Surviving Suffering

Once upon a time, there was a woman who had suffered much loss through her life. Due to wars and famine, each of her family members had died, one by one. Finally, after her last living relative had passed, she could not take it anymore. She packed up and traveled to speak to a wise old man, who was rumored to be a potion master with strong magical powers.
"Please, wise man-- can you make a potion to bring my family back?"
The wise man was silent for a long time.
"I have the materials for the potion- all except one, and you must bring it to me."
The woman nodded eagerly, hopeful.
"You must bring me one grain of rice from a single family who has suffered no loss and lives in complete, unbroken contentment."
The lady was confused, but agrees and begins her journey to find such a family.
For a full year she traveled, speaking to each family she found that appeared to be happy and asking for a grain of rice. She went around the world, leaving no stone unturned, and finally returned to the wise old man.
"I could not bring you what you asked for-- every family I spoke to, even the ones who seemed happiest, had suffered loss or had some discontent within."
The wise man nodded. "You have learned. The potion cannot be made, for no person is without hurt, and everyone has suffered loss.
"They have healed, and so will you."

The Downside to Creativity: A Sort-Of Rant

Hello, dear readers!
I know it's been awhile since I actually buckled down and wrote a real post, rather than turning my thoughts into poetry or copy-pasting stories I've written recently to introduce you to some characters. But I felt like I ought to put some effort into today's blog post, and I didn't have it in me to poet today, and I had a blurry-ish idea of a concept to talk about-- so after a good 10 minutes spent determining what exactly I had in mind, here I am!

So..

Creativity has its benefits. It really does. It's satisfying to have brought something into existence, creating things stimulates your brain in ways most other things can't, and you get plenty of compliments and recognition for being a creative person. You feel accomplished, you see things in different ways and find inner beauty easily, you have something constructive to spend your money on, and overall, it's not a bad thing.

But it does have its drawbacks.

The first one I want to address is something I deal with constantly, especially today. Today, I attended a two-hour long meeting for the leadership team of my church, and it was a struggle. Why? I simply couldn't focus.This happens a lot during classes, sermons, movies, and the like as well. I get distracted by the story (or stories) I have floating around in my head, thinking about where I left off last and where I want to go with it next and what's happened already-- and before I know it, ten minutes have passed and I'm totally lost. This is helpful in situations when I'm bored, like if I'm waiting for something, but if I'm in the middle of a meeting and someone asks me a question and I had not been paying attention, it makes things really awkward. I've discovered if I have something to doodle with, or something to occupy my hands, it helps keep me "grounded" and not floating off in my thoughts, but even so, this is a downside to a creative mind that I deal with on a daily basis.

This second one is sort of related to the first one. It often feels like most, if not all, I do is connected in some way to my writing or art. This isn't something that I mind terribly, and my work has definitely improved because of it, but there will be times I'm listening to a song that suddenly reminds me of a specific part of a specific character's life and I go really, again? Plus, it sometimes ruins songs for me, especially if I dislike the character it reminds me of.  (I blame my sudden fascination with lofi hip-hop beats on this, since it has no lyrics and no connection to my writing at all.) Also, I'm constantly confronted by seeing a situation and immediately thinking about how I can incorporate it into a story or scene. I will mention that this has helped me go through several hard times and has improved my writing dramatically. It's just that sometimes it catches me off guard and just makes me realize normal people aren't like this. Normal people can appreciate this fully without dissecting it to use later.  But again, these doesn't bother me that much, it's just vaguely irritating.

The absolute worst thing is when you just can't create. Writer's block, artist's block, and so forth can get extremely exasperating. This gets empathized when you're in the mood to create something, anything, or you have ideas that you know will work out or become clearer if you could just let them out. Sometimes it's like you want to open the door to let a flood of, say, tennis balls (I don't know, tennis balls is all my brain is giving me right now) out of a closet, and these balls are the best things ever.... but the doorknob is jammed and you just can't get it unstuck.

Now. there are probably a few more things I could add here, things that I'm not really thinking about at the moment or that I can't really articulate right now, but since it's been a fairly busy/productive day today and tomorrow is going to be exhausting and I've already written about 700 words already, I'm going to cut it off here. I hope you enjoyed this post, or maybe learned something, or at least gained a sense of accomplishment for reading all the way through my complaints...
Anyway- goodnight, dear readers! I'll be back next week!
--Kaytie

Carry This Into This New Year-- Another Poem

Here are some things

To remember for

2019

Because 2018 hit hard 

And taught much:

There are going to be times

When you feel so fragile

That a light breeze

Would send spiderweb cracks

like veins under your skin

Like you won't survive 

Until 2020

And then there will be times

When you are so strong

Holding everything together

Standing as tall as a mountain

Brushing aside problems

like an avalanche of rocks

Like you are the reason

You'll survive until

2020

There are going to be times 

You'll feel endless, infinite 

Like the universe

Like the ocean

And times when you feel

Shallow

Like a blank, white

Sheet of paper

Embrace them as they come

Feel them

Fully

Do not fear them--

Or rather, do fear them

Because fear is 

(Like these feelings, these times)
Part of being human

Embrace it, welcome being human

Feel it and

Fall in love with the human state

With messy hair and uncontrollable yawns

With awkward blushes and the little gestures

Biting nails and rubbing the palm of your hand

With wind blowing straight through you

And watching stars in other people's eyes

Make your life beautiful

By finding the beauty

And loving it and preserving it

And with a beautiful life

Comes a beautiful you.

New Year's Resolution-- A Poem

This year

2019

I promise, I resolve

To create to avoid

Destruction

To open up

And fearlessly share

To fully write from my heart

And stop hiding from the things

That scare me to write

To stop hiding from 

My insecurities, anxieties, fears

And share

And share

And share

To take care of myself again

To heal 

And write

Draw

Sing

Play

To create to avoid

Destruction

I promise, I resolve

2019

This year

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

Happy New Years to my readers-- I wish you the best!

-Kaytie

Thanksgiving

What does Thanksgiving mean?

Food?

Family?

Thankfulness?

Being thankful for for the good things in your life

Is really really easy-

But what about when there isn't much good

When people die

When life seems to keep just throwing punches

When you're tired, you're sick

When the world is this big bad scary monster

Instead of a place you live in-

What about then?

Can you be thankful for hardships?
It's hard.

It's possible.

It's necessary.

Even if you can only be thankful

For the fact that the sun is still shining outside

For the fact that you're still breathing

For the knowledge that "this too, shall pass"

For those who support you while everything is falling

Even if you can't be thankful for what's happening

Thankful that they're not in pain anymore

Thankful that this will strengthen you

Thankful because your God does not have plans to harm you 

And because of that you know you're going to be okay---

It's vitally important

That no matter what we go through

Despite sunshine and shadows

Despite flowers and the mud beneath

Despite happiness and sorrow

We carry the spirit of the holidays

The spirit of Thanksgiving

And carry so much of it that our hands cannot hold anything else.

-KH

Introducing The Cause Of All My Emotional Problems Part Two

Hello, dear readers!

Ready for more stories?? In this next installment, you get to meet the ex-assassin who Clair befriends, watch as O'don finds out about Clair's strained relations with a certain blond villain, and get sucked into this fabulous tale of friendship and roommates. Hold on to your hats-- this ride can get wild.

 The Space Mercenary Finds Out Some Things About Clair And Later They Gain Another Roommate

Later that evening

I stick my head into the doorway of the living room, where O’don is watching TV.

“I’m heading out.”

He looks up. “Where to?”

“Out,” I reply, impatient to go. I have a time-sensitive mission waiting for me, something dealing with sneaking into an office building and checking out weapon plans. “I might be back late.”

He raises an eyebrow. I hastily exit before he asks questions.

“Just don’t let him know too much about your job, Clair. You never know what a suspicious, possible threat would do. You know how to handle this kind of work. He doesn’t need to get involved.”

I roll my eyes, recalling Dad’s words. He’s right, of course. O’don doesn’t need to get involved.

 It’s way later than I expected when I get back. Way past midnight. I open the door softly, trying to keep from waking up O’don, since I’m assuming he’s asleep. I hear the TV blaring and wonder if he fell asleep on the couch. Clutching my bruised ribs, I look into the living room and find the couch empty. I walk over and turn it off, plunging the room into darkness and silence. With that comes the same feeling someone’s watching me from earlier. I turn and find O’don leaning against the doorway, very much awake.

“I was watching that.”

He walks past me and turns the TV back on.

“Out a bit late, were you?” He raises an eyebrow, glancing over the A.R.R.O.W. uniform. “And with quite a fancy suit.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off.

“What’s up with all the bruises? What were you doing?”

I sigh. “It’s none of your business, and anyway, I can’t tell you.”

He tilts his head. “If we’re going to be roommates…” he says, copying my statement earlier.

I walk out of the living room, brushing past him. “I really can’t tell you. You’d be in danger.”

“I’m living in the same house as you. Wouldn’t that put me in danger anyway?”

“You’re safer not knowing.”

“This is an A.R.R.O.W thing, isn’t it?”

I stop and turn around to face him. “Well, yeah, that much is pretty obvious.”

“But you can’t tell me what you were doing?”

“Nope.” I start up the stairs, slowly, every bruised muscle protesting.

“Looks like you took a beating,” O’don remarks, following me.

“Things didn’t go as planned.”

“And what kind of plan was there in the first place?”
I glare at him, too tired to even argue. “You’re not going to give up until you find out.”

“What can I say? I’m a naturally curious person.”

“It was an infiltration mission. I got caught,” I admit, adding hastily, “Their security was better than we had anticipated.”

“Ah.”

We reach the top of the stairs.

“So were you just going to sneak into the house?”

“I figured you would be asleep.” I open the door to my bedroom. “I need to change back to civvies, if you’ll excuse me.”

He notices the dark red stain on my sleeve.

“Is that your blood, or someone else’s?”

I give him a disgusted look. “Doesn’t matter.” I try to close the door.

“It’s your blood, isn’t it?”

“I’m fine.” I close the door, turn away, and roll up my sleeve.

 That guy with the knife was fast.

I reach into my dresser and pull out a first-aid kit, wrapping my arm in a bandage.

“That doesn’t look fine.”

I turn and glare at O’don, who had opened my door.

“I’ve survived worse.”

“Like what?” He crosses the room and takes my arm, examining the bandage, to my annoyance.

“I’ve been stabbed. Shot. Almost drowned, once. Half a dozen other major injuries.”

He drops my arm and grins at me. “Seems like a lot of people just want you dead.”
I shrug, wincing slightly. “Comes with the job. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” I steer him out the door. “I need to change.”

  Things settle down in about a week. O’don and I get used to living with each other, I get used to living in a place that isn’t floating hundreds of miles in the air, we get used to the house.

Of course, it’s now that something totally disrupts all of this. Well, two things, actually. First of all, Will finds me. Second of all, we gain a new roommate.

It was a Monday when I encountered Will. I was walking home from the grocery store, having run to get more ramen, when I feel a cold breeze blow from behind me. Previously, the warm summer wind had been keeping my hair out of my face. I turn, clutching the plastic store bag, and glare at Will.

“Where have you been?” he calls lightly, stepping away from the shadow of the alley where he’d been hiding. “You haven’t been around the Lift.”

“I moved,” I reply, taking a step back.

“Ah,” he replies. “Got tired of taking orders from your lying father?”

I clench my fists. “I’m still working for A.R.R.O.W.”

He tilts his head. “And looking none the better for it.” He steps closer, invading my space, tracing the remains of a bruise on my jaw.

I back away, narrowing my eyes. “I do what I have to.”

“You could be like me. You could join us.” He sighs softly. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. But you and I both know I can’t join you and that Uprising.”

“And you and I both know I can’t join you and A.R.R.O.W.”

I take another step back. “Then why don’t you just leave me alone, now?”

He moves close, taking my arm. “You superheroes, you’re so weak. You wouldn’t force me to go to your side, it goes against your precious moral code. I have an advantage,” he informs me, trying to pull me down the alleyway. “I don’t have a moral code.”

I try to pull away, but his grip is stronger than I remember. He lucked out on grabbing the arm with the still-healing stab wound, so I can’t pull too hard without risking opening it again. I hear approaching footsteps and pray it isn’t another Uprising member.

“Hey, Clair, I hoped to catch you at the store. We’re also out of—“

O’don pauses as he takes in my predicament.

“He a friend of yours, Clair?”

I glance over my shoulder at him, shaking my head slightly. I want to tell him to run and get out of here. Will is too dangerous.

“I could ask the same thing,” Will says, looking from O’don to me.

“O’don, this is Will, Will, this is my roommate, O’don. Now we’re all introduced, so you, Will, can leave, and O’don and I will go home.” I tug against Will’s grip persistently.

“Or, perhaps, I’d like to get better acquainted with your roommate, Clair,” Will says, loosening his grip on my arm slightly. He takes a step closer to O’don, giving me the chance to twist out of his hands and grab his arm this time.

“Leave him alone,” I growl. “If you lay one finger on him, I swear I’ll—“

Will laughs at me. “You’re cute when you try to be scary.” He wrenches away from my grip, tenderly touching the bruise on my face again. “I’ll leave you to him, Clair, but don’t worry. I’ll find you again.”

He’s gone.

“What was that about?” O’don raises an eyebrow.

“Remember talking about the fact a bunch of people want me dead? Yeah, he happens to be part of an entire group that hates me.”

“There’s literally a whole group just for people who want to kill you?”

I shrug. “I mean, mostly they want to overthrow the government and take over the world. I keep on stopping their plans, so yeah, they don’t really like me.”

“Ah.”

“What were we out of?”

“Milk.” He yawns.

I hand him the grocery bag. “I’ll go get it. Here’s the ramen.”

 Lucky for me, I get to avoid explaining about Will to O’don by getting a mission assignment. There’s a guy hiding out in an abandoned warehouse who’s wanted for, like, a ton of murders. So I take the milk to the house, change, tell O’don I’m leaving, and get out before he asks questions.

The sun is just beginning to set as I approach the warehouse. Pushing the door open cautiously, I brace myself for attack as soon as I step foot inside. Nothing happens for a long moment until I hear the crash of a glass bottle breaking upstairs.

He’s known for drinking. He kills and then steals a bunch of beer. There’s a high possibility he’ll be drunk when you find him.

I walk up the narrow ramp to the second floor, avoiding loose boards. The sounds of loud swearing and more bottles smashing lead me to a small, thin-walled room in the back.

He sees me as soon as I open the door, and he knows exactly what I’ve come for.

“Whaa… no…” he slurs, stumbling to his feet, the beer bottle in his hands shattering on the ground. The entire place reeks of beer, and glass shards cover the floor like a carpet. “I can’t go back…”

He charges me, fists swinging recklessly. I dodge once, twice, and land a solid punch on his jaw. It doesn’t do much to the huge man, just disorients him, but that’s all I need. I grab his wrists firmly and pull out a pair of handcuffs.

“You are under arrest in the name of A.R.R.O.W, charged with the murders of—“

The glass window that had so helpfully brightened the room now shatters. Seconds later, my captive collapses to the ground, dead, with a bullet between his shoulder blades.

I bend down and check for a pulse. He was dead before he hit the ground. I turn to the window and squint into the sunlight. A shadow leaps from a neighboring roof and flees.

I give chase.

Dashing down the shady alleyway, I suddenly hope Will doesn’t catch me now. This was probably a really bad idea.

Oh, well.

Distracted by the sudden turn ahead, I don’t notice the foot stretched out from a small hiding spot right at my feet. I suddenly find myself tripping, falling, and then I’m flipped over onto my back and there’s a knife at my throat.

“You saw nothing, A.R.R.O.W agent,” a deep, female voice warns. “You—Hold up. How old are you, kid?”

I blink, surprised by the sudden change of topic. “What’s it to you? Who are you, by the way?”

“You’re, like, twelve. What is A.R.R.O.W doing recruiting kids?”

I stiffen. “I’m a special case.”

The person with the knife relaxes a little, the blade pressing more gently.

“Who are you?” I shove upwards, surprising the lady, and slip out from under her.

“That’s none of your business.”

“It is when you kill my target. I needed him alive.” I stand warily, eyeing the tall, dark lady.

She makes no move to attack me  again. Not yet, anyway.

“Yeah, well, I was paid to make sure he was dead.”

“By who?”

She gives me a tired look. “You know what, I didn’t even pay attention to that. He gave me money and pointed me in the right direction.”

“What kind of assassin doesn’t know who paid them?” I mutter to myself, relaxing my posture a little.

“Ex-assassin,” she corrects. “This was going to be my last job. I’m retired now.”

“Ah.” I am slightly confused, but, whatever. As long as she isn’t trying to kill me, this lady actually seems pretty interesting.

She turns to leave and pauses. “Wanna get some Starbucks?”

I hesitate, about to say no, before hearing approaching footsteps and feeling a cold breeze at my back.

“Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”

Don't ask how, because I'm honestly not sure, but somehow this ex-assassin, who goes by Black'Fang and refuses to give her real name, becomes the occupant of the third empty bedroom in the house.

And no, I'm not looking forward to telling my father that I'm now sharing a house with an extraterrestrial and an assassin.

__________________________________________________________________________

And that, dear readers, is just the beginning. 

From here, the story tends to dissolve, shattering into a multitude of headcannons, one-shots, and roleplays. Things for the next six or seven years of their lives are less certain, more speculative, with a few more solid stories thrown in here and there. I'll keep posting about these one-shots, roleplays, and so on in the future, so as to properly introduce this cast of characters before everything comes to a screeching halt and spirals into flames. 

Enjoy!

Everybody's Story Deserves To Be Told-- Even If You're A Villain

Before I even start the story, I shall make you, my reader, a promise.

This story will have a happy ending.

There, I made it. You’ll need to hang on to that promise, because there’s a lot of bad stuff in the beginning, and even more in the middle, and the area around the end is worst of all. But it will all work out, I promise. Remember I promised.

Are you ready?

Picture it now, red velvet theatre curtains, spotlights just in the middle. Then the curtains are pulled apart and a scene is revealed.

And we are watching a kid get beat up.

What?

Oh, yes. You read right.

The bigger kids surround the shrimp of a boy, teasing him, jabbing with boots and fists and words.

Get over yourself, Miss Malane.

Miss Malane wants to run home to her mommy!

Don’t be such a girl, Malane.

Mac Malane, the little kid, is close to tears. This is the first time this has happened to him, but he knows it won’t be the last. They found out how sensitive he is, his artistic streak, his soft side, and it’s like blood in the water and sharks.

Boys are supposed to be tough.

He hates it. He hates his soft side. He hates the taste of the tears rolling down his cheeks, he hates the blood running down his forehead. He hates being helpless.

But sometimes to be soft you must be strong.

So he just puts his head down and rolls with the punches.

And that’s what he does all year. And the year after that. And the one after that, and after that, and after that.

Until that day.

The day he snapped.

Nobody talks about that day now. It is lost to the progression of time, killed by the refusing voices, kept alive only in the minds of those who were there.

Mac still doesn’t know how it happened. He was there and he was taking the punches and then he was on top of the other kid and punching. Punching repeatedly, mechanically, until some teacher dragged him off. The other kid could’ve died, they had said, if it weren’t for the timely intervention of the teacher.

Nothing was ever the same after that.

Whatever snapped inside of Mac stayed broken. He was no longer sensitive and artistic and kind. Mac Malane became a name to be feared instead of taunted, and he walked the halls with the predatory grace of a shark.

“It’s like his heart is black,” his parents used to sigh, “like a permanent stain killed all the light inside.”

He hated when they said that. He hated them. He, in fact, hated everyone. Everything. Anything to do with what he was before. Anything that made him think of how helpless and weak he used to be. The first few years were rough on him, rough on everyone. Then he managed to control the anger and the hatred and cooled it into something else.

Something worse.

Even in the emotional state he was at the time, his first kill was the hardest.

But isn’t it always?

He hated his parents. He hated them, even after he cooled down. They kept trying to fix him, as if there was something wrong. They kept trying to help him even when he told them he didn’t need help. They were an obstacle and they needed to be removed.

They never deserved it. They were good people. They did their best. Went to church. Brought up a kid and tried to save him when he went down. Did all they could for their family.

But now they’re dead.

He was nineteen when he did it. He killed them and then ran, left the country, laid low in England for a year or so. Then he returned and got caught.

He spent time in jail, but thanks to bad politics and revolts and rebellion over jail time and faulty records, he was out within the year.

He knew he needed an alias. No more Mac Malane, he needed something new. Different. Better.

It’s like his heart is completely black now. Like a permanent stain killed all the light inside.

BlackHeart seemed fitting.

It wasn’t long before word got around in the underground. One thing led to another, and before he knew it, the man known as BlackHeart had over fifty confirmed kills and assassinations and was, once again, someone to be feared.

Was there ever guilt? Regret? Fear?

Of course.

One day he looked in the mirror and all he could see was the blood on his hands.

One day he woke up screaming with the voices of the dead in his head.

One day he made a wish that he’d never snapped that day.

And one day he stopped regretting. He knew it meant he was weak. He knew weakness would no longer be tolerated, not any weakness from him.

So he just stopped.

He would look back, occasionally, and pinpoint the places where things kept going wrong. But he forced himself to view those times as necessary, things that only made him stronger in the long run, things that helped him by harming him.

And one day he looked in the mirror and saw a villain. A strong, powerful villain. Someone to be feared. Someone who was not weak, sensitive, soft.

 Someone who he never wanted to be.

And here our story ends.

You see, I lied. And there’s something to be learned from this story, too.

Sometimes people break their promises. Sometimes you just can’t trust anybody, no matter how good their lies sound.

Sometimes people do bad things. Sometimes people don’t get redeemed after they do bad things. And sometimes when people do bad things, they just can’t stop doing bad things and they have to keep going.

And sometimes?

Stories don’t all have happy endings.

-BlackHeart