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Blarg

I tried to post a little vignette here but no dice. Stupid LJ glitches. D8

Been doing a lot of writing as of late, both fanfic and original. The original is just me messing with forms to write out the story--I've had essay before, and poetry so now I'm messing with fiction. Vignettes and novel, though the latter is working the best...for now.

I've found out a whole bunch more. Not only from that lifetime, but from others. I've lived thirteen times before this one, and Rane has been my lover in seven of those, which is supposedly really rare. You generally only meet someone three or four times to sort things out with. But we seem to have a habit of loving each other, losing each other, and then finding each other again.

What was a little bit of a mindfuck was when I found out about my spirit guide being in one of lifetimes. See, for ages I didn't know who mine was. But because they can take any form they like, much like Epsilon in Recreation, he chose to take the form of a human Delta because he knew it'd make me happy. So he is tall, with light blonde hair (kind of the color of a peeled banana as opposed to white blonde) and bright green eyes. He dresses simply, and he's kinda skinny, but solid enough to take my tackling--every time I go and say hi I kinda glomp him. He used to be taken aback by this but now he's better with it. He answers some questions I have, but not all. He won't tell me what I am not ready to know or what I don't need to know and I think he gets a little exasperated at my insatiable curiosity. Still, he always watches over me. After a Skype chat about spirit guides, someone asked if they have ever been human before. I was wondering this myself. Luna told me yes, they are. That they always incarnate at least once, which makes sense. After all, how can they guide you if they don't know what it's like?

So I asked D if he had been human before, and he said yes. I asked if he had ever been a lifetime with me. Another yes. Turns out we had been lovers which actually really surprised me because I don't feel that way around him. More like I'm greeting my closest friend. I was like, "The hell, D? Isn't that a little...biased.?" but being more level-headed than I am, he reminded me that was in the past, it has nothing on how he interacts with me now, nor how he takes care of me.

Still trippy to think about, though. xD

Touch Me

Finally lets' see if I can get this damn thing to post. For the Lover100 challenge, Katniss/Peeta smut! Also, this became accidentally AU without me realizing it--I didn't realize Katniss and Peeta had sex at the end of Mockingjay, before the epilogue. TV Tropes pointed that out to me, I was like, "bullshit" and then I checked...and they were right.

----

 

Now lower down, where the sins fly...Collapse )

 

Individual Piece

That sucks so much that I don't even want to save the word doc so I'll just slap the beginning here in case I want to use it though that's unlikely because it sucks.

----

The Short Life of Bronisława

(1928-1945)

An essay by Carolina Yorke

 

At the age of six, I first became aware of the Holocaust. At the age of sixteen, I first became aware of my own past life during this period, the floodgates of memory that had been so blocked before suddenly opening, letting me into the world I had once been in as a Jewish girl named Bronia (Bronisława) in a town on the outskirts of the city of Łódź, Poland

Two Steps Forward: Healing Piece

"You're taking two steps forward, and ten steps back, Carolina." 

That is my mother's mantra over the years, from when I was fourteen and even now, at age nineteen when I'm still as fragile as a china doll--or at least, that's how I am perceived to be, how I am treated.  She claims that before the depression, before the anxiety, I was a happy child, carefree. But no matter how many times she tells me this, I can never quite believe it. In my mind, I have always been riddled with anxieties, fears, phobias beyond what a usual child should have, and although I was certainly more innocent back then, I don't believe that made me any happier.

At age fourteen, I am a quivering, anxious mess. A girl who has been bullied, a girl who is lonely. A girl who could be described as suffering what most freshmen in high school suffer.

But there's an exception.

At age fourteen, I am no longer able to function like a normal teenage girl. In fact, it takes all my effort to sit through a fifty minute lesson without getting up at least once, unable to take the building anxiety any longer. They give it fancy names--three of them, in fact.

Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

Panic Disorder.

Social Anxiety.

But to me, it's just a veiled way of labeling my living nightmare. It doesn't always start the same way, but the symptoms are always the same, terrifyingly so: a constricting in the chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe. My heart betas faster, my body is sweating and feverish. My limbs shake, and a strange, otherworldly numbness creeps up them, coating every inch of my skin. The nausea leaves me torn between being unable to move, and running towards the bathroom every few minutes, certain I'm going to spew the remainder of my lunch.  In my worst moments, I have been known to pass out for a few seconds, or 'disassociate'--have an out of body experience. 

This is my life at fourteen, this waking horror. And not once a day, but at the very least, two or three times a day. I no longer stay in my classes; I am taken to counselors outside of school, to a study at UCLA for anxiety disorders in children. But it's no use; I am stubborn and I insist on moving to New Jersey to live with my Dad.

In New Jersey, everything will be better. I won't be anxious anymore.

Two steps forward.

At age fifteen, I am the new girl. Still shy, still anxious, I don't know how to fit into this new world, this small town. I have been a city girl; I am used to blending in, to being in a high school with over two thousand students. I had found that unsettling, and I knew it was certainly no good for my panic attacks.

But I never imagined being in a small town would be worse.

-----

Incomplete; may come back to this later.





Jacob Portrait Final Draft

A little edited now that I have more memories, but not too much so.  There are others that I'm not going to include for the sake of...well, there was just no need for them; it disrupted the flow.

----

Jacob.

I can hear the word all too well, those two short clipped syllables in English, the hard "J". In Polish, though, in German, in Yiddish, the languages I knew in my past life, it would have been softer. Turn the J into a Y, soften the o into more of a u, and even then I can't *quite* describe the way it sounds, nor can I pronounce it now with my clumsy American accent, though I try.

Jacob, Jacob, Jacob...

Ever since I was young, I have experienced memories from a life previous to this one, and through waking visions brought on by meditation, dreams, and regressions, I have been able to form a partial picture of who he was. Unfortunately, due to the nature of what happened between us, a grief and trauma runs so deeply though my soul that most of my memories are foggy, and blocked by my own mind in a desperate attempt to protect itself from the pain.

But what I do know tells me more than can truly be expressed in words. According to a dear friend of mine, someone who can "read" the past lives of others, Jacob and I met when  was very young, though I am not sure "met" is the word I am looking for. What I mean is that we were aware of each others' existence, passing each other once or twice in the street with our mothers. But it was not until I was sixteen that we truly ended up connected in a way that carried over sixty years, from Bronia in 1944 to Carolina in 2010.

The very first memory I got of him was our first kiss. In a paved cobblestone square in the middle of our town, my sister, Rivkah, and I were sent out to get supper. Racing each other, too childish for our fifteen and seventeen years, we drew attention to ourselves in ways that were certainly considered dangerous in 1943. In the ultimate romantic cliche I ran straight into him, looking up into his dark brown eyes. I was too tongue tied to even begin to speak, but he did. 

"You're Bronia," he said, and he leaned down and kissed me.  I became quite aware of Rivkah's envious and shocked stare--it was unheard of then to be so forward with a girl. Even so, he was not too pushy, just a bit of a peck on the lips, but it is nearly impossible to describe the spark between us, how deeply I felt for him. 

See, I'm not the type of girl who believes in true love. In fact, it's become a bit of  running joke amongst my friends. "That bitch Carolina..."

But feeling what I did in that moment, how happy he made me in such a dark, desperate time, how when he held me close that way I felt forever safe and protected, and that nothing could ever hurt me when he was by my side, it became not as far out of the realm of possibility. I only have two other happy memories of him, though both were in places that were far from ideal. The first, the anteroom to Hell--the Lodz Ghetto. The second, Hell itself--Birkenau. 

In the ghetto, the two of us used to walk often, though I cannot place the name of the streets. The ghetto itself was dusty and brown in the heat of that summer of 1944, and he very lightly held onto my hand as we talked. In the case of some past life memories, while there are many sensations and details, there can be an absence of a few of the senses themselves. The most common ones I miss are that of smell (I am grateful for that) and hearing. Anything that is being said somehow ends up telepathically in my consciousness, as crazy as it sounds. In this case, Jacob was talking about the future, and that absolutely floored me. That caged up in the filthy, dank, disease ridden part of Lodz, branded with the yellow star on both our chests and back, he could talk about the future of the world with such excitement, but he did.

I could tell how intense he felt about this subject due to the very subtle shifts in his body language; how he gripped my hand just a little bit harder, and a word jumped into my mind.

Communist.

Of course, back in 1944, Communism was feared in some circles, but the atrocities that would later be associated were unknown. Not that any news would have leaked to us to begin with--the Lodz Ghetto, unlike many ghettos, was nearly hermetically sealed, the smuggling of food completely impossible, among other things. The destination we were headed to next, however, was completely different, and it was then that things began to take a turn for the worse.

But there was one more pleasant memory between us then, even in the depths of Birkenau we were given a few opportunities to meet, and speak to each through the electrified fence that separated the mens' blocks from the womens'. Through some way or another, he managed to produce a white flower. In Birkenau, where all beauty died and no living things existed, it was an extraordinary act. Cradling that tiny white flower in my hands I couldn't imagine the lengths he had gone to in order to give it to me, and in that Hell, it became the symbol for how deeply he loved me. 

Unfortunately, it did not take long for the effects of Birkenau to take a toll on him. He was assigned to the most horrible job in the entire camp, that of the Sonderkommando. The Sonderkommando squad lived in the crematoriums, in the attics, and it was in the crematorium that they were forced to do their grisly job of removing the bodies from the gas chamber and burning them in the ovens. Even now I cannot begin to imagine the horrible, piercing pain that must have afflicted him doing such a job; it is truly impossible to grasp. So it is not surprising that he fell into such a miserable depression that he wanted to die, and he got his wish when he gave up completely, refusing to do the Nazis' dirty work. He was killed by either a shot or blow to the head (foggy memories make this uncertain) and a different prisoner at least had the decency to catch me between blocks and inform me of his death.

It was then that I experienced one of the worst memories in any of my regressions, when I completely lost it emotionally. I was in my block in Birkenau, lying in a bunk with Rivkah, my sister, and the grief that washed through me shook me to the depths of my soul. I had gone beyond crying to pure howling as I buried my head in my arms, the long sleeves of my striped camp dress scratching up against my cheek. She held me, rubbed my back, did the best she could to comfort me. The rest of the women in the barrack, however, had absolutely no sympathy, calling out to Rivkah: "Can't you get her to shut up?!"

It was then that a little part of me died with him, and I truly began to give up.

Those are the last of my memories of Jacob, but it is far from the end of the story. Like most things in my life, time and place have been reduced to a cycle, a cycle that brought me to Seattle on September 2, 2010. A 9.30 pm, waiting outside a hotel to meet up with some of my Rooster Teeth friends, the world as I knew it changed. One by one I was introduced to figures I knew on the site, and that is when the words, so seemingly insignificant at the time, set the gears of my cycle in motion once again.

"Hi, I'm Carolina," I said, a little shy.

"Rane," he replied.

Neither of us realized what was about to happen; that after sixty years separated in trauma and pain, we were reunited.

I'm just gonna...

...leave this here.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7rYZjv3wNg&ob=av2n

'cause I sure as hell can't put that on my RT journal.

btw, much thanks to Aliyah (I really really really hope I spelled your name right, and if I didn't I very much apologize and may have gotten the spelling mixed up with another friend's name) for telling me about this song.

Sigma's Knight

That's my new FFN penname, and as a result, has become my new Skype name, too. I got my hair done yesterday just like my Sig in Cydonia. I feel so connected to her, not only because she is the living embodiment of creativity but that she's fragmented, too.  She's broken in ways she doesn't even realize, until Maine shows her.

I never though I would love writing Sig/Maine as much as I do but it was the oneshots on RT that changed that.  Much like Church and Tex, Maine is Sigma's knight, her helper, her savior but at the same time, her destructor.  Heh, I can never write a happy romance, can I?

Well...the cat's out of the bag...

...Rane found out that he was Jacob.

And he took it surprisingly well. I was very nervous about him finding out because I thought he might go running away from the crazy girl (granted he hasn't done so yet and he had to nurse me through one of my manic phases) but he didn't. Actually, he said it made sense. Both because of his character, and because there was a memory I didn't include in the essay that he actually saw through Jacob's eyes....

(my lazy self is copy pasting this from a forum post I wrote describing this regression)

----

I think this was winter or spring 1944...and we were in the ghetto. Jacob and I were looking for a little privacy, somewhere away from all the crowds. We were in an abandoned house (for some reason a lot of the ghetto memories I have, while things may be in color, like the buildings are all brown. I don't know if they were just like that or my mind is being weird) and there was an old, rotting staircase behind us.

He was up against a wall, and like in all my ghetto memories, he was wearing a light-ish brown coat, kind of like the color of caramel. My usual navy blue one was tossed to one side, and so I was just in this flimsy (considering the weather) white blouse, that I think may have had very small dark blue polka dots. I also saw a navy blue skirt that was full, pleated and fell to my knees, and black stockings, and a white ribbon in my hair.

Anyway, he was holding me close, running his fingers through my hair, I think. Either way, he started kissing me, and I got lost in the feeling, pressing myself up against him. I think he must have gotten lost in it, too, because he forget himself, and his hands were under my blouse, his knuckles brushing up against my back. I got (obviously) incredibly dizzy and kind of sighed.

I get the feeling I was incredibly, incredibly naive about this kind of thing, despite being sixteen at that point. Either way, I had never felt anything like that before, though I also got the sense that he knew far more than I ever did, and I could also tell he wanted to press things further.

I don't know if he actually did (though I very much doubt it) because my TV made this weird noise and I snapped out of the trance.


----

In other news of the week, I am working again, I don't feel like doing my Monday homework, I'm eventually going to have the Greek letters Sigma, Theta, Epsilon, and Delta on the back of my ankle, and I finished another chapter of Cydonia.

...Yeah, I totally don't live a very interesting life. At all. xD

Jacob Portrait, Draft #1

I am going to be incredibly perfectionist about this one, much more than usual. As I mentioned in my very poorly written and unfinished piece...talking about Jacob is more difficult for me than the rest of my memories. But it's important, especially for the memoir.

----

Jacob.

I can hear the word all too well, those two short clipped syllables in English, the hard "J". In Polish, though, in German, in Yiddish, the languages I knew in my past life, it would have been softer. Turn the J into a Y, soften the o into more of a u, and even then I can't *quite* describe the way it sounds, nor can I pronounce it now with my clumsy American accent, though I try.

Jacob, Jacob, Jacob.

Ever since I was young, I have experienced memories from a life previous to this one, and through waking visions brought on by meditation, dreams, and regressions, I have been able to form a partial picture of who he was. Unfortunately, due to the nature of what happened between us, a grief and trauma runs so deeply though my soul that most of my memories are foggy, and blocked by my own mind in a desperate attempt to protect itself from the pain.

But what I do know tells me more than can truly be expressed in words. According to a dear friend of mine, someone who can "read" the past lives of others, Jacob and I met when  was very young, though I am not sure met is the word I am looking for. What I mean is that we were aware of each others' existence, passing each other once or twice in the street with our mothers. But it was not until I was sixteen that we truly ended up connected in a way that carried over sixty years, from Bronia in 1944 to Carolina in 2010.

The very first, albeit unclear, memory I got of him was our first kiss. I am not quite sure where we were at the time, in some sort of cobblestone paved square. I had a heavy schoolbag on my back, and I was aware of Rivkah's envious stare on me as he kissed me. Not too pushy, just a bit of a peck on the lips, but it is nearly impossible to describe the spark between us, how deeply I felt for him.

See, I'm not the type of girl who believes in true love. In fact, it's become a bit of  running joke amongst my friends. "That bitch Carolina..."

But feeling what I did in that moment, how happy he made me in such a dark, desperate time, how when he held me close that way I felt forever safe and protected, and that nothing could ever hurt me when he was by my side, it became not as far out of the realm of possibility. I only have two other happy memories of him, though both were in places that were far from ideal. The first, the anteroom to Hell--the Lodz Ghetto. The second, Hell itself--Birkenau. 

In the ghetto, the two of us used to walk often, though I cannot place the name of the streets. The ghetto itself was dusty and brown in the heat of that summer of 1944, and he very lightly held onto my hand as we talked. In the case of some past life memories, while there are many sensations and details, there can be an absence of a few of the senses themselves. The most common ones I miss are that of smell (I am grateful for that) and hearing. Anything that is being said somehow ends up telepathically in my consciousness, as crazy as it sounds. In this case, Jacob was talking about the future, and that absolutely floored me. That caged up in the filthy, dank, disease ridden part of Lodz, branded with the yellow star on both our chests and back, he could talk about the future of the world with such excitement, but he did.

I could tell how intense he felt about this subject due to the very subtle shifts in his body language; how he gripped my hand just a little bit harder, and a word jumped into my mind.

Communist. Of course, back in 1944, Communism was feared in some circles, but the atrocities that would later be associated were unknown. Not that any news would have leaked to us to begin with--the Lodz Ghetto, unlike many ghettos, was nearly hermetically sealed, the smuggling of food completely impossible, among other things. The destination we were headed to next, however, was completely different, and it was then that things began to take a turn for the worst.

But there was one more pleasant memory between us then, even in the depths of Birkenau we were given a few opportunities to meet, and speak to each through the electrified fence that separated the mens' blocks from the womens'. Through some way or another, he managed to produce a white flower. Now, to you, it may not seem like much. However, in Birkenau, where all beauty died and no living things existed, it was an extraordinary act. Cradling that tiny white flower in my hands I couldn't imagine the lengths he had gone to in order to give it to me, and in that Hell, it became the symbol for how deeply he loved me. 

Unfortunately, it did not take long for the effects of Birkenau to take a toll on him. He was assigned to the most horrible job in the entire camp, that of the Sonderkommando. The Sonderkommando squad lived in the crematoriums, in the attics, and it was in the crematorium that they were forced to do their grisly job of removing the bodies from the gas chamber and burning them in the ovens. Even now I cannot begin to imagine the horrible, piercing pain that must have afflicted him doing such a job; it is truly impossible to grasp. So it is not surprising that he fell into such a miserable depression that he wanted to die, and he got his wish when he gave up completely, refusing to do the Nazis' dirty work. He was killed by either a shot or blow to the head (foggy memories make this uncertain) and a different prisoner at least had the decency to catch me between blocks and inform me of his death.

It was then that I experienced one of the worst memories in any of my regressions, when I completely lost it emotionally. I was in my block in Birkenau, lying in a bunk with Rivkah, my sister, and the grief that washed through me shook me to the depths of my soul. I had gone beyond crying to pure howling as I buried my head in my arms, the long sleeves of my striped camp dress scratching up against my cheek. She held me, rubbed my back, did the best she could to comfort me. The rest of the women in the barrack, however, had absolutely no sympathy, calling out to Rivkah: "Can't you get her to shut up?!"

It was then that a little part of me died with him, and I truly began to give up.

Those are the last of my memories of Jacob, but it is far from the end of the story. Like most things in my life, time and place have been reduced to a cycle, a cycle that brought me to Seattle on September 2, 2010. A 9.30 pm, waiting outside a hotel to meet up with some of my Rooster Teeth friends, the world as I knew it changed. One by one I was introduced to figures I knew on the site, and that is when the words, so seemingly insignificant at the time, set the gears of my cycle in motion once again.

"Hi, I'm Carolina," I said, a little shy.

"Rane," he replied.

Neither of us realized what was about to happen; that after sixty years separated in trauma and pain, we were reunited.

Cydonia

Tucka drew me the most beautiful artwork for Cydonia, with Sigma and AI!Maine. It's just...it exceeded every single one of my expectations, and I am deeply grateful for it.

I wasn't even expecting a pic either--I had already gotten my South and D request filled. Then when I told her about the finale of Revelation after PAX (unlike most people she loves spoilers) she was like, "Free picture for you!" so who was I to refuse?

So Sig and Maine it was. Too bad LJ was being a butt (to borrow Kayla's phrase...I think it was Kayla who said that) and I couldn't upload the full pic. So instead it's just a close up of Sig.