worldflower:

You know what I love?  Redemptive story arcs.  I love characters who fuck up.  Who know they’ve fucked up, and it’s not because of something they couldn’t control or didn’t know – it’s because of their own choices.  And I love it when they are brave enough to stand up and say “I was wrong”, and then they spend forever trying to undo what they did.  To me that’s more important than heroes who never screw up, because I’m not perfect, so when I screw up and need the courage to admit it, I need people to look to who did the same thing.

beauttifullife:

My name is
Courtney, and I was born at 5:15 AM on October 26^th, 1988.  When I was born my parents didn’t ask the doctor
if I was a boy or a girl, or if I was healthy.
Instead they asked, “what’s the number?”

The room
braced for the doctor’s answer.  My parents
held each other close, both openly crying as they prayed for good news.  “Her
number is…” started the doctor, flipping my right wrist over and reading the
black numbers that spread across it.  “152310232048.”

My parents
cried in relief.  

I would live
a good life.  

I had a
good number.

You see,
in my world, everyone is born with a 12-digit number on their right wrist.  What does the number mean exactly?  Well—the number gives us the day we die.  We don’t know how we will die, but we will—at
that exact time.  Think of it like the expiration
date you see on a jug of milk.  After the
expiration date, you throw away the milk, right?  Well, that is what the marks on our wrists
mean.  We obviously don’t get thrown away
in the trash, but we cease to exist after that date.  And just like that jug of milk buried in some
landfill, we too will be buried in the ground.

My number
is 152310232048.

Which
means that at 3:23 PM on October 23^rd, 2048—I will die.  

I will
live to be 59 years old.  

I have a
good number.  It isn’t the best
number.  My brother is going to live to
be 88. My parents, couldn’t believe it when the doctor read his number out
loud.  He will live 29 years longer than
me.  He will see so much more than me, experience
so much more than me.  He might even live
to see his great-great grandchildren—I’ll be lucky to see my
grandchildren.    

I sometimes
get jealous when I see his number.  

But this
is my life.  

I can’t
change my number.  

It is permanent.  

Medicine,
money, and miracles do not change your number.
You can certainly die earlier then your number, but to die before your
number is rare.  People just tend to be
more careful.  After all, when you are
constantly walking around with a literal reminder of your time left on earth on
your wrist, you tend appreciate the life you have a little more.

I have a
good number.  

I’m
reminded of this when I see other people’s number.  

The first
time this happened was when I was 5 years old.

On my
first day of school, I was in kindergarten and I’ve never really interacted
with any other kids besides my older cousins.
I was nervous, so when recess was called, I decided to go to the
swings.  Anyone who liked swings as much
as me—well, they were cool in my book.    

On my way
to an open swing a wild boy with a dinosaur shirt, and brown eyes full of mischief,
performed a back flip off the swings and nearly knocked me over in his crash
landing.  He jumped up, dusted off his
pants and smiled at me and said, “My names Devon, and I am going to live to be
57.”

It was
such a typical kid way of introducing themselves.  Adults tended to be more secretive of their
numbers.  Wearing watches, or long-sleeved
shirts to cover up their numbers, but five year olds—we didn’t understand the
concept of subtlety. 

Clearly.

Another
body quickly landed next to him, this one thankfully on their feet.  It was a red-haired girl, with two perfectly
braided pig tails.  “My names Fiona, and
I’m going to live to be 62.” 

Another
body landed next to her.  He stumbled a
bit on his landing, and his glasses fell down the bridge of his nose as he
found his balance.  “Hi, I’m Oscar,” he
smiled, shaking his long brown hair out of his eyes as he pushed his glasses up
his nose.  “I’m going to live to be 17.”

Mind you—we
were in kindergarten.  We were literally
learning our ABC’s, learning how to tie our shoes, and zip up our coats, but
the concept of numbers—that we didn’t
need to learn.  Our parents made sure we
knew what our number was, and what their number was, and what grandma’s number
was—numbers were literally ingrained into our minds, much like the literal
numbers that adorned our wrists.  

Which
meant even at 5 years old, I knew that Oscar—well Oscar, had a bad number.  

It must
have showed on my face because the boy—a boy who I didn’t even know, hugged
me.  And as he squeezed me, he said, “It’s
okay,” before pulling back and smiling.  “My
dad’s say that seventeen is plenty of time.
They said it is isn’t about how high your number is—but it’s about what
you do with the number you get.”

Looking
back now, as an adult thinking about having my own child—I’d probably say the
same thing to my child if they were born with a bad number.  What else can you do?  You can’t change your child’s number.  You can’t give your child more time, no
matter how much you wish you could take the numbers off your wrist and place
them on your child’s—you just can’t.
Your job as a parent is to protect your children, but you can’t protect
them from the inevitable, so instead, you give them something else.

Oscar’s dads
gave him hope.  

His dads
were great people.  I grew close to them
as we progressed through school because obviously, Oscar, Fiona and Devon and
me—we became best friends after the day on the swings.  We called our group “The Swingers,” much to
the embarrassment of our parents.  We
didn’t understand why they didn’t like our group nickname when we were young,
but we finally understood when we were 15—and thanks to the internet, we
learned exactly what “swingers” were.
But even after learning the sexual nature of our group nickname, we
still kept it, because honestly, what teenagers didn’t like tormenting their
parents?

“Courtney
where are you going?  It’s late!”

“Dad said
I can go to Oscar’s house!”

“And what will
you be doing at Oscar’s house?”

“God mom—we
are just having a swinger party, can I go now?”

The look
of embarrassment on my parent’s face was always perfect—especially in public.

Speaking
of Oscar’s house.  His house became the “hang
out” spot for us four.  Mostly because
his dads had an awesome basement, and his dad Jerry was professional Chef,
which meant we ate good there.  But back
to Oscar’s dads—they were awesome.  They adopted
Oscar when he was just an infant.  His
mother gave him up when she saw his number.  It was an epidemic in our world.  Foster homes were full of children with bad
numbers.  

But Oscar’s
dads, they didn’t see his number.  They just
saw Oscar.  This happy, intelligent,
beautiful blue-eyed child who just so happened to be destined to die young.  They didn’t see his number—instead they just saw
Oscar.

Devon, Fiona,
and I—we only saw Oscar too.  

Most of
the kids in our class didn’t really attempt to get to know Oscar, because
honestly, what was the point?  He wouldn’t
be around for long.  So, it was the four
of us—for as long as we had the four of us.

We
laughed.

We cried.

We fought.

We
experienced our first kisses.

We loved.

We had our
hearts broken.

We got
drunk once—never again.

We got
high—more than once.

We just lived.

“The
Swingers” lived every day to the fullest—until the day came when four was about
to become three.  Oscar’s day would land
just a few weeks before our Senior graduation.
We always knew his number, but it never seemed real until it came so
close to the actual date on our calendar.

Oscar took
accelerated courses so that he could graduate before—his number came up.  The school planned a graduation ceremony just
for him the day before his number.  His dad’s and his extended family fills the stands, the rest of his class sit in the chairs,
the very same chairs they will soon fill in a couple of weeks when the class of
2007 would all walk together.  The principal
called out Oscar’s name, and he stepped up to the microphone.  

Oscar was
the school Val Victorian.  He stayed late
after school, he studied well into the night, he worked hard—so hard, that his
dedication to his studies really got in the way of “swinger” time.  One day, after another late night of not
seeing Oscar because he was studying for a Chemistry test, I yelled at him. “It
is just a Chemistry test Oscar! If you get a B, it won’t be the end of the
world!”

Oscar
barely blinked an eye at my outburst, instead, much like that day in front of
the swings—he pulled me into a hug. “Look, this is the only time I have to be
great,” he said.  “I don’t get anything
after this.  So, if this is all I get—I’m
going to be the best.”

And he
did.  

He became
the best.

A 4.0
grade point average

An SAT
score of 1560.

And he never
filled out a single college application.

Oscar
cleared his throat in front of the microphone, garnering everyone’s
attention.  “Thank you for everyone who
came today.  It means a lot, to me. Very
much like my life, I’m going to keep this speech short.”

Gasps
echoed through the gym and Oscar smiled.

“That was
not meant to be a joke.  Please don’t
think that I am making light of the fact that tomorrow is my number.  Instead, I say that I will keep this speech short—because
I think the world tends to greatly underestimate the power of something short.”

“My mother
gave me up for adoption when I was only 1 minute old.  As soon as the doctor read my number, she
signed over custody of me to the state.  
I always wondered, how can I be judged of my quality of life, before I’ve
even taken my first shit.”

Laughter echoed
from the students, gasps echoed from the parents, and grumbles of disapproval
echoed from the teacher’s and administration.
But Oscar just smiled, as he looked back at the principal.  “Feel free to give me a detention this weekend
for cussing,” he joked, earning another chuckle from the students.  

“She was
wrong—by the way,” continued Oscar, his gaze going back out to the gym.  “Anyone who ever stared at my number, and
looked at me with sadness—you were wrong.
I have lived—not as long as our parents and not as long as you all will
live—but make no mistake, I have lived.  My
life may have been short, but it doesn’t mean it has been any less significant
as someone who lived well into their 80’s.”

Taking in a breath, he gave his parents and then the swingers a shaky smile. “Every
second of every single day for the past seventeen years—have been lived to the
fullest because simply, I didn’t have the time to waste.  Every moment of my life has counted, cherished
and loved—can you say the same thing about yours?”

Oscar died
on 2:13 PM on March 16^th, 2007.

Like his
number said, he lived to be 17.

He had a
bad number

But he
didn’t let his number define him.

Instead he
lived every day, until his number was called.

**This is a short story that just came to me after watching an incredibly sad movie about a woman dying of cancer.  While the movie was sad, I couldn’t help but notice that she never really started living until she found out she was dying.  Which then made me wonder, how would a person live if they knew when from the moment they were born, when they were going to die?  

Which then of course prompted this short story!**

withoutaconscienceorafilter:

batneko:

cinderella marries the prince

and it’s… fine. The prince is great! They’re in love, he’s very sweet and passionate, writing her poems and songs, giving her anything she wants. The time she spends with her husband is great.

but cinderella is not royalty, her family was noble but she never spent time in those circles. She’s used to being busy, she’s used to cooking and cleaning and mending. There are hours, days, where she has nothing to do.

time passes. cinderella learns the fancy lady type of needlework. Learns to ride horses. Reads a lot.

as is normal for royalty at the time, they travel and are hosted by nobles or stay at castles owned by the king. But even that variety begins to become routine. The prince is distracted, there’s a lot of young women living and working on their route. Daughters of nobles. Younger and prettier with soft hands that have never done a day’s work.

cinderella needs something to spend her time on, and there’s a part of her thinking a couple-only trip might get her husband’s attention again, so she suggests making an old castle that’s fallen into disrepair their “project.” It was built in the time when castles were made to be defensible, so it’s quite sturdy, but it’s overgrown and secluded. The prince doesn’t know why his family stopped living there either. A hundred years ago it was their summer home.

so they go. And they work. And for a while it’s great! But when they leave for winter cinderella’s husband forgets her once again. cinderella resolves to make the best of her life and stop worrying about a man who has gotten what he wanted from her.

summer comes again and this time cinderella goes alone to the old castle (minus staff, of course, but cinderella manages to narrow it down to only repair workers and one maid). She can cook and clean and mend again, but this time it’s her own choice. She is happy.

this summer they make more progress on repairs. The workers say that most of it can be salvaged, except one tower that’s been completely overgrown with vines and briars. It will have to come down, eventually, but for now it can be safely ignored.

cinderella has more free time now. The old castle has a surprisingly untouched library, though time and moisture have damaged many of the books. Behind a collection of greek poetry cinderella finds an old diary. Very old, in fact, at least a hundred years. It’s rude to read a diary, of course, but whoever wrote this is long dead, and cinderella is bored, so…

from the description of activities the author looks to have been nobility. Maybe even a princess. She’s sensitive and sweet and smarter than she seems to realize. If circumstances had been different cinderella wishes they could have been friends…

after the summer ends cinderella returns to her husband. He’s spending a lot of time with a young musician and cinderella can’t even work up the energy to care. She does some research about the castle and the family she’s married into, finds out the name of the princess who wrote the diary.

aurora. Cursed and forgotten. She died young, they say, in a plague that also took out the castle staff and her own parents. Luckily they avoided a succession crisis, but not so lucky for the dead.

time passes. cinderella goes to the old castle again and again, even out of season. Soon enough all that remains to be done is the old tower, and the builders say they should tear it down and fill the gaps before it gets cold.

one night cinderella is restless. The princess from the diary had been fond of that tower, and cinderella is far more attached to a dead woman than she ought to be. She gets out of bed, reads by candlelight, and finally goes to walk the empty halls.

she finds herself going to the tower. Pushing past the vines that don’t seem so troublesome really. They almost part before her. The stairs are perfectly intact, the door at the top is already cracked open. As if she should have done this years ago, cinderella steps into aurora’s bedroom.

she’s as beautiful as the stories say. And sitting under her hands, crossed across her stomach as it rises and falls, is a book of greek poetry.

---

years later, people will tell the story of cinderella as a cautionary one. Don’t seek above your station. Don’t marry for prestige. After all, a girl who grew up as a servant once married the crown prince, and disappeared after only three years. She ran away, they say, she couldn’t handle the lifestyle.

two old women who run a bookshop together agree with the lesson. Marrying for the wrong reasons never ends well. It’s best to wait for someone you have things in common with, shared interests.

or, failing that, the more linguistic of the two says, wait a decade or ten for someone to fall in love with you from your diary.

her partner laughs and hits her with the socks she is mending.

❤

Reason 294749 that I love my human

So I discovered on Friday night that evanescence, the band of my angsty teen years, has a newer album which are like… Redone versions of some of their best songs.

Last night I put it on for my human and I know he’s a huge fan of My Immortal so I was quiet when it was on. And I was thinking as it played “like this is good but no version is ever as good as the one that has the rock burst in after the middle 8”. After the song finished he said “yeah it’s good but it’s never as good as the version where the whole band comes in at the end and just rocks out”.

And for some reason that made my heart skip and I felt another sensation of overwhelming love for him. I like that we’re 3 years in and I still feel overwhelmed with love at least 6 times a day.

galacticsonder:

me: tells a Wacky Childhood Story

person: *stares at me with huge eyes*

me: oh right Normal People think that’s fucked up