I feel that there is a lot of talk right now about whether or not we should be welcoming former trump supporters into the movement and I think it's honestly insulting to us to pretend that there isn't hate for at least some of us in all of their hearts.
that doesn't mean I won't fight for them to have a good life. that doesn't mean I won't work to create a world where they can unlearn that hate. of course we cannot break humanity down into categories and say some won't benefit from whatever good we create.
it means I don't trust them to fight for US. I don't trust them to have the skills or knowledge necessary to do this work in the way it needs to be done. they are too easily taken in by a confident leader, and that is a liability. just because they don't want things to have come this far doesn't mean they're no longer bigoted.
each individual must prove themselves trustworthy and capable of camaraderie with people whose lives you cannot deny they voted to make hell.
if they really want to change, stay out of the way. when the time comes that we need people in the streets, I hope their feet will join us.
Wishes more that he could put his arms around the subtle swell of hips but knows it more prudent to continue to swim so they may both stay afloat; and of course, so that Francel does not release his already timid hold to stay with family. Navigating shy flirtations, piquing blooming interests, and winning the gaze of such stunning eyes and their boundless curiosity made his stomach and chest warm. Warmed in the way the sun couldn’t reach in it’s questing rays, or the swell of water couldn’t encompass as it lapped at his skin. Warmed in only the way sweet blues could as they gazed at the side of his face in wonder, as Haurchefant tried to focus on the conversation with Aurvael about school work, part-time work and full-time classes. Drew as little attention to the touch of their skin so that for just a bit longer, their natural nearness would go unnoticed and for just a little longer they could remain together-until the sun was no longer directly overhead. Until ‘just a little longer’ turned into the whole of the day, and the sky was turning orange-and his joy could mount no higher.
Casey ate pavement before he really registered Leonardo's voice, the bullets stitching the wall overhead, the shriek of steel on steel and sparks showering in front of Casey's face as he scrambled farther into the alley.
Fights didn't normally become this chaotic. A few beers, a motorcycle race to hype himself up, two hockey sticks and a lot of blood splashing on the wall and call it a night. Sometimes there were guns, sometimes ninjas with swords, sometimes a monster crawling up out of the sewers, three times as big as Casey, and the streets were a little safer. Then he and Raph would head back up to the rooftops, watch the sun come up and share another six pack.
Sometimes more.
But tonight the Foot clan and the Purple Dragons were in a war over territory with Diablo Puerto, and gang warfare with ancient weaponry and firearms was a chaotic nightmare of gunshots raining from fire escapes, windows ten stories up, hurled cinderblocks, shuriken and throwing knives and decapitated heads—
Michelangelo lay nearby, taking shelter behind the dumpster as he quickly bandaged a gash on his upper arm, biting the cloth to pull it tight. Donatello was somewhere behind them, shell to shell with Raphael, struggling to disable the Foot clan's satellite targeting systems while his brother kept him guarded.
But Leonardo stood at the mouth of the alley, a wall between Casey and the death and carnage in the street. His blade went through arms and throats and chests without effort, and he twisted scant inches to dodge gunfire. Nothing got by him unless it was as pieces tumbling to the ground.
Casey never really thought about Leonardo except as the older brother, the stick in the mud who insisted on the rules and outdated ideas of honor. The boring one. The annoying one.
Not as the one covered in blood and having to flick aside body parts with his sword.
When the two sides had lost enough people and vanished into the night, Casey gathered up his bat where it'd fallen, broken in half over a gangbanger's head. With a sigh for his dear departed slugger, he let it lie and instead found his mask, the bottom edge cracked where he'd fallen.
The cheering to his left caught his attention, four teenage ninjas laughing and celebrating another night alive. Donatello was tending to Michelangelo's gash, more thoroughly wrapping it for the trip home, and Raphael...
Casey blinked.
Oh.
Raphael was resting against the wall, smiling indulgently as Leonardo poured bottled water over a stab wound to where his shell met his plastron. Blood barely trickled from the thick keratin, probably didn't even hurt all that bad, but Raphael allowed the fussing without comment. The look in his eyes was obvious.
Grudging affection. Exasperated fondness. Growing lust moving across bloody highlights on Leonardo's skin.
Casey understood. Raphael had a type—athletic, a fighter, throwing their whole heart into the fight.
But Casey knew he couldn't compete with that. And, if he had been honest with himself in that moment, couldn't compete against Raphael, either.
I tried to show you what kindness is. I said, "the world isn't so bad, you know?" You said, it is bad. It is bad.
You covered your ears and shut your eyes and dug in your heels and you said I know cruelty. I know evil. You will not be free of it. I could not be free of it. You'll inherent this burden of misery. This deep seeded fear is an heirloom. Take it, carry it, never put it down. Never be free. You can't because I could not. You are mistaken. This world's nature is not one of kindness, it is cruel and it will crush you in the end. The only choice you'll ever have is not in if you suffer, but if you suffer with grace.
I showed you something gentle and earnest and you crushed it in my hands. I refuse to believe the world is cruel by nature, but you might be.
Anyone know how to put a read more between two sections? Because I have author notes at the bottom and don't want them to get completely lost.
Standing alone in a room strewn with clothing, stood a woman staring at a picture with a pained expression. Her flowing blonde hair framed her face to accent her blue eyes and pouty red lips upon her creamy white face. The hair fell down over her body to cover her ample breasts as she she tossed the picture aside.
“What do you want of me?” she asked as her skin rippled, turning a sun-kissed bronze as freckles appeared seemingly at random over her shoulders and face. Her platinum hair shrunk in on itself, turning into twin ginger, braided pigtails. Her bright red lips faded to a lighter pink.
“I have become everything asked of me, but you refuse to love me! I would do anything for your love, but you won’t grant me that one thing!” she shouted as her skin darkened to the color of an oak, while her ginger hair flared out into a large fro of pitch black hair. Her curves lengthened as she gained several feet of height. Storming over to the picture she picked it up again, and glared at it like an Amazonian warrior eying up an oncoming foe. “What is wrong with me?”
As the picture refused to answer once again, she lowered it back onto a bed and picked up a long silken dress of Asian inspiration. Holding it up to the mirror, she shrunk in on herself, becoming petite, dainty, and delicate. Her hair smoothed down into a neat little bun on the top of her head, complete with two bone hair sticks piercing it through crosswise. Her dark skin lightened to a rich olive hue, her eyes turning to a striking brown as she stared into the mirror. “Why can I never be what you want? What am I missing?” she asked as her voice shifted to match the face staring back at her from the mirror.
Tossing the dress into the air, she slumped down against the wall next to the mirror. “What is wrong with me?” she asked as tears began streaming from her hazel eyes, her hair tumbling down in brown curls while her skin went fair once again. Bringing her hands to hide her face from view, she allowed herself to just cry while her body continued to shift through multiple forms. There was millions upon millions of variations, from a woman that could have passed for a child, to an old grandmotherly lady, to a butch little trans-male. Punk, Goth, elegant lady, homebodies, nerd, princess. Male, female, combinations of the two. Nothing had ever been good enough for the person in the photograph, the one person she had never been able to satisfy with her powers.
Laying down, exhausted from the rapid use of her powers, coupled with the emotional turmoil she was suffering from, she felt everything drifting so far away. Reaching out, she carefully scooped up the picture of a small girl smiling at the camera with beautiful mismatched blue and green eyes, amber hair pulled back into a high ponytail, and vitiligo skin. The girl was hugging a giant stuffed chameleon, grinning at the camera with a smile that was missing a few front teeth. At the bottom of the Polaroid picture was very neat penmanship that read, ‘Autumn Vesper, 6th birthday.’
“Why can’t I love myself like you did so long ago?”
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A little back story... Autumn Vesper is the name I use for a placeholder whenever I'm writing characters before I think of a good name for them. But lately I've been feeling bad about never giving her own story much of a chance to bloom. Sadly, I've never found a story that's right for her.
While doing dishes today, an old song came on the playlist, and I couldn't help but feel inspired to do something with it. Not to sure about how this turned out, this was written as a half-hour music focused challenge. I would love to explore the character more, but as I said, her story is as much of a mystery to me as she is to herself.
This was written while "I'd Do Anything For Love" by Meatloaf was playing on constant repeat. Opinions?
