain….are you questioning me?”
“I-no! No, of course not my centurion! But uh….well….”
He made a ‘go on’ motion with his hand, not bothering to stand up from the relaxed position he had taken. He had laid down on his side, his sword hand having sheathed his gladius to prop his head up.
“Well….shouldn’t uh….shouldn’t wine be saved for victory?”
The centurion stared at her for a moment. A very long moment. Perhaps….to long of a moment.
“I….I apologize my centurion! I will-“
Laughter. The centurion was laughing, something he rarely did outside of combat or when around the campfires at night. He laughed loudly and caught the attention of several other Auxilia soldiers.
“True! Haha! I knew I kept you around for something Captain. Fine, me and you shall share the first bottle of wine after that….excuse for a city burns. Return to your duties captain.”
He waved the captain off then turned his head back to the city, not moving out of his relaxed position. She knew better then to consider him lazy or incompetent, she had seen him in action.
She saluted and quickly went back down into her tank. ————————————————————————
He held his helmet in the crook of his arm. He breathed in deeply, smiling as he watched the city burn. Something grabbed his boot and looked down, only to scowl in disgust.
A woman, her lower half aflame with one leg missing, held onto his boot and shin guard.
“Please….mercy! We surrender!”
He raised an eyebrow and followed the trail the rebel left in the dust to see several more wounded and scared rebels. One held up a white rag on a piece of rebar as a white flag.
Several of his auxilia aimed their rifles at the rebels as a sergeant began to moved forward with a pair of restraints.
He was stopped by Tiberius’s sword.
“Sergeant? What are you doing?”
“Uh…taking prisoners sir?”
The centurion tilted his head and smiled widely.
“Prisoners? I don’t recall ordering anyone to take prisoners.”
He lifted his boot and stomped on the wounded woman’s head, smiling wickedly at the crunch he heard under his foot.
“Uh….no my Centurion but legion command has-“
“Legion command? You are taking orders from Ultramarines instead of telling me that such orders have come through?”
“There was no time sir! The orders came fro-“
Tiberius put his helmet on and shoved the sergeant to the side, ripping the rifle from the soldiers hands.
“I see no space marines here soldier. I see soldiers and I see rebels. We kill rebels because we are soldiers.”
He took aim at the closest rebel, put his finger on the trigger and-
“Thats enough Centurion.”
He stopped. He slowly turned his head towards the new, feminine voice behind him.
“Excuse me troo-“
He stopped again and stared. She had to have been 10 feet or at least close, this goddess in blue and gold. Her short, cropped hair was golden blonde and a green, metallic laurel wreath was wrapped around her head to add to her noble features. She came with several ultramarines as an honor guard in tow but he was sure she could handle anything thrown her way with ease.
“The Lady of Macragge.”
He whispered in awe before looking around. Those under his command had shared his awe but where he shook himself free, the rest still stared.
“Damn you all, our Lady is here! Bow damn you! All of you bow!”
He paced up and down the line, ensuring his auxilia bowed. He then turned towards the rebels and pointed at the guards who stood over them.
“Them too, cmon now. Bow!”
The rebels resisted the guards orders and movements. The centurions rage grew as he stormed over and pulled his gladius from its sheath.
“I command thee BOW.”
He sliced the back of the knees of one of the captives, the man yelping in pain before yelling in agony from his nearly cut tendons. The rest fell in line quickly.
Tiberius marched towards the Primarch, her honor guard bringing their weapons to bare only for him to kneel down and stab his gladius into the dirt.
“My Lady. Centurion Tiberius Victor of the 3rd Macraggian Legion reporting.”
The Primarch stared down at the Centurion before her eyes went up and around. She took note of the rather large number of prisoners and the burning cityscape around them.
“A good campaign Centurion?”
Tiberius nodded, smiling widely under his helmet.
“Yes my Lady. I only wish it weren’t so boring, so easy! But it is done.”
It took every ounce of self control to not scowl at his arrogant and cocky nature. He spoke as if he had stomped on a bug rather than a rebels skull. Yet….something about him caught her attention.
“Remove your helm centurion.”
He did so without delay, removing his helmet and setting it at her feet. His hair was cut in the traditional military ‘high and tight’ fashion and he was mostly clean cut save for a well trimmed mustache that went no further than the corners of his mouth.
“I recall telling my command staff to recall you back as you had pushed to far ahead. Yet we stand here at the city we were meant to take, the one we were meant to hold. The one….that is currently burning to ashes around us. What do you have to say for yourself Centurion?”
He said nothing for a long time. Then, to her surprise, he laughed. The auxilia around them slowly looked at each other, their faces hidden beneath their helmets but all were worried or tense.
“Hahah! Ah….I say mission accomplished my Lady. I also say that this light really brings out the color of your eyes.”
He laughed again and slowly stood up while extending his arms out wide.
“I say I give you the best gift this galaxy can offer to someone like you from someone like me.”
His smile grew into the same cocky, full of himself grin those under his command knew so well.
“I give you victory, my Lady Juno.”
He held his gladius up and flourished it, letting the blade catch the firelight of a dying city.
“Victory.”

recently, i had a conversation with my mom detailing what i wanted to be when i was older. ever since i was a child, i loved singing and dancing. not like i was humming in the womb, but singing was a great past time for me.
when i moved to london in 2022, i, according to my mom, fell in love with the idea of becoming a musician. for some reason, my childhood is overly blurry, but she told me back then i wasn't interested, and i was sorta confused because i'm sure i was. she said the idea of becoming a musician and singing and everything was not on my to-do list. it was weird because i don't recall ever telling her a career i wanted to look into back then. i think i assumed she knew i wanted to become a singer, but she didn't know? idk its confusing lol.
so anyways, after that i tried to occasionally sing and practice my voice. note: occasionally. i would, according to my entire family, sing for a few moments and stop singing (MOMENTS??) clear my throat, do that again, get mad and say "I'm never singing again." (which is obviously a lie.) for some reason, i was dead-set that i wanted to become a musician, but i also didn't put in the effort to becoming a singer.
now, even i know this, but i tend to pick-up and drop things easily, so i never really stuck to one thing. the reason is most likely because my parents were movers. even when we lived in dubai, we never stayed in one place. changing schools and houses more times than i can count. i think having this sort of lifestyle of not having to stick to one thing is affecting me as a person also. but thats a story for another day;
my point is that singing is one of the things that i picked up but i can't seem to drop. i think as i kept going and watching these people perform at concerts, work in studios, all of that it makes me want to become a musician even more! i tried my hand in acting at one point but that totally backfired. so its just on singing again. in fact, i tried so many things and i decided i was good at nothing so singing was my only option.
now, don't get me wrong my family is well off, so i can afford school, college, university and the works, but i still feel like i'm not good at anything besides singing. im going to grade 12 next (school) year, so i don't have lots of time to think about this, yet i feel like everything will just work itself out.
now, to my actual question; do i like singing, or do i hate it? and if i hate singing, why do i hate it?
so, my first reason that comes to mind on why i hate singing is my voice. now, i've had no shortage of compliments from my family telling me i'm a great singer. (well, maybe a little shortage. and my dad has never told me i'm a great singer. apparently i've never sung in front of him before.) but, also from strangers. before the winter holidays in 2022, my school held a winter concert and i had a solo in there. my music teacher who's also the choir teacher, gave me the solo, telling me i had a great voice and potential. the day came and i felt i completely blew it, but people were pulling me left, right and center to tell me i had a lovely voice. might've been just curtesy, but it was very sweet of them.
so i have no genuine idea why i hate my voice, but it just feels so flat and bad. i can't hold a note more than 4 seconds, my breath control sucks, i can't mold my voice into something, and my voice is raspy. i could keep going. it doesn't sound like sabrina carpenter, ariana grande, whitney. someone told me it sounded like maria once, but i'm calling bullshit. and most importantly when i sing, my neck hurts or i get a splitting headache.
now, second reason i came up with is that, like my mother said, its a chore. she told me i only sing to practice, i don't sing because i like the melody songs create. i don't sing because i love it. i sing because it feels like it's already a job for me, and as if i'm about to make money from it. i tried to deny this, but i think it's true. when i sing, i don't sing like i'm trying to enjoy the song, i feel like i'm trying to monitor my voice and what it sounds like.
when i practice and i cut myself short, it's not because my voice hurts or i'm tired of singing, it's because i don't like how i sound, which makes me think: am i enjoying the song at all? obviously to get better at singing, i have to practice, its a must. but i don't often sing because i like a song, i sing them as a form of work. now, i thought this would all be easily avoidable if i just went to singing classes, because now i can focus on practicing there and enjoying singing out here. but i've always been of the "if i had this, it would be better" mentality. and in this case, i might even be right! but my mom asked "why would i pay money for something you don't even like", and maybe she's right and it is a waste.
maybe i hate singing because i'm bad at it but i'm starting to feel like this is my only option.
but that was until last year when i fell in love with gaming. game development particularly.
now i've always been a fan of gaming; not like the fortnite, COD, GTA and other games of the sort, but more like resident evil, roblox, the last of us type games, but then i fell even more in love with learning how to make them. now this is a whole big story and another story for another day, but basically, i now feel like game development is something i would be really interested in taking in university. but that didn't make me want to stop singing and trying to make music so... maybe the second point is invalid. but i don't know.
recently, i've been taking more effort to practice my singing and improve my voice. i sing daily now, for a significant amount of time. i've been seeing some progress actually. my sister told me that i've always been improving, but it's not the little improvements i see. its the big one. she's in 6th grade... 😭
anyways, thats all i know about this entire thing. its making me really sad and unhappy writing this entire thing. i thought i had everything figured out about this, but this whole "you hate singing" thing is doing my head in. i just wanna dance and make music :(
what do you guys think?

 I (23F) am really struggling to move forward in life. For context I recently switched jobs from sales to Pizza Delivery. My last manager was just awful to deal with, she cared more about putting money in her own wallet than her workers safety. About 2 months ago I transferred to a pizza delivery company because my friend was just raving about how much better it would be for me to work there. She told me I would be making just as much money and the work environment was comfortable with kind customers/employees. Literally a month into working I got in a car accident with a car I JUST took a bank loan out to pay for. (He was wanting to drive at least 300 feet in the bike lane to turn right at a light way behind me. Traffic was at a complete stop and backed up, the two lanes to the left of me had traffic stopped with a gap for me to turn left back into work. He was driving so fast when he got in the turning lane I didn’t see him until I was making my turn and it completely totaled my car… my radiator sits in the very front of my car.) my insurance still has not gotten back to me about who is at fault and I had to sell my car because the towing company wanted $500 to give me my car back and I didn’t have the money. I am now without a car having to work as an insider making not even half of what I was making before. I’m stuck with a $4,000 car loan with no car to show for, and I’m barely able to find rides to work every day. I can barely afford to pay for my bills, my boyfriends has to help me pay them every 2 weeks because I keep running short in money. We barely have money for food at this point and i just don’t see me making enough money to be able to afford another car. I can’t afford to take out another loan since I also have snap payments for $5,000 of work I had done on my car to get it up and running. I can switch my job and still barely have enough money to live at this point, with no opportunity to save for another vehicle. I am so lost at, I worked so hard just to end up here, no vehicle, making less money than before, and I’m CONSTANTLY getting sick and vomiting from the stress. I don’t even have the money to see a therapist for a single session.. I really need some advice I don’t know what more I can do except work my life away praying for miracles. Even words of encouragement would be appreciated at this point. Every time I think about my life situation I start bawling. 

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Anglestan
Augustus 5, 1923
Facility 9, Mancheston
Colonel Jacobs
His hands flew through the folders General Jorgenson and Colonel Thatcher had. There were dozens of them, stacked upon each other all filed in alphabetical order. It had only been a few days since he had woken up from his coma and visited his home— now his mother’s grave. He clenched his fists at the thought. The grief and rage threatened to bubble and spill over once again. He took a deep breath and dragged out the exhale, almost to the point where he had emptied out his lungs.
He was the only one with clearance, and so he couldn’t disclose any of what he learned with his team. They would simply have to trust him and his judgment. Which he was sure they would do. His hands went over one of the folders skimming through it. There were multiple secret projects, but the ones with the most notes were Project S.T.A.R, Project L.U.N.A.R.I, Project R.E.V.I.V.E, Project D.A.W.N, and Project T.E.M.P.L.A.R.
The colonel decided to start with the most notes and papers. Project D.A.W.N.
He skimmed through the notes, reading through some of the details and highlighted words. Project D.A.W.N, the espionage project Thatcher had started placed two spies in Verlin who were to report directly to a Crescent general named Sienna Moretti who was apparently on humanity’s side.
So I was right. There was an espionage element. With the recent attacks and Thatcher’s death, however, it’s safe to assume that it had somehow failed. Either they got found out or they betrayed us. Both seem very likely, but if they were found out, it would be possible that they had died.
He read through all of it before setting the folder down. There were no new notes recently. He sighed and assumed that Project DAWN was a failure. Whether or not the agents were still alive and well, it was too risky to check if they had been compromised. It was better to assume that they had been and cut all contact. The only way to find out now was to go there himself and check. I can’t contact them again. There’s no telling if it would still be Moretti or the agents who would see my messages. It’s a big risk, and judging by the state of things, best to assume it failed.
He picked up another folder. This one had the label ‘under development’ on the folder. Project Templar. He opened the folder and was instantly met with a blueprint and drawings of a massive bipedal machine. It looked humanoid with strange proportions and was supposed to be standing at an impressive 30 meters, or 100 feet. The Titanic Engine Mech for Personal Land Assault and Reconnaissance.
It was apparently a joint project with the Church of Sol, utilizing new and advanced technologies he hadn’t heard of. A 203mm Gatling cannon on one arm, while the other had three different weapons. A massive firestarter that utilized a new type of fuel mixture that could theoretically spew flames a kilometer away using a high-pressure nozzle. The fuel was ignited using an electrical spark. The second weapon was a high-powered light weapon that fired a single powerful beam of focused light that was even further amplified by layers of focusing lenses that could increase its output several times. Its third weapon was… a dust domina?
Mark read through the specifications of the so-called ‘sand cannon’ weapon. It was a massive cannon that accelerated tiny particles several times. Each particle was to be electrically charged, and it would travel at immense speeds. Near impossible speeds. The resulting impact of a microscopic particle at such speeds would be enough to form a small crater and punch through armor like it was nothing. This weapon would fire multiple at the same time, which could literally eat away at anything on the opposing end.
In terms of secondary weapons, the titan had two missile launch chambers in front of its shoulder each containing about 40 missiles, and two massive howitzer cannons on top of it. Both are 800mm in caliber. It had massive stumpy legs that served as bunkers for a small platoon on each leg. Each leg had machine dominas and 155mm cannons. Its chassis held two nuclear reactors inside providing for its power and weaponry. Its armor was the thickest and most ridiculous he’d ever read. Two meters of heavy steel armor.
How far are we in terms of technology? This thing looks like it came out of an H.G. Wells sci-fi novel. He thought, shaking his head. It was over the top, but there was no denying its combat capabilities. If it was already under-developed then it must be the first prototype. This has already been approved. Guess I better see it for myself later and check how it's coming along. Construction apparently started just a few months before the invasion.
Next was project L.U.N.A.R.I. It was a project involving Six. “Huh,” he said, continuing to read on.
The Light Undone: Nocturnal’s Adaptive Resistance Initiative. As he read further, his eyes widened. The reason why Six was so special wasn’t just because of her immunity to all strigoi weaknesses, but because of her impressive ability to turn any true born strigoi like her. She could transfer her strain like any other strigoi and transform them into a version of hers. It however only seemed to work for naturally born strigoi. The new species of ‘half-breeds’ were called ‘Blessed Children’ as Thatcher had coined in the folder.
The plan was to turn all willing true-born hemolite strigoi into these blessed children. Able to withstand the sun. Immune to silver. Free from the dependency on blood. They could remove all the weaknesses of the strigoi and after the war— make it possible to integrate them into society as normal citizens living on the surface. The project folder also made mentions of a city-wide draft in Dante and highlighted the possibility of turning all Dantenite true born strigoi into these blessed children and renaming them as ‘Lunari’. A mix of the dark and the light. The light of Sol reflected in the children of the night.
“Thatcher, what the fuck have you been up to…” Mark whispered to himself.
While it was true that it could help in the war effort by utilizing Six and the dantenite population, it would also invite some unforeseen problems and consequences. Would humanity be okay with the Lunari? Would the world even be ready for them? Strigoi who were immune to the sun. They wouldn’t be impossible to kill, but they would be immensely more powerful if we were to take away their inherent weaknesses. This is a gamble. Its gain would only be seen during the war period, but its unintended effects on society could be catastrophic.
He frowned, setting the folder down. It was obviously Thatcher’s main plan; seeing as all her moves could be traced to the path of the eventual completion of this project. It seemed dangerous in the long run, but the duskwalkers and dantenites had been monumental in the war effort. Maybe it was the time the world started to accept them more. Isolation and segregation was definitely not the way to disperse fears and foster understanding.
If Thatcher thinks this is the next step forward… then I’ll put my faith in her plans.
Next up was Project S.T.A.R, or the Superior Tech and Adaptive Resistance. An upgrade to the current hemolite weapons and gear by using new researched studies. The Starfire Pattern Domina. The SFD-23 This thing features a new loading system and magazine, ditching the rotating cylinder most domina used, or the rotating helix magazine design of the current hemolite standard BM-16 domina.
The new domina had its magazine like a box… a strange design but it was certainly easier to handle than the bulky cylinders the helical mags used. In terms of ergonomics, it was smoother and fit more. Its placement however was on top of the domina, just above the barrel. Most of the weapon were to be made of lightweight polymers and the barrel itself were to be crafted out of reinforced aluminium. In addition to that, it had a 10-inch bayonet attached to it.
There were other new things as well, such as the composition of the bullet. Looking at the conceptual cross-section designs, Mark read through its description and how it would function. A .308 cased telescoped bullet covered in a silver jacket with break-away petals surrounding the main body. Inside the jacket was a penetrator core that was to be made of depleted uranium. It had a small amount of incendiary compound and… powdered white phosphorus behind an explosive compound. The thin silver jacket would deform and trigger the explosive compound inside the body. It would blow up causing massive internal damage and release the incendiary materials into the body with the flecks of powdered white phosphorus. The penetrator core could still potentially keep going and hit a second target, or punch through heavily armored targets.
Part of the new Project S.T.A.R was overhauling the armor and gear of not just the Hemolites but the Hunters as well. Starfire Mk 1. Carapace Armor. Carapace? It looked like plates of steel covered in a rubberized coat. It was supposed to be slipped on over the original hemolite body armor. It added a spring-loaded wrist blade to the gauntlet, a thicker coat made of resistant materials, and added extra padding for the knees, shoulders, and elbows.
However, the hemolites weren’t the only ones mentioned in the folder. It was to serve the Hunters as well. “Hunters…” Mark said. “August’s group is part of this initiative too.” He flipped through some of the pages. There were blueprints and drawings of an armored suit. A mechanized suit even smaller and more compact than the jotunn units. The Mark 1 STR battlesuit. It was supposed to hug the wearer’s frame and increase their overall power. It was supposed to be built of titanium alloy and a heavy steel frame with composite armor. It had a cooling system, life support systems that could recycle bodily fluids, and an exoskeleton frame that could increase the wearer’s strength and speed.
However, the real eye-opener was Thatcher’s notes. She had been ranting about the new human evolution, and how the Hunters were the first of the ‘Solari’. She wanted to enhance human genetics and push past the peak of human ability to reach greater heights. Implants and restructuring of the anatomy to make it more efficient. Using the blood of the goddess herself. She must have lost it. These are the ramblings of a lunatic. At least… if she didn’t mention the goddess. Why was the goddess important here?
The writings ended with the words: “See Project R.E.V.I.V.E, for more details.”
Mark eyed the final folder. His hands shook as he reached out to take it. Flipping it open, his hands nearly dropped it in shock. The goddess Helena was alive. There were pictures of her naked form floating in a giant tube of fluid. There were more of Thatcher’s ramblings and excited rants about the possibilities of such a discovery. Resurrection, Enhancement, and Veneration: Implementation of Visionary Evolution.
The goddess is alive?! According to the file, she’s currently under the Cathedral of New Lundun. Not only that, but the file also detailed the extraterrestrial tech that lay beneath the cathedral. So the goddess is real and she’s— not really a goddess, but rather, a vampyr who created herself a human body to stand in the sun, and decided that it wants to be on humanity’s side… what the fuck.
Mark’s frown and confusion only increased as he read on. Thatcher’s notes seemed to nearly descend into madness as she had written about creating ‘the first hundred’, alluding to the 100 members of the Hunters division. Her plan was to revive the goddess, and with her help and expertise in genetics— use her DNA to transform the Hunters into demi-humans. Super soldiers. Literal children of the goddess Helena. They would then don the STR battlesuits, the first of the superhuman warriors to defend humanity. Solari.
Their lightning-speed advancement into technology was heralded by studying the alien tech, which deepened the understanding of physics and engineering. Nuclear technologies, chemical warfare, new material sciences, the mechs, and walkers, it was spearheaded by trying to reverse-engineer technology centuries ahead of our own… for the past hundred years. It wasn’t completely stolen, however. More or less borrowed ideas that had been made into our own with our own designs and implements. Still, the speed at which the Church and the military had deciphered such advancements all by themselves was… impressive to say the least.
Still, the fact that the goddess was alive, and could be brought back was big news. Checking the file for details, he found that the previous general, Jorgenson, had already approved this project. It was their next step as soon as they returned from New Amsterdam; which never happened.
If Helena was alive, then she could end this war swiftly, or at the very least help greatly like she once did during the War of Darkness. Having the goddess back would throw a massive wrench in the Crescent’s plans. It would certainly be something they wouldn’t expect. Not even I expected this, since many sources say that the goddess had already ascended to watch over humanity, while conspiracy theorists claim she had died in battle and that the Church was worshiping a corpse. This could be the trick up our sleeves that no one would even consider.
The colonel quickly got up from his seat and gathered the main files he had read. He placed them in a bag and rushed outside of his office in Facility 9. He went over to a nearby room and flicked the lights on. “We need to go,” he said. In an instant seven hemolite soldiers got up from whatever they were doing and instantly stood in line.
“Sir! Whatever you need of us, sir,” the group said in unison.
They were Hemo-1. His former squad members. He had taken up Louis' suggestion that they be his personal security detail. It was a shame that he had basically placed the best hemolite team out of commission, but after all he had been through he convinced himself that he could be just a little selfish. He didn’t want to lose any more friends. Not on his watch. Not while he was in an office, and they were out fighting.
“We’re going to New Lundun. Better pack up, it’s going to be a long night.”
“Mark,” Olivia said.
Jacobs turned to her direction and gave her a nod.
“Colonel, sir, may I ask where in New Lundun?”
“Liv, you don’t need to do that with me. Please. I give all of you special permission,” the colonel groaned. “It’s so weird. I mean, ‘captain’ was bad enough, but now you’re acting like I’m an authority figure.”
“You… are, though,” Emma shrugged.
“I’m your friend, and Liv I’m literally your partner. Unless you have some kind of weird fetish, save it for later.”
Olivia grinned, shaking her head. “Duly noted!” she chirped.
“That’s better,” Mark chuckled. “Now come on, we have a cathedral to visit.”
“Uhh, I’m not sure if you noticed, but we’re kinda… strigoi?!” Louis groaned. “I’d burn the moment I step in that place! Plus, it’s coated in silver! Anything I even touch will give me burns!”
“Oh come on, Lou. You have fucking gloves on. As long as you’re not a clumsy dumbass you’ll be fine… oh wait.’
“Uh huh, just sayin’ what I think, boss.”
The group headed out and Mark said something on his radio. He then sat on the ground, making his joints pop. The rest of the squad shrugged and followed his example, sitting down on the grass and waiting for… nothing. Charles and Zach looked at each other in confusion. “Uh, sir?” they asked. “Aren’t we supposed to be heading out and traveling right now?”
“Oh yeah, we’re just waiting.”
“Foooor…?”
The colonel gave them a smirk as a loud noise began to make itself known. A hummingbird transport appeared out of the distance and stopped right above them, slowly descending into the grass. “Being colonel has its perks,” Mark said with a smile. He stood up and hopped inside the hummingbird as soon as it landed. “Come on now! We’ve got work to do! Last one aboard buys everyone food later!”
Emma zipped in before Mark could even finish his sentence, followed by Olivia, Phineas, Charles, Zach, and then Louis, who sadly took too long to process what the colonel said, and lagged behind.
“Aw, man! Fuck this shit.”
“Rules are rules, Lou. Prepare your wallet later.” Mark grinned.
With a smile, the colonel pulled Olivia to his side, who blushed for a moment before shaking her head. “Take us up! New Lundun Cathedral! How long would it take?” he asked the pilot.
“About an hour and a half!” The pilot replied. “Less if you want to get there as soon as possible!”
“Take your time! The night’s still young.”
The hummingbird started to lift up, taking them into the air. The group settled down in their seats and watched outside the open. Mark opened up a bag inside the hummingbird and took out some ear muffs built for a strigoi. Extremely loud noises were damaging for a strigoi’s enhanced hearing, so the military started implementing ear muffs for them after complaints from early deployments of the hemolite squads.
The trip didn’t take too long. In only an hour and twenty minutes they had arrived at the safe zone of New Lundun, heading straight for the cathedral. The night mass had just ended and people were leaving the cathedral. “Looks like we made it in perfect time!” Mark smiled. They hovered for a few minutes in the air before eventually landing down right in front of the statue of Helena.
As soon as they landed, the colonel and his group left the hummingbird. Mark instructed the pilot to wait for them. He went straight for the cathedral with his group following behind. He entered inside, clearing his throat. “Hello?”
“Well this is surely unexpected,” an old man said, walking up to greet them.
“Great Grandfather Aurelius. It’s uh, an honor.”
“Please. The honor is mine… I see you’re the new colonel. Yes, I’ve heard the news,” he said. “Would you mind telling me your name, young man? As well as your companions, if they feel so. I usually don’t allow duskwalkers here but, I have nothing against them. I’ll make an exception for your group.”
“Thank you, Great Grandfather,” Mark replied. “I am Colonel Mark Jacobs. These are my friends and security detail. Olivia, Zach, Phineas, Charles, Emma, and Louis.”
“I see, and what brings you here?”
“Since Thatcher’s demise, I was given access to her research and project folders upon taking up the title. I’ve learned about what’s under your cathedral,” Mark cleared his throat. “Would it be alright if we could see it? I’d like to check it for myself. Of course, under your permission and guidance, Great Grandfather.”
The church head looked from Mark to his companions. He pulled a slight frown and hummed. “Do these companions of yours have the clearance? Surely, we wish to keep our secrets hidden,” he said. Mark nodded.
“They do not have clearance to know what is in Thatcher’s folders and her findings,” the colonel nodded. “However, I give them permission to accompany me, and should they discover things for themselves, then you have my word and my trust that I can keep them from spilling state secrets.”
The Great Grandfather gave a short pause before ultimately relenting. “Very well,” he let out a sigh. “Follow me.”
Aurelius walked behind the altar and pulled the same lever, which opened the same staircase leading underground, where Jorgenson and Thatcher had once gone. “Over here, colonel,” he said. “I do not know you completely yet, but this is a big deal of trust I am giving you. Perhaps you would be the one to do things that Thatcher could not have.”
Mark nodded, he and his group followed the Great Grandfather down the staircase. It led down to a massive underground facility, with numerous priests, researchers, and scientists. Libraries, records, instruments, and artifacts of old. It was a treasure trove of learning.
“So,” Aurelius cleared his throat. “What would you like to know about?”
“This isn’t all of it,” Mark said. “Thatcher mentioned a living, breathing, Helena.”
His group behind him let out a soft gasp, but they tried their best to hide their surprise.
“Hm,” the Great Grandfather nodded. “Perceptive young man aren’t you? Very well.”
They were then led into another room, behind a set of heavy blast doors. If the whole group were trying to hide their surprise then, now they could barely contain it. Even the colonel stared awestruck at the things he had seen. Despite the near-magical objects around them, the true shock was the massive starship at the end of the hallway. “It’s impressive isn’t it?” Aurelius said. “All of the goddess’ artifacts and items at our disposal, to use and learn from, to integrate into our own. This is why Anglestan is the most powerful nation in the UHT in terms of development. When it comes to industry, however, that would go to the UNA. But we share our secrets with them. All our advancements are handed to them first before any other nation.”
“This is all amazing, Great Grandfather,” Mark replied. “But this is not what I’m here for.”
“No, it’s not.” Aurelius nodded.
He led them to another room, one that was sterilized and sported advanced machinery. Things that Mark had never even seen. There were screens with luminous green texts that appeared in front of it. Large panels with numerous keys, levers, and dials. Graphs of all sorts and beeping monitors. In the center, was the very thing he had come all this way to confirm. A large cylinder filled with liquid, sporting tubes and pipes connecting to its base. Inside was a woman of large proportion. Four arms, two legs, and six wings. In her bare chest was a symbol of the sun that seemed to glow dimly.
“There she is, there’s you goddess.”
Neither Mark nor his group spoke a word. He walked up to it, eyeing the woman inside. It really is her. Down to the last details. Golden hair, six limbs, six folded wings, and she looks massive. Probably as big as her statue just outside the cathedral. This is it. The very goddess in the history books, the one spoken about in legends and the one worshiped in the Churches of Sol.
“Can we free her?” he said.
The Great Grandfather nearly choked on his spit upon hearing those words. “Free her?! That could kill her! We don’t even understand this technology, let alone control it!” he said pointing at the panels. “The machines you see here are the best and most advanced we have based on what we can reverse engineer, but even then, the consequences of tampering with its functions may be disastrous!”
“I understand, Great Grandfather,” Mark said. “But we are in a dire situation, and the goddess may be our hope of turning this around. Whatever secrets of her tech that you don’t understand, wouldn’t she be able to teach us directly? What good is she floating around in Sol knows what?”
“That is her miraculous healing fluid. She had already built this contraption centuries ago in case anything were to happen to her, that her body’s natural healing could not sustain,” Aurelius said. “During the War of Darkness, Helena was struck with a weapon so deadly, her very cells began to tear away. The Reaper. Dealt to her by Absolem the progenitor. Her flesh was peeling from her body, and she began to decay whilst she still breathed. She entered this contraption and gave strict instructions to the Great Grandfather at the time, not to interrupt the healing process. The machine that monitored her, however, began to fail over time.”
“So this… these screens and panels…”
“Is only what functions we can understand. We took it upon ourselves to rebuild and study it the best we could. What we have right now is only a cheap imitation of a technology we do not fully comprehend,” he said. “It took us decades to even figure out the fundamentals and create a working prototype of this machine. By some miracle, the goddess’ healing process had remained even while we replaced components of technology ahead of ours.”
“But you know how to free her, don’t you?”
“I… yes.”
“Great Grandfather Aurelius,” Mark began. “We can end this war. Imagine what we could do with the goddess fighting on our side. We could advance even further, we could finally end the bloodshed, and we can show humanity that there is still hope. Imagine how people all over the world would feel seeing as their goddess has returned.”
“I wish I had your enthusiasm,” Aurelius said. “But it is simply too risky. The Church’s duty is to protect Helena and her legacy. We keep her alive, literally and figuratively. She nearly died the last time she was involved in a war. Would you risk losing the goddess?”
“Would you risk humanity losing?”
The Great Grandfather fell silent, looking back at Helena floating inside the tube, then to the panels that controlled it. He frowned and let out a long sigh. “The goddess said that we should not interrupt it. That it would end as soon as it was finished. Maybe we should trust her words.”
Mark shook his head. “I don’t spot a single blemish on the goddess. Not a single scratch,” he argued. “You said it yourself that the machine had begun to fail and you replaced components. How would you know that the thing that’s supposed to wake her up was not tampered with? Think about it. What you may think is a useless piece may be integral to the whole machine. Or maybe your replacements were not up to the task. Just because nothing’s happened doesn’t mean its functions have remained whole.”
“Young man, we simply cannot gamble with the goddess’ life here.”
“Have you no faith? Great Grandfather?”
Aurelius stepped back in shock. Mark’s companions looked at each other, clearly surprised as well. “Mark… I don’t think we should keep arguing with—” Olivia tried to say.
“No,” the colonel said firmly, cutting her off. “Great Grandfather Aurelius, do you think that Helena will not be able to pull through if we wake her? How long has it been? A century? How much longer will we wait? She may be immortal but humans aren’t.”
“I'm sorry, but the chances of failure are too high. The probability of her—”
“I don’t care about the probability! Would you rather put your faith in a statistic?!” Mark raised his voice. “I lost my mother to this war! My friends! My job! My eye, and almost my life! I’ve put mine on the line out there! You don’t know what it’s like out there! Was my mother’s death just a probability too? Was she just a statistic to you?! That as long as the numbers are good, no matter how many are lost, we are ‘winning’?!”
“Mark—!”
“No, Liv! He needs to know what’s really going on out there!” he spat. “Great Grandfather, with all due respect, but you don’t have a damn clue what it’s like to be in the field. You’re a man of faith, aren’t you? Take a risk. Everyone else has.”
Aurelius stood there, dumbfounded. He bit the inside of his cheeks and clenched his fists. “For your insolence, I would have had you flogged and stripped of your rank,” he glared at the young colonel. However, his features slowly softened, letting out a soft sigh. “But I have never seen such conviction. Mighty is your faith.”
The Great Grandfather moved over to the panels and reached into his robe, pulling out from around his neck a key with the symbol of the sun. He inserted it into the machine and turned. A beep sounded, right before Aurelius pulled a lever. In an instant, the fluid inside the glass chamber began to drain out into the tubes under it. Slowly, the chamber emptied and all that was left was the nude form of the goddess sitting in the glass.
“Did it work?” Louis asked, stepping forward and looking at the woman.
Aurelius stayed silent, his hands shaking in anticipation. Mark moved toward the glass chamber, when suddenly, the glass opened up like a door, releasing a fragrant mist. They stood there, watching for a whole minute. Nothing. At first nothing. The Great Grandfather looked like he was about to break down. His knees shook as he covered his mouth, thinking that he was responsible for the death of Helena.
That was when… a soft sound was heard. Movement. Olivia immediately went over to Mark and stood in front of him. Ready to protect him should anything happen. Slowly, the goddess moved more, her arms inched to the side.
Then, her eyes opened.

Ahead of their upcoming match at DON I think there is a potential problem and issue that no one is considering or thinking about. Let’s think critically about this for a minute:
The issue with this match regardless how good it can be is that when you think critically about it, it is a lose-lose situation for both. Let’s look at Willow first. Go back to how this feud started with the match to crown the inaugural NJPW Strong Women’s Champion. It’s no secret that Willow was never supposed to win that match at all no matter how you look at it. Mercedes breaking her ankle was unfortunate so obviously Willow was made the first champion. Now New Japan could have said “hey we didn’t plan this but let’s see where it goes people like Willow.” But they didn’t, New Japan took the title off of her so fast she had one successful defense and then immediately dropped the belt to Giulia who held it for almost 300 days. This just shows that they didn’t see her as a champion or believe that she could carry the title.
Now I think we are seeing the same thing with the TBS championship play out exactly like the Strong Women’s Championship. The worst move Tony Khan did was have Julia Hart drop the title to Willow at Dynasty because once again she will be champion for a little over a month when DON comes around. If Mercedes beats Willow for the title there then same thing AEW doesn’t believe that Willow can carry a title and sees her as just a short term place holder and effectively had buried her as a champion.
Now let’s look at Mercedes Mone. When she signed she was legitimately the biggest free agent signing and since her debut which will be almost 3 months before DON has done nothing but dance and talk with mid promos and has not had a match yet. Now before people cry “she’s not cleared medically yet” that’s nothing but an excuse. If she’s not cleared why debut her 3 months before you intend to really use her? Would have been better to just debut her at DON or even Dynasty for the Women’s world championship and not a mid card belt. By having her debut match before a title is putting so much pressure on her it’s almost stacked against her. So many people have already given up on Mercedes thinking her promos and dancing are mid. If Mercedes loses this match, her in ring debut, AEW has effectively buried her and turned her into a 10 million dollar (if reports are to be believed) jobber.
What Tony should have done is have Julia vacate the title and have either a triple threat between them and Sky Blue or just this singles match for the vacant title. That way everyone comes out no less because if this match ends clean then for the reasons I listed someone is getting buried. By having a very short match for the title at Dynasty which was not good a problem was created that didn’t need to be.

In the 2000s Target had these red and white themed commercials that were very musical. The one I'm talking about was a commercial that shows a two-person band performing . One male one female. Female was on guitar and vocals, male was on drums. They sounded a lot like the band X from Los Angeles. Commercial begins showing the speakers of the guitar amp moving as the female is playing one percussive note. She can be seen rocking out with a short hairstyle. The song was not a jingle but sounded like something that would be a real song and seemed to be a real band as well. They were singing in harmony just like X does.

Long story short we were a thing, we belong to a friend group. Over the last 4 years we always flirted and had a vibe going, end of last year we kissed he asked me out on a date, we had a great moment and were a thing before he spiraled and freaked out because of past trauma. We had an amazing conversation one night (the all nighter of conversations) talking things out about our lives, learning each other, my past and his (hence his overthinking). He basically talked about a whole move and lived out our relationship which is what freaked him out. I was okay to walk away but he didn’t want to let the connection end. He claimed to want to “open up” and “be vulnerable” with me. We promised to be honest with each other no matter what. After things were going so great. We both opened up so much to each other, it was a connection that was long coming over the years long anticipated. We had plans to meet on a work trip we were both on in the same city coincidentally. And just like that, while in that city, I never heard from him again. A few months later come to find out he has a girlfriend now (from said city). I was so hurt because this was someone I trusted, a friend, and really started catching feelings for. I was so disappointed. Especially since he pursued me initially. We envisioned a whole future, our families and friends were invested. I became the person who had to face it alone because no one would dare ask him. We knew we would eventually run into each other, since we have mutual friends. Months later, just as I’m starting to do better, despite not understanding why this even happened, gave myself the closure he never did and just focused on me. Finally living my life. He decides to come into town for one of my family events where he is acquaintances with the person. (Unnecessary, I know) He texted me this after 3 months of ghosting. How do I go about this? I was planning on giving him the cold shoulder this weekend.
“Hey, I’m sorry I haven’t texted back. I feel like I owe you an explanation before this weekend but I completely understand if you don’t want to hear it. I hope you’re doing well!”
It’s such bullshit. He didn’t feel like he owed me an explanation months ago but wants to do it now to save face. Because confrontation makes him uncomfortable! Please advise!
TLDR: ghosted me and got into a relationship and came back wanting to explain. How to go about it?

Disclaimer before I start. I moved from a very warm climate to a very cold one a brought my car with me. Hence this is the first time I bought and drove on winter tyres.
I bought new winter tyres together with rims from reputable shop, in dimensions that are specified for the car.
The tyre I bought was Bridgestone blizzak lm005. I drove them from November until today. Winter temp was below 0C/32F until April, and and in april it was going up and down around that value, but still with occasional snow here and there.
I drove (in my opinion) very low amount, around 5000km/3100miles. May temperatures were high but I didn't make more than ~300km/180miles before I swapped them with the summer tyres this morning.
The shop told me that thread depth is 5mm and after the next season I will likely need to replace them. There was no uneven wear or anything like that, seemed like it was just normally "spent" from driving. I don't think they are trying to sell me the new tyre because I only use this particular shop to swap them, hence they make the same amount of money no matter do I buy new or just swap the old ones.
I was expecting this particular tyre to last at least a few seasons. Did I buy a bad tyre, or do the winter tyres only last for a very short time?

TLDR: Ex attempted suicide while we were together and broke up with me soon after. Over the past year I have continued to reach out to her every few months or so to see how she is going, and to see if there is any chance we could be in each other's lives again (be it friends or relationship), even though she has expressed very much that she wants me to let her go and that she can't continue this ("this" being the talking to me).
Bit of a long post, sorry, but here goes.
Just over a year ago at the beginning of 2023, while we were dating, my Ex made a suicide attempt and very nearly didn't make it through. Obviously, this was a very tough time for her, and everyone close to her. Her family and I did all we could to offer support and be there for her during the recovery time. She went back home to her parents' place, in another city, after being released from hospital but only stayed a few days as she couldn't take it and just wanted to go back to her "normal" life. She is very much of the stubborn type and doesn't like to be given help by other people and feels like she has to do things herself. She also is very hard on herself, and I believe she feels a lot of self-blame and guilt for what happened (this is important for later on).
She was admitted to a mental health ward shortly after getting out of hospital which devastated her and obviously threw her "normal" life out the window. All she wanted to do after getting out of hospital was get back to her flat, back to her job, back to uni, and just continue on. I would call her on the phone most nights and offer to visit but she would refuse the visit as she didn't want me to "see her like this and in this place". Eventually they allowed her time out, like 4 hours a day and we would catch up during these times when we could, a lot of the time she wasn't up for it which I understood.
She got out of the ward about 2 months after being admitted and it was a tough month afterwards. She was obviously not feeling well about the whole situation and wasn't anywhere close to getting "better". At one point she even expressed to me how she still wanted to die. I was always very supportive of her, encouraging her to seek help via therapy, talking to her about it, encouraging her to come on walks/gym with me and whatever I thought might lift her mood. I made it very clear to her that I don't have any resentment toward her or any ill feelings for what happened and that I only wanted to do whatever I could to help her get better, I really cared for her and loved her.
Unfortunately, after this tough month she decided to call it quits, claiming she thinks it will be better for both of us, that I deserve better, that she cares enough about me to not fuck me around... I agreed at the time saying that it probably is for the best, something I regret to this day and wish I fought a little more. There were a few instances before this in our relationship we she expressed that she thinks we should break up, not exactly pulling the pin, rather expressing her feelings, and I have talked her out of it and changed her mind (now I see why, she was most likely having thoughts about attempting suicide at this point).
After this breakup we talked a little over the next couple of weeks, seeing each other at the gym a couple times but it eventually got too much for her and she expressed this, so I suggested we got no contact, she agreed. This was probably the toughest time of my life as I not only was deeply saddened by our breakup as I loved her greatly, but I also worried a shit ton about whether or not she would be here when I woke up the next day. We remained in no contact for about 1 month I think until we spotted each other at the gym again and talked there, I then texted her after and tried to start a conversation, we talked for a little bit until she expressed how this needs to stop and she wants me to move on and let her go. A month after this her flat had a party and she invited me over, we have a small rekindling for a couple days but eventually it got to the same end result.
Since our initial breakup I have learned that she has been back to the mental ward two more times, the second being after making another suicide attempt. By coincidence, I reached out to her during both of these times and remained in contact until she was out, when she would call it quits shortly after. I think talking to me helped get her through it a little bit. The second time she expressed still that she doesn't really see any alternative future than her ending herself.
In short, every few months or so, I have reached out again via txt, she is initially very hesitant, but we normally continue talking for a little while until eventually we get to a point where she get very emotional and calls it quits again.
She has expressed to me each time these talks come to an end that she just wants me to let her go. She makes it very clear that she loved me very much and cares for me greatly, but she just wants me to move on and that she can't continue this. The problem is, I just can't stop worrying about her and obviously don't want to see her go. I also desire heavily to be a part of her life again. After not talking to her for a couple of months or more, I get a MASSIVE urge to reach out and check up on her, talk to her, that I just can't seem to shake. I get heavily down in my own life during these times as I can't think of anything else. I almost believe that if I don't reach out to her than I am giving up on her and feel as though I am turning my back on a loved one in their time of need. I also can't help but feel the reason she wants me to let her go and move on is that she is still planning on making another attempt and wants to lessen the impact on me as much as possible. Ofc, I would be destroyed either way.
I am writing this post as I am once again feeling these urges and struggling to decide what I should do.
I want to do everything within my power to help her through this time, but I feel like she is pushing/has pushed me away not because she doesn't want a relationship with me, but because she feels extremely guilty about what happened. She believes she has hurt me greatly and wears a lot of blame because of that, she even said that she breaks down when I text her as she feels so sorry for what she did to me. I have expressed to her many times that I don't see it that way and that there is nothing else I would rather do than to "help" her, that I can't "save" her, I just want to be there for her and support her.
So, am I wrong for continuing to reach out to my Ex?
Bit of background info, we only dated for 7 months total and were not living with each other. Even though it was short, she made me feel ways that I have never felt before and we had a very strong connection.

First/Previous
The travel took on a less gloomy quality in the day that passed since Gemma’s self-reflection and although there remained a queer distance in her eyes, she seemed in better spirits in losing the weight of the words.
It was a night just beyond Wabash Crevasse that we pushed on till sunset was almost upon us and we were each tired and the food stocks ran low and so we found harbor in a half collapsed cellar where a home once stood; it was only after examining the slatted, rotted boards of the old place, fallen over, tired with decay, that we spied the cellar doors intact; sheets of door metal plied us with safety from the outside world and the interior of the place stank of mold and the deeper recesses were collapsed, but there was a cradle to crossbar the stair hatch and I put my prybar there for the night. We finished the water and canned tomatoes, and I smoked a cigarette, staving off the inevitable doom which would come with the dwindling of our supplies.
I’d peeked through the space where the doors met at the cellar’s entry and watched the full darkness there while the youngins spoke of life and the trivial pursuits of it and I hardly said a word besides.
Sitting on the lowest step with Trouble dumbly maintaining her station by me, by the low glow of the space in the threshold, I saw they’d pushed their bedrolls together and Andrew had fallen asleep with his arm over Gemma’s shoulder and her eyes glowed with shine from the crack, blinked a few times while seeing me; she too eventually drifted to sleep, and I spent time by the secured door.
Gunshots rang across the stillness, and they stirred from their quiet slumber and Gemma asked, “Harlan, is it alright?”
I moved to the space there at the doorway again and listened and watched what I could through that crack and nothing beyond came. “It’s safe. I’ll be up a bit longer. I’ll watch.”
Andrew asked, “Can’t sleep?”
“I’ll sleep in a bit. Don’t worry about me. Rest. Sleep good and we can put more behind us.
They sat up, legs crossed triangle-wise, and Gemma spoke again, “Why do you have such a hard time sleeping? It seems I’m asleep after you and only awake after you too.”
“Yeah,” said Andrew.
“It’s cool at night. I can listen to the wind.” I shrugged.
“You should be the one that tries to get some sleep,” said Andrew.
I said nothing.
They reached out their arms and I shook my head.
“Here,” Gemma said, “Move your bedroll closer.” She reached across the dirt floor of the cellar and dragged my splayed roll so that it sat beside hers.
“I’ll sleep later.” I turned my attention back to the door and ignored them till their sounds of sleep could be heard. The Alukah was nowhere and did not tap on the door that night and when I moved to sleep, I shimmied onto the roll beside them, facing away on my shoulder; the dog followed, laid on the bare dirt beside me and I held the mutt.
Though I refused a noise as they stirred in the absolute darkness, I felt Gemma’s arm fall over my own shoulder and felt Andrew’s hand touch my back, and water traced the bridge of my nose and I slept deeply thereafter.
There was no breakfast without food, and the water was gone; I felt the eyes of the dog on us as we packed up our belongings that next morning and I tried not to imagine the poor animal skinned over fire. I smiled at Trouble, patted its head, scratched its chin; she sniffed my hand like she was looking for something that wouldn’t be found.
We went west again, ignoring roads and pushed through straight wasteland where nothing was and no one was, and with every dry footfall on the dry hard ground, I wished for rain, and I wished that when it had rained, as infrequent as it was, that I had been wise enough to save what we could from the sky; that sky was red and swollen and refused to burst. We pushed on through strange dead thickets where grayed and twisty yellow branches lurched from the ground into the sky like even they too wished for an end to all the suffering. It was days more till we would see Alexandria and though I could stave off hunger (thirst too, if necessary), I was not so certain that the children would be able to push on without it; they did not complain and watched the ground in our march and maintained higher spirits than I could’ve imagined from them.
Early in the day, they spoke often, and I listened and as they wore on, their words came less and even the dog seemed in a lower mood for the unsaid predicament; me too.
Gemma broke the silence on the matter by saying, “What are we going to do about food? Water?”
“We’ll push on.”
“We could turn back?” asked Andrew.
“The more time we spend out in the open, outside of a city, the more likely it is that the Alukah will catch us unawares. Tighten your belts.” Our feet took us around a dilapidated truck, an old thing with a rusty hook which dangled off a rear arm. “Save your urine.”
They made faces but did not protest.
“Does that work? You ever drink pee?” asked Andrew.
I laughed, “I thought we’d be there by now. I took us too long by trying to drop the scent of the Alukah. That thing’s hunted us for days—last night was the first time it ain’t bothered us. It’s got me wondering why.”
Gemma piped up, licking her dry lips before speaking, “Do you think that monster ran into those scavengers we saw?” Then I caught her shooting a look at Andrew, “At least we warned them.” Her smile was faint and almost indiscernible as one.
I shrugged. “Can’t say. Don’t think it’s smart to turn back. Won’t be long and we’ll touch the 40 and then it’ll be a straight on to Babylon—couple of days—can’t turn back though. Maybe without food; that’s doable. Water’s the worst, but if it comes to it,” I paused and looked on the weathered faces of the children, on the lowered head of Trouble which followed her nose across the ground (it searched just short of frantic), “Like I said, ‘save your urine’.”
The first pains of hunger held within me brought up some reminiscence and I wished for nothing more than to hold Suzanne; I could nearly smell them and in the swaying walk which took us on past toppled townships, I held long blinks where I could nearly make out their face and if I really pushed the limits of my imagination, I could feel them. In those moments, as we passed dead places, rotted pits of despair, I could think of little more than their presence. Though I knew it was a dangerous game, hoping for more than I was worth, I hoped for Suzanne then and I wished that I’d taken them up on their offer to travel to Alexandria with them; it could’ve been home—it never was in all the times I’d gone there, but who knows? The thoughts of Babylon brought forth their gardens; the wild gardens and the water which flowed freely through their pipes. I wished I was a different person entirely and that too would’ve been better for Suzanne; how it was that they’d seen anything in me, I don’t know. How it was that they could stoop to the level of being with someone like me—I warded off that thought, because to place the blame there would certainly be unfair. I thought of my love plainly and wanted a different life more suited to them.
Imaginations played more furiously, and I remembered the evening when Dave stopped me from leaping from that roof—it’s doubtful that he even realized that he’d slowed my demise; perhaps he did know—I wished then that I could ask him. Too kind for the world. People too kind for the world were scarce and hardly worth the trouble. Yet, there I was, chaperoning those two across the wastes.
Gemma was a broken person when I’d found her, tortured in Baphomet’s well; Andrew was a dullard boy who’d lost his hand. What a silly predicament.
I stopped in my movements and swiveled on my heel to catch Andrew by the shoulder. “You still got your hand, don’t you?”
In good humor, the boy grinned, lifted the nub on the end of his left forearm to show me, “Nope.”
“Dammit, no! The hand in the jar!”
Andrew raised his eyebrows. “In my pack.”
“Stop,” I commanded Trouble; the dog hardly recognized my words and continued a way then circled back, sad eyes looking up from where she took to sit by my side. Gemma, both arms dangling loosely from her own pack’s shoulder straps, took into the circle we’d formed.
The girl asked, “What about the jar? It’s nasty, but I guess it’s his.”
“I think that’s it,” I said. I took Andrew by his shoulders, looked him in his eyes, “We could use it!”
“What?” The boy almost laughed in the display of our concern. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I think I’ve got it! It’s good for a trap.” I shook him; maybe too hard. I almost smiled. “It’s worth a shot!”
“It’s mine.” He bit his top lip, withdrew from me.
“You’ll feel differently about that,” I said.
Gemma placed a hand on Andrew’s pack and tried ripping it open. “Give it to him!” shouted the girl.
The boy whipped from her grasp, and he spun on his feet, and panic stood on his face. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”
I took a step forward, “No, not anymore.” I put out my palm, “Give it.”
Andrew nearly flinched at the thought of it and shook his head a little. “Why?”
“I told you why,” I said.
“You don’t even know if it’ll work, do you?” his words were long in protest.
The girl started again, “Andrew, please.”
He locked eyes with Gemma and once again, his bottom teeth came up to meet over his top lip and he moved his jaw methodically with contemplation.
“What does it even matter?” she asked.
“It’s mine. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“C’mon,” he said, but his pack straps fell from his shoulders, and he hunkered down on the ground and opened his bag; his right hand plunged into the recesses therein and withdrew the jar with his severed left hand. He held the object up, refusing to come up from his open pack, keeping his eyes on the ground. “Take it then.” He shook the jar; its contents sloshed with liquid decay.
I grabbed the thing, held it to skylight; the remains within had congealed and rotted and lumps nearly floated in the brownish liquid which had formed in the base of the container. I shook it and stared for a moment at the miniscule debris which floated alongside the hand; each of its digits had swollen and erupted to expose bone; some had come away in pieces. “Tomorrow,” I said and nodded.
We gathered ourselves and Andrew pulled his pack on again and we moved, Trouble still looked sorry and the boy remained quiet while the girl chattered on with questions while we took through the dying ground in a formation with the dog on point then me then the children.
“What will you do with it?” she asked me.
“Not sure yet.”
Andrew made a noise like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
“You think it will work?” asked Gemma.
“Nothing’s a guarantee. They’re smart—Alukah.”
“Smart enough to figure out a trap?”
I shrugged. “We’ll find out.”
“We could put stakes in a pit.”
“Keep on the lookout for a building. Something with multiple floors.”
With that, we moved on, found a worn, mostly destroyed road and we fell into a travelling quiet and the thought of hunger or thirst arose again, and I pushed it down—though I knew the uneasiness could only last so long before savagery would overtake the human condition; the kids seemed strong enough, but I kept an eye on the dog too. Savagery belonged not only to humans, after all.
The ground of the wastes was harder when it was quiet, and it was flatter further west. The sky—red and full of thin and transparent drifting clouds—seemed an awful sight when stared at for too long; it was the thing which stretched as if to signal there wasn’t an end in any direction, as if to declare we had much more to go till safety. Wanderlust is a thing that I believe I’ve felt before, but under that sky, with those two and the dog, I didn’t feel it at all. It was doom that I felt. Ignorance and doom. And it was all because I was certain I’d made all the wrong mistakes, and it was coming back to me. I was experienced. We should’ve had food and water. Perhaps there was some deep and nasty part inside of me that had intended to sacrifice them along the way. The words of the Alukah might have rung true: You say you make no deals, but I smell it. I think you’d deal.
Surely, I felt differently. Surely.
“Getting darker,” called Andrew as we came to where signposts—worn and bent and barely legible—told us of a place once called Annapolis and the buildings were nearly gone entirely; places, maybe places that were once homes, were leveled—I was briefly caught in imagining what it might’ve been like all those ages ago. As are most places, it was haunted like that and when we came to a long rectangular structure of metal walls—thin walls—we took it as a place for rest for the night.
It once served as an agricultural station, for when we breached its entry, there were a line of dead machines—three in all—cultivators or tillers which stood higher than any of our heads and Gemma asked what they were, and I told her I thought they were for farming. The great rusted bodies stood in quiet shadow as we came through a side passage of the building and the great doors which had once been used to release those machines from the building stood frozen in their frame. I approached the doors, lighting my lantern and motioning for the children to shut the door we’d entered through.
Upon closer inspection, it seemed the doors would roll into the ceiling and the chains which held the doors in place were each secured with rusted padlocks—I removed my prybar from my pack and moved along the wall of doors, giving each old lock a smack with the weapon; each one held in place, seemingly fused there through years of corrosion, and I rounded the cultivators once more, back to the children, near the side door where they’d discovered a rickety stair frame which crawled up the side of the wall to a catwalk; along the catwalk, a levitated box stood at the height of the structure, stilted by metal legs, and we took the stairs slowly with the dog following close behind; the poor mutt was mute save the sound of its own shuffling paws.
The metal stairs creaked under our weight and Gemma held her own lantern high over her head so that the strange shadows of the place grew longer, stranger, and suddenly I felt very sure that something was in the dark with us, but there was no noise except what we made. My eyes scanned the darkness, and I followed the children up the stairs till we met the overhang of the catwalk and I peered into the shadows, the blades of the cultivators—far extended on foldable arms—struck up through the pool of blackness beneath us and I felt so cold there and if it were not for the breath of my fellow travelers, I might have been lost in the dark for longer than intended—lost and frozen and contemplative.
“There’s a room,” said the boy, and he pushed ahead on the hanging passage, and he was the first to the door. “Boxes,” he said plainly.
Upon coming to the place where he stood, Gemma pushed her lantern over the threshold, and I saw what he’d meant as I traced my own lantern to help; the room was crammed with plastic totes and old metal containers of varied sizes. There seemed to be enough empty space to maneuver through the room, but only if one watched their feet while they walked. Carefully.
We moved to the room, and I found a stack of crates to place my lantern then motioned for Gemma to douse hers. In minutes, the place was rearranged so that we could sit comfortably on the floor; crates lined the walls precariously and we breathed heavy from the work done, but we began to unpack and upon watching the children while I rolled a cigarette, I felt a pang of guilt, a terrible summation—all choices in my life had led me here and with them and perhaps it would have been a better world for them without me.
Mentally shrugging this thought away, I lit my cigarette, inhaled deeply, and then withdrew the jar which Andrew had handed over. I held it to the lantern to examine it. The grotesqueness of it hardly phased me and I watched it more curious and hopeful than disgusted.
“I hope it’ll work,” said the boy, “Whatever it is that you plan on doing with it.” He grimaced and maintained a further silence in patting his bedding for fluff. The dog moved to him, and she pushed her forehead against him where he squatted on floor. The boy scratched Trouble’s chin and whispered, “Good girl,” into the top of her head where he’d pushed his own face.
“I’m hungry,” said Gemma; she placed her chin in her arm while watching Andrew with the dog. She sat on her own flat bed there on the floor and stated plainly the thing that I’d hoped to ignore for longer.
“I know.” I took another drag from the cigarette and let the smoke hang over my head. “The dog?”
Andrew recoiled, pulling Trouble closer into his arms.
I smiled. “It was a joke.”
Andrew relaxed, but only a moment before Gemma added, “Maybe.”
The boy narrowed his eyes in the girl’s direction, and she shrugged. “If it’s life or death.”
He didn’t say anything and merely continued stroking Trouble’s coat.
That night, we slept awfully and even in the complete darkness, I felt the cramp of the storage room and the angled shapes of the tools that protruded from the containers on all sides remained permanent well after we’d turned the light off and it felt like those shapes were the teeth of a great creature like we were sitting inside of its mouth, looking out.
Trouble positioned herself partially on my chest, her slow rhythmic breathing brought my thoughts calm and I whispered to her in the dark after I was sure the others were asleep, “I promise it was a joke.” And I brushed the back of her neck with my hand and the animal let go of a long sigh then continued that deep rhythmic breathing.
Still without food or water, the following day was the true indication of the misery to come. Gemma’s stomach growled audibly in waking and Andrew—though he kept his complaints to himself—smacked his lips more often or protruded the tongue in his mouth in a starvation for water. The room, in the daylight which peered through pinpricks of its half-decayed roof, seemed another beast altogether from its nighttime counterpart; it was not so frightening. Again, I admonished myself for the lack of preparation, but there was another thought that brought together a more cohesive feeling; we had a possible plan, a trap for the demon that’d been following us.
We went into the field to the west of the building where there was only dirt beneath our feet in the early sunlight and in the coolness of morning air, I nearly felt like a person. The sun crested the horizon and brought with it a warmth that would quickly become overwhelming—in those few minutes though—it felt good enough. I wished for the shy dew and saw none. The weirdness of holding Andrew’s rotting hand in a jar momentarily caught me and I almost laughed, but refrained and the dog and the children looked on while I held the container up and suddenly, seeing the congealed mass of tissue floating in its own excretions, I was overcome with the urge to run, the urge that nothing would ever be right again in my life, and that I was marked to be that way.
I blinked and tossed the jar to Andrew. “Say goodbye,” I said. He fumbled after it with his right hand and caught it to his chest.
“It’s strange you care so much anyway,” said Gemma, shrugging—her eyes forgave a millisecond of pity and when Andrew looked at her, still holding the jar in his right hand, she smiled and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her pants.
“We’ve enough oil, I think,” my voice was raspy from it being early, “Enough for good fire, but if we use it, it’ll mean a few more dark nights on our way.”
“We’re going to set it on fire?” Andrew pondered, keeping his eyes to the contents of the jar. “It worked good enough last time. It’ll work,” I nodded, “I has to, doesn’t it?”
His dry lips creased into a brief smile, and he tossed the jar back to me and I caught it.
“Let’s dig,” I said.
Without much in the way of proper tools, we began at the ground under us with our hands, then taking turns with my prybar till there was a hole in the ground comfortably large enough to conceal a human head and I uncapped the jar and spilled it contents there and we covered it back and I lightly tamped it with my boot. My eyes scanned the outbuilding we’d taken refuge in the night prior and then to the street to the north then to the houses which stood as merely rotted plots of foundation with frames that struck from the ground more as markers than support. “I’ll take up over there across the street when it gets dark. I want you two in that storage room before anything goes off.”
“We can’t help?” asked Gemma.
“You can help by staying out of the way—the mutt too,” I said; the words were harsh, but my feelings were from worry.
“Wouldn’t it be better if we stuck together?” asked the girl.
I shook my head. “You stay in the room and keep quiet. No matter what you hear, you stay quiet and safe.”
“That’ll put you at a bigger risk,” Gemma furrowed her brow at me and shifted around to look out on the houses across the street, “There’s hardly any cover over there.”
The boy nodded, smacked his lips, and rubbed his forearm across his mouth then audibly agreed with her.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, “No matter what you hear happening outside, no matter, you don’t open the door and you don’t scream—don’t make a noise at all. Alright? Even if you hear me calling you, you don’t do it.”
“Pfft,” Gemma crossed her arms and kicked her foot against the ground. The way her eyes seemed hollowed with bruising showed that the irritation would only grow without food. “Alright,” she finally sighed.
Andrew looked much the same as she did in that; he swallowed a dry swallow then stuffed his hand into his pocket and looked away when our eyes matched.
We gathered our light oil. Altogether, it seemed enough; rummaging through the room of the outbuilding we’d earlier taken refuge within, we managed three intact glass containers—the only ones found that wouldn’t leak with liquid; two were bottles and the third was the jar that’d once kept Andrew’s hand. With that work done, we sat with three Molotov cocktails within our huddled circle of the storage room.
“Is it enough?” asked Gemma.
“We’ll see,” I began rolling a cigarette to ignore the hunger and the thirst.
Andrew took to the corner and glanced over his shoulder only a moment before a steady liquid stream could be heard and when he rotated from the wall once the noise was finished and he held a canteen up to his nose, sniffed it and quivered and shook his head.
As the sun pushed on, I scanned the perimeter outside, and they followed. Far south I spied a mass of shadow inching across the horizon and Gemma commented, “What’s that?”
I pushed the binoculars to her and let her gaze through them.
“A fiend—that’s what we called it back in the day anyway. A mutant.”
She held the binoculars up and frowned. “A mutant? So, it was once human?”
“A fiend was once many humans.” I pointed out to the horizon though she couldn’t see me doing so and continued, “If you look at the edges of its shape, you’ll see it’s got limbs galore on it. Sticking up like hairs is what it’ll look like at this distance. Those are arms and legs. It’s got faces too. Many faces.” I shuddered.
“I can barely see any details,” she passed the binoculars to Andrew, and he looked through them, “What’s it do?”
“What?” I asked.
“What’s it do if it catches a person?”
“It pulls people into it. Makes you apart of its mass. Nasty fuckers.”
Andrew removed the lenses from his eyes and held them to his chest and asked, “It won’t mess up your trap, will it?”
“We’ll keep an eye on it,” I said, “You don’t want to mess with a fiend unless you have to.”
First/Previous
Archive

In the vast countryside, away from the busy city of Savannah, exist hills as tall as buildings and green as emeralds. There was also an aura of calmness, with a few birds twittering away in dispersed trees, followed by the gentle swaying of the wind.
Then, out of nowhere, came a small, lonely girl wearing a once-lily-white summer dress with a striped long-sleeved t-shirt underneath it. She was also wearing a dark blue and cream-white baseball hat with the letter D on the front of it. She was moving wearily, with a pistol in one hand, and wiping her damp eyes with the other.
She knew what happened to make her weep. According to her, it was her fault that she got him killed; she was convinced by a towering man who said he knew her parents. But that was a brainless, childish lie that got Lee killed. She shouldn’t have run off. At least, Lee taught her how to use a gun and what to expect in the future before his tragic passing. But now she was all on her own.
Eventually, she came to a log, which was next to the rusted shell of a car. Anyway, she proceeded to sit down on it. Throughout all of this, she was as quiet as a mouse, only looking at her feet and wiping her blood-red eyes. She noticed that on the floor next to the log was a mixture of bullets—some shell casings and some unfired ones. Out of curiosity, she picked it up and examined it before exhaling deeply, which is when she noticed something else. Something she could just about make out if she scrutinised her eyes—something on the nearest hill—looked like two figures. One followed the other, and they looked like they stopped to look at her, making her start to hyperventilate as her eyes extended to the size of oranges. Was it someone she knew? Was it a threat to her? She didn’t know.
"Lee said I needed to find Omid and Christa before he got killed because of me." She said to herself, still looking sad, as she noticed that the two figures were now coming down the prominent hill—they didn't look like walkers. So she clasped her gun tightly until the figures came into view. She ended up not firing the gun and running towards the figures, as it was Omid and Christa, and they were alive!
Omid was a tall, slim Persian-American man with short dark-brown hair and a beard to match.
Christa, on the other hand, was a slightly taller African-American lady. She also had jet-black hair tied up in a ponytail, and she was Omid’s girlfriend.
"Clementine, honey, where's Lee?" Christa asked, kneeling to the nine-year-old.
"H-h-he's...dead." She answered with her face buried in Christa’s shoulder.
"Oh, Clementine, we’re sorry," Omid said, who started to kneel to her height as well.
"W-where's Ben and Kenny?" Clementine asked, still with her face buried in Christa’s shoulder.
Omid and Christa then looked at each other without Clementine noticing, and it was Omid who told her what happened to Ben and Kenny.
"So, it’s just us three," Clementine responded, now looking at Omid and Christa with her eyes dry again, a short while later.
"I guess, Clem, I guess so." Christa replied, "Come on, let’s go somewhere safe."
With this, the trio (Clementine, Omid, and Christa) began to walk, with Clementine tagging behind while Omid and Christa were in front. They were busily talking away, apart from Clementine, who was still looking at her feet, along holding the gun in her hand. As a result of this, she wasn't engaged in the conversation that they were having. She was too melancholy about what happened today. With her being kidnapped, seeing her walker parents, Lee dying, and now Kenny and Ben dying as well.
It was a lot for her to take in.
* * * * *
Sometime later, the trio found an abandoned house that had been abandoned for decades, as thick ivy hugged the walls. Furthermore, it reminded Clementine of that house they stayed at in Savannah; it was hard to believe that was a month ago.
Anyway, they succeeded in getting into the house rather than struggling, so now they could search within it.
Clementine, honey," Christa said, kneeling to her. "Omid, and I believe you can search parts of this house on your own. Just remember, if someone, walker or not, tries to hurt you, you got your gun. If you run out of bullets or are in a tight place, call us, and we will help you if you get into trouble. Do you understand?"
“Yeah, I do, Christa; I will be careful."
“Good," replied Christa, "let me know if you find anything."
With this, Clementine strayed a little by searching for anything useful on her own, though she stayed close to Omid and Christa.
As usual in the kitchen, she found faded, rusted cans with nothing but spoiled food inside. So she decided to head upstairs, and it seemed like they creaked with every step; as Omid and Christa were searching the enormous living room. Once she was upstairs, she clasped her pistol tightly and opened the door with one of her hands and the other on the pistol. Nothing. The room was that of a bathroom, with its normal interior—a bath, sink, toothbrushes, and some cupboards—which was stripped of life.
So she closed the door, walked to the next door, and proceeded to open it in the same manner she did for the bathroom. This room was that of a child’s room, which made Clementine remember her room back in Georgia, with its toys and books. It felt like she was just coming home from school and wanted to play with her dolls until supper time; it was hard to believe that was a year ago. Yet, here she was searching for anything useful in terms of survival—and not searching for a certain toy she wanted to play with at present.
“Just as well Lee found me when he did.” She said to herself as she glanced over at the room, trying to remember simpler times. When she went to school, she watched cartoons all day and rode her bike in the park with her parents. When she was thinking about this, she noticed that there was a medium-sized lump near the wall, cloaked in dust. It was a doll, and there was a string attached to its back, and when Clementine pulled it, it produced the word "Mama”.
Clementine remembered the doll that her mother gave her for her sixth birthday; it was probably still in the back of the wardrobe.
Eventually, she found an old pocket-sized backpack with a few flowery stickers, along with a dark-blue hoodie in her size.
“Have you found anything, Clementine?” called out Christa.
“Yeah, a backpack and a hoodie," answered Clementine, walking towards the edge of the stairs where Omid and Christa were.
“Just remember to check the bag, Clem; they might have something useful." Replied Christa.
“Ok," Clementine replied, unzipping the bag and then putting her hand into it, but not looking into it. Lo and behold, she found a working lighter, and it looked like it had a decent amount of fuel for a while.
Clementine then walked to the conclusive door upstairs, and like what she did before, however, the door required a little exertion to open. As a result of this, Clementine noticed that the noise she made alerted her to the presence of a walker heading towards her. This, of course, made Clementine a little timid, but she knew what to do. As her heart started to ram against her ribcage, likewise, a thick seal of sweat began to form on her hands, transferring onto her gun.
Always aim for the head," Clementine said to herself as she exhaled deeply and fired the gun. BANG!! The walker fell with a deafening thud, and Clementine was astounded at herself for shooting the walker that was coming towards her.
I did it, I did it," she exclaimed in a loud whisper. Which is when the door bursts open to reveal Omid and Christa with perturbed faces.
"Is everything OK, Clem? Are you hurt?" Asked Omid.
Yeah, I’m fine; I’m not hurt. Replied Clementine, as the trio all stood in stupefied silence at the walker that Clementine gunned down. "Did you find anything? Clementine asked after a minute of silence.
"Yes. We have found two cans of beans and some water." Christa replied.
"Oh."
“Well, let’s keep moving on, Clem. People might have heard the shot and might come here.” Omid said.
“Ok," responded Clementine. "I said already, but I found a backpack and a hoodie."
“Put it on, Clem; it’s starting to get colder, and we get going."
“Ok, I’ll put it on now."
Clementine then took off her hat, gave the gun to Omid, put on the dark blue hoodie, put her hat back on, and took the gun back from Omid. After that, Clementine followed Christa and Omid downstairs and out of the house and walked on.
* * * * *
Some short weeks later, the trio now situated in a substantial-sized forest under a thick canopy of leaves with Omid tending to a fire. Clementine and Christa, however, were sitting down on some nearby log around the fire.
Christa was busy talking to Omid about her pregnancy, whereas Clementine was busy herself by looking at the stars. The stars flickered and danced in the sky like a million tiny flames, casting a shimmering glow over the forest below. Furthermore, the sky itself was filled with low oranges, along with a mixture of light blues. Which were progressively getting into the realms of dark blues, purples and then full-on jet-black. Moreover, there seemed to be a chorus of crickets hiding somewhere in lush grasses, chirping away harshly.
“I would say that rabbit is cooked now, Omid.”
“Oh, right, yeah,” replied Omid, as he began to take the cooked rabbit off the spit – and handed it out to Christa and Clementine, then to himself.
"Thank you very much," Clementine said as she reached for the rabbit meat before going back to look at the stars. She thought to herself as she ate: "How many are there? Hundreds? Thousands? Millions?"
“Hm, what – sorry Christa; what did you say?”
“Omid and I said that we are going to rest here tonight and get going in the morning."
"Ok, as my legs still ache from all that walking we did today."
"Well, get some rest, you're going to need it," Omid said, rising from poking the fire.
"Ok," responded Clementine, getting up from the weather-worn log, wishing Omid and Christa a good night before she got onto the floor near the fire and began to close her eyes. She then began to dream about what she would be doing tomorrow, what would happen, and what she would see.
The next morning was filled with colours ranging from warm yellows trickling through the gaps in the trees. Clementine rubbed her eyes before getting up from the harsh, tough ground and walked to the log where she sat last night, where she saw Omid was cooking again.
"Morning, Clem," Omid said. "How did you sleep?"
"Ok, I'd rather sleep in a bed than on the floor."
"Yeah, I don't like it either, but it's necessary until we get to Wellington."
"Where's Christa?" asked Clementine, now looking around the campsite as she noticed Christa wasn't there.
But then, five minutes later, after Clementine had eaten, Christa came back - and with this, the trio began to walk on; with her now near Omid and Christa. Yet, like last time, Clementine's fingers were still wrapped around her pistol as if it were a part of her. But instead of looking at her feet, she was looking around the pensive clearing.
The clearing was serene, where only a few walkers were roaming around, but they could be seen more evidently through a few hacked trees. The trio strolled down the lane through dappled light filtering itself through the trees; moreover, the sound of the leaves rustled in the weak wind. There was also an occasional bird twittering away on a pile of stacked logs near the broad track Clementine, Omid, and Christa were walking. There was also an infrequent number of signs that littered the road.
"TWO MILES UNTIL TRUCK STOP", Clementine read as she walked on with Omid and Christa.
"How about...Isabella?" Christa said aloud.
"Nah," scoffed Omid, "James is far better."
"That's if it's a boy, Omid. Clementine, do you have any name ideas?"
"What about...Carley?"
"Yeah, that's a good name." Responded Omid, with an expression of puzzled thought in his voice.
For the next couple of miles, they (primarily, Christa and Omid) talked about what seemed to be endless baby names for Christa's child; to pass the time. Clementine wondered if her parents had this amount of difficulty when they chose her name.
Eventually, Clementine stopped a little as Omid and Christa walked on regardless; as she noticed there was a blackbird perched on a nearby tree which cawed before flying into the lush forest.
"What do you think?" asked Omid, as he poised at the truck stop over the abandoned road before crossing it with Christa and Clementine.
"Omid, you can't be serious," answered Christa.
"I am."
"We are NOT doing that."
"Why not?"
"Because one of you is enough!"

For context I've always had problems with my mom. I think the best way to describe her would be controlling. She would yell, curse and generally be very explosive, it was hard to know what would “trigger” her. All of this led to me moving out to my bf/his family's house as soon as I turned 18. I cut off all contact with my parents for a few days to calm down and then went in contact with my dad. Long story short we talked it through and established a more healthy relationship. I thought my mom was a bit different too, just nicer overall, and that having distance to her truly helped a lot.
I now work as a substitute teacher, sometimes monday-friday and sometimes only every other day. I visit my parents every now and then but because of work, lack of money and lack of public transportation where I live, I can't visit too often or stay for many days at a time. So I compensate by texting my parents and sending them pictures. This month my mom has not been very responsive to my messages. I didn't think much of it because she does have a bunch of health problems and even had a stroke a few months back, so I assumed that she was just tired. With that in mind I wished her happy Mother's Day twice this week and went to visit last Monday with a mother's day gift (20 dollar chocolate box). She seemed happy about it. The next morning I said that I would have to head home in the evening because I had work the next day. I think this is what set her off. She told me “well you don't care about us anyway. I decided to test you this month by ignoring your messages to see if you would care. But you only seem to care when you need something”. This was insane for me to hear. Looking back at our messages this month and there was only “how's it going “ messages from me, a few pictures I sent from work and some volunteer work I do, the happy mother's Days messages and one message where I briefly mentioned that I needed to be careful with money and save up because me and my bf are moving out soon. In that moment I realized how utterly stupid and manipulative her words and behavior was. She then proceeded to say that I never visit. I explained that I've been working and visiting on my free days and even took this day off to celebrate Mother's Day. It just became a yelling argument, I tried keeping my cool but was getting really worked up and emotional. I ended up saying “wtf do you want from me? Do you realize how manipulative you are? you're such an asshole”. I went outside crying to cool down. When I went back in to gather my things, my dad was “scolding” my mom for always making me cry when I visited. It made me think back and realize that this was true and that I in fact had often ended up crying or arguing with my mom over something she initiated. I just left and texted my dad later to apologize for all the yelling and thank him for standing up for me.
So was I the asshole?

I will be a first time renter with my partner in England later this year. We are coming from abroad and are trying hard to figure out all the things we need to get in order to minimize any down time.
Ideally we would like to find a place and make a contract while we are still here, and then fly over, land, and move into a furnished place.
One thing that worries us is the reference letter system that seems to be prevalent in the UK. What exactly would constitute an acceptable reference letter? How many do land owners usually require?
Our only experience living in the UK is my partner who stayed on campus accommodation for 1 year. Could we ask the university to write a letter as a reference? She did have a monthly obligation to pay the monthly fee. And her deposit was returned in full, showing that there was no damage done to the rented room.
We also rented a room in a couple's house via SpareRoom. We stayed with them for about 5 out of 7 days of the week for a total of 2 months. Despite the short duration, could I ask them for a letter of reference that might be accepted?
If those two are not acceptable, are there any other options that we might have? For example, are there estate agents that specialise in working with people with no references or no history of income in the UK? The income thing might be a problem too but my partner will be able to prove that she will be receiving full funding that can support her living costs for the entire period she intends to stay there. But for references, we only have those two options.

About a year ago I started to get close to my friend(21F), we will call her Grace. Grace and I (21M) have been hanging out in the same circles for 3-4 years and have worked together every summer for 4 years. Until last year she had been a friend of a friend. Until last year when we started to hang out together most weekends with a group of friends. We went out as a group one weekend and ended up having an amazing time together, and I started to think maybe there was something there. I started to invite her to hang out more and every time I did she would show up, but never one on one. One night after we had been drinking I ended up asking her out on a date. She said she would have to give me an answer when she's not drunk and I didn't push it anymore. I took her excuse as a polite way of telling me no and decided I wasn't going to pursue her anymore. However, as time went on, we were still hanging out most weekends and I only got more and more interested. I didn't say anything about it and ignored it until we both left for school. While we were split we did not see much of each other, and besides a few tictoks a week and the occasional short conversation didn't talk either. I did end up going to her city for a weekend to see her with a friend. While I was there we went out a lot, danced together, and had an overall great time. On the last night, we went out and ended up drunk on the beach with the rest of our group. She kept wanting to go into the ocean, and after many attempts to stop her, she ran off into the water. It was 45 degrees outside and the water was freezing. I ended up taking off a few layers and running in after her to make sure she got back to the beach okay. we ended up swimming out about neck deep, cracking up the entire time, then heading back to the beach. But there was a moment as we were coming back when a wave knocked her over and I caught her. We were just standing there looking at each other for a bit before we smiled and laughed at each other and walked back up to the group. After that night I couldn't stop thinking about her. Fast forward to about a month ago when we both came home for the summer and immediately started hanging out with our group, and ended up hanging out just the two of us for a few hours after everyone left. Since then I started to think about her more and more, every time I'm not doing a task she pops into my head.
The thing is I don't know what to do about it. It's been a year since I asked her out and she turned me down and the way I feel about her has only gotten stronger. However, I don't think she feels the same way as I do, and a mutual friend told me she had said she wasn't interested in me and only saw me as a friend before I went to see her in her city. So I guess what I'm asking about is whether or not I pursue it again. We're really good friends at this point and it may jeopardize that.
Usually, I don't get hung up on a girl for very long, most of them tend to not hold my attention for more than a few months. But for some reason, I haven't been able to move on from this one. I have considered that the reason I haven't lost interest in her is because she's one of the few who have told me no. People want what they can't have yk
What I want to know is if I should try and pursue her again, even if it jeopardizes my friendship with her.

I'm currently developing yet-another-prototype™ and I feel like I'm stuck in the most basic systems: movement controls and camera. I'm having trouble figuring out when I should stop improving a certain system and move on to develop another part of the game.
A prototype should be a fun, short, playable section of your game with all the core game implemented. However, I feel like that oftentimes, the polish of certain systems is what adds the real fun to a game. Let's take a platformer: Perfecting the movement controls are integral to the fun of the prototype. However, perfecting this system first may prevent you from implementing other important systems. I keep running into this and get burned out by fixing the camera and movement before removing on to the unique features of my idea.
I've worked on several game jams, but always in a group. The specialisation of each group member, coupled with the short time frame, it makes it easier to develop wide first, rather than deep.
How do y'all deal with this?

I am pondering on the spirituality of having long hair, or hair in general, and how it's different, culturally, for men and women.
My family background is Catholic, but we moved away from the church when I was young. I spent many years bouncing around and studying various aspect of other religions before eventually making my way back to Christ.
From looking at different religions, and cultures, I can see that there is something about hair that is more than just a fashion choice. In buddhism there is a practice of shaving your hair, to detatch from the world around you. In Taoism, there is a practice of growing your hair to connect to the world around you. In Sikhism they also have a practice of never cutting their hair. The Rastas grow their hair in part due to Leviticus (or Nazarite vow type thing) but they also have other reasons for doing so. In the old testament we have Samson. Not to mention the old testament laws about cutting or shaving. I say all that to say that it's not something that I would dismiss quickly.
My own personal thoughts are something like this; we are created in God's image, and we have this hair on our head that grows extremely long. When looking at other creations, with fur, or feathers, it always grows to a certain length, then stays, for us humans our hair usually only grows about a metre long before stopping. So then I wonder, why is it like this?
I am not suggesting or alluding that God's image is that of an unkempt wild man, I think obviously some hygene and maintainance is expected of us, but how much?
When people join cults, the army, and in some cases when they go to prison, their hair will be shaved(also slavery). The purpose of this is to remove their identity, so they can be one of many, stripping them of their uniqueness.
(this might be a little new age influenced) I have heard it said somewhere that hair is like antennae, I think this is a Native American belief (who knows if that's accurate). I think about how women are said to have more 'intuition' than men, and how they can just 'feel things' a bit more, but what if this is neither a masculine nor femine trait, but rather a long hair trait. (If you're into conspiracies about keeping people blind you can insert one here). I myself have has long hair and short hair at different points in my life, and I can't say it personally gave me superpowers, something for sure feels different about my perception, although I wouldn't say it's not just in my own head. Jesus is often depicted with long hair, although this is only a tradition, why is it?
TLDR:

1. Many religions say long hair good, is there something in it?
   
2. God created us to have long hair, is that what he wanted?
   
3. Shaving, cutting hair is often a punishment, why do us men do it so voluntarily now? Where did this practice come from?
   
4. Hair and intuition, why women have more (of both)
   

Disclaimer:
This is a theological, philosophical, and spiritual discussion. It may be more about tradition than scripture

For tdlr scroll down
I know this is wholesome sub but sunno mohalle walo meri aap biti 😂
I have been a good academically and a decent person. I met so many good women in my life, too, whom I dated casually and had a few serious relationships. Except for two times, I exited those serious relationships very early because I didn’t feel anything, so we parted ways on good terms. But do baar mujhe pyaar hua. I will tell you about them only.

1. This is my first love and someone I have known since my childhood. She was the daughter of a relative (I mean my bua’s relative, actually). She used to study at my school too. In high school, she chased me for a year, and finally, I gave in. We started dating; it was my first love, and I was happy. Kasme, waade, sapne bohot dekhe. I was a sort of grounded person; I live in the present and enjoy it thoroughly, but she was futuristic with lots of promises and future dreams. "I will have your kids, we will travel the world," blah blah. I did everything to keep her happy. I used to cook for her, I used to write poems for her, we used to go on dates often, and we traveled. But one fine day, I got an invitation to a wedding. Guess what? It was her wedding. I had so many questions: why, how, when? But I got no closure. I never asked for it. I went to the wedding because it was a family thing, and yeah, I never looked back (this was my longest relationship).
   
2. After few years and meeting so many people, I fell in love again. To be honest, this time we fell for each other during the initial conversations. Again, there were dreams, sapne, waade. She moved to North America for me, and we moved together into a single house. By this time, I had become a pro at cooking, so I used to go to study, then the office, then back home to cook something delicious for us. I can cook any cuisine irrespective of the continent or country. Till now, I have learned many other skills like piano and guitar, so I used to sing for her, play for her, and we used to dance together. Everything was good; we had mutual friends, and we knew a guy mutually. That guy didn’t like me, and I didn’t like him. I did have a problem with things because my ex told me he does not like me. But I don’t own her; I don’t own anyone. Actually, anyone can do anything in their life.
   

So, one fine day, I got a video message. It was them doing the deeds. I was shocked and broken and didn’t understand a thing. I tried to gather courage and be rational. She came back and was trying to talk to me. Then I told her I wanted to break up. She asked me why, and I said I was out of love. She started crying and begging, saying that she loves me. Then she started accusing me and some of my other female friends, implying something was going on. She said, "You used to love me and now want to throw me out. Where would I go? I came here from India for you," and all that stuff. I tried to control myself, but then I gave in and showed her the video. Then she was like, "I am sorry, I love you a lot. You are my life; I want to marry you. He made me drunk and took advantage of me. Please forgive me." At that point, I firmly decided this was it. I told her she could stay till she found accommodation, then I went to my friend's home and stayed there for a few days. But she kept pursuing me. I canceled the lease and changed my house; still, she did the same thing. During this whole ordeal, I had to change my house twice and delete my Instagram, and finally, now I am free.
I don’t know why all this happened. I don’t know what else I could have done so that they didn’t do that to me. Maybe I was not a good partner. There could be any other reasons. But I don’t hold any grudges against them. I wish wherever they are, they are happy.
These experiences were very important for me; they made me who I am today. I don't hold anything against anyone. These are just two instances. In my life, I have met so many amazing women and am friends with them too.
What’s next? I am kinda hopeful that I will find love. But Thik hai, nahi mila to mami Jo karegi Accha hi karegi. But whoever I have in my life, I will look for two qualities in them, no matter how they look or other things: loyalty and the ability to stand for what they believe in. If they leave, they should leave being brave and open about it. I don’t care about other things like distance, looks, status, or whatever else.
TL;DR: I've had a few serious relationships, but two major ones stood out. The first was with my childhood love who suddenly got married to someone else without any closure for me. The second was with someone who moved to North America for me, but she cheated on me with a mutual friend. After discovering this, I ended the relationship and had to move houses and delete social media to get away from her.

I keep thinking about my experience in academia (Ph.D. and postdoc), an unsuccessful attempt to escape and how I dug my grave with my own hands.
I keep reading about recent developments in US biotech industry and its has been absolutely disheartening. The job market right now is awful and it has not bottomed out.
I cannot help, but thinking how did I arrive at this point and what could I have done to save myself???
I am speaking here about my experience in life sciences. I hope that the situation is better in other areas, but life sciences are absolutely over-saturated, over-flowing and under-paid area of STEM, probably along with chemistry.
Long time ago, after 1 year into the Ph.D. program, I got a weird feeling. I quietly approached people in the lab, with whom I was on friendly terms and they confirmed my worst expectations. Essentially, the unspoken (and un-communicated!!!) assumption was that after a year or so a Ph.D. student should show to the PI outstanding results, worthy of publication in "Nature", "Science" etc. Obviously, with no help, no guidance, no support. The PI did not want to tarnish his academic CV with publications in low- or medium-impact journals! So, if you could not show a potential for a publication in "Nature" (or similar journal), the PI would simply lose interest in you and "dis-own" you. This meant no support of any kind, no interest in your defense and no recommendation letter. Nothing! I saw this done to several people in our group. The PI tried (in some cases very successfully) to sabotage careers of his subordinates.
Remainder of my Ph.D. was absolute mental torture. I knew that without support of the PI I had not a single chance for academic career. Basically, academic career was dead for me. Every day I experienced a mental torture of senseless work. I knew that it was absolutely pointless to continue my Ph.D. The project was going nowhere. The PI lost all interest. By then I knew very well, how competitive and cutthroat was academia. I could have just sat in my office, collected stipend for another year or more and walked away. There was no point of doing anything. It was like digging a hole in the ground and then filling it back with same soil. Again and again and again! Every day! Coming to the lab, doing senseless work, knowing that it was all meaningless and continue doing it over and over -- just to have something to put in the thesis. This experience crippled me to the point that now I absolutely cannot stand any meaningless work.
I defended my Ph.D. and somehow got a postdoc in a shitty lab. 3 years of my postdoctoral experience could be described by one word: abuse! Constant lies, gaslighting, micromanagement, disrespect, threats, being underpaid, being overworked. I clearly remember that I cried because I did not have a courage to commit suicide.
I tried to seek on-line, on various forums advice on how to get out of this situation. To put it short, I was "trolled" and bullied by academics to the point of mental meltdown.
Recently I tried to find a career coach / mentor. Needless to say, my search was unsuccessful. There is no help out there! Sure, there are people that gladly will take your money in return to sugarcoated fluff. But that's it!
I have been thinking a lot about career coaching / career guidance. You know what? Absence of good advice / a lot of bad advice was, probably, a final "death blow" to my aspirations.
First of all, I did not understand how hiring works and no one explained it to me. It is not that there is a great mystery about hiring, it is that no one ever explained it to me. Secondly, I falsely believed that I could capitalize on Ph.D. itself and a set of so called "transferable skills". Lie! No one hires based on transferrable skills! Transferable skills == soft skills. If you have only transferable skills = soft skills, you can get a job of an admin assistant. Because you need good communication skills and critical thinking when scheduling meetings and taking minutes. But! If you have transferable skills and a Ph.D., you will NOT get a job of admin assistant, because you are "over-qualified".
I always knew that my Ph.D. in molecular biology was completely worthless! Yes, I had to learn every single method and protocol myself, without any help! Yes, I worked 60 hr and 80 hr weeks. But you cannot put this on resume and hope that HR will value it. Even today, years after I completed my Ph.D., I can explain every single methods and every single experiment that I did. Because I did everything on my own, without any help!!! I should be proud of myself, but I actually hate myself -- because I cannot sell it. Because market values "rock-stars", because market values what's trendy and what's in demand!
I was led astray by all this trash advice about "customizing your resume" and "highlighting transferrable skills". I have missed an opportunity of a lifetime!!! 5 or 6 years ago people, who attended coding bootcamps, could actually get a job as a programmer!!! Yes, not too long ago employers were actually scooping people, who completed coding bootcamps!!! That would have been my chance of getting the hell out of academia. I had a gut feeling that my Ph.D. was a complete waste of time, I suspected that I need to write-off Ph.D. as a loss and re-educate myself completely to have a chance! And I have missed an opportunity of a lifetime to learn how to code, to get into bootcamp, to get an entry-level coding job and move on from there. Now there are ongoing layoffs in tech and job market is flooded with junior coders. The gates are closed.
Instead, I wasted my time tinkering / customizing my resume and thinking how to sell "transferrable skills". Wrong, wrong, wrong! I do not think that anything like it will ever come again. When you can teach yourself, when you can get through the bootcamp and get into a field with good pay and career growth!!!
To all people out there: I cannot stress enough, watch out for bad advice!!! Look for a good advice -- its worth it's weight in gold!