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Topics - Adam Hoying

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In the dark days, you were afraid to be happy.

Fear of the unknown was second nature, nothing more than common sense. The darkness holds dangerous things, and unpredictability will eat you alive. It has before. It will again.

It took you a very long time to remember what it was like to be happy.

You weren’t always sad. Always is a firm, solid, undeniable label, and you were never good with those. Your life has never deserved such stern labeling when it feels as if you have spent all your years somewhere in between. Not always sad, but not happy. Not sunshine bright, not midnight dark. Your only discoveries were different shades of default gray.

The dark days were a fog, but they were what you knew. Anything to upset the fog was something to be feared. Anything that upset that mundane rhythm was something that took from it. Change is loss. You learned to fear it, to hate it, knowing it has taken from you and it will take again. You are a giving person; you will give every single piece of your soul to someone who will rip it into shreds that you must pick up and put back together again. The world is not a giving world. It has always taken and taken and taken, and each time it leaves you broken, searching for glue to hold your collection of shards and fragments together.

Happiness is change. Change is loss. How can you not fear holding onto something that will slip away in the blink of an eye?

You’ve been left behind too many times to count. Perhaps happiness was the first real intangible thing to leave you behind every time your world shattered. It preceded the departure of sleep and laughter. It made room for anxiety and nightmares and every dark thing that crept forth from the edge of your mind when you weren’t looking.

When love left you, it took happiness with you, and joy’s departure took everything else. It’s a matter of self-preservation - cautious protection. You’ve been hurt too many times to be hurt again. And yet, every time you dare to let it in again, you are.

It hurts to know you are so easy to forget.

You hold tight to your ideals in the hope that they will protect you. You do not leave your loneliness for fear of what else will leave you. To be alone means that you cannot be touched. To be alone means that there is no avenue the world can use to take from you. Instead, you take from yourself. Is that not better? Is it not better to waste away of your own volition, rather than allow someone to take pieces of you with them when they inevitably disappear?

Most people have found a way to leave you, even those who swore they wouldn’t. There are very few left now, but they are trying to prove you wrong. You are trying to believe them, but some days the dark days return, and then you are not convinced that the cycle will not repeat itself once more. The unpredictable becomes predictable. Happiness becomes fear. Change becomes loss.

Many parts of your world have not changed in these last few years. She is one of them. She has always been there through the worst, though you know she was too young to truly understand all you went through. For a very long time, she has been the only one you really had. Perhaps you are the only one she really has, too.

And then you become less easy to forget, and then you wonder if the universe has decided to play another trick or finally, finally, show you kindness.

The dark days become fewer and farther between. There is no loss, but there is no change. You wonder what it would be like to change. You wonder what it would be like to venture beyond the bubble you have created for yourself - to expand.

But you are afraid, so very afraid, to let yourself know happiness.

Smiles slip to your face and sleep stops its restless dance, and you are wary. Why would you not be when getting better means getting worse? At the end of every brightness, there is a tunnel; but at the end of every tunnel, there is light.

Life is a balance between good and evil, bright and dark, joy and sadness. Perhaps life has been off balance for too long. Perhaps, this time, you will not be the fool.

Even after it all, you’re cursed with the burden of hope. It never really leaves, does it? You’re still here. After it all, you’re still here, so hope must be, too. Even when you are convinced you have left it behind, even when you are certain you will not be played for a fool again, it remains. Stubborn, insistent little thing. The last little secret in Pandora’s box - the only way to survive everything it released.

You hope. And you try. You smile and laugh and your eyes do not look so dark anymore. The routine is still routine, but it is softer and kinder. And maybe, just maybe, you can be happy.

Sometimes the world takes and sometimes it is kind. You have always tried to avoid the unknown; it’s why you worked so hard to learn how to read the future. But sometimes it evades you, for sometimes things are simply not meant to be known. Sometimes they are bad things, but you are learning they are good things too.

You might always be a little messed up inside. You think there will always be some missing parts of you; there will always be dark things at the edges of a brain that is not a normal one. But you learn to push the dark things back.

And when you push them back, it becomes easier to try again. To let yourself be convinced. To let yourself believe.

It comes down to this: happiness is not something to be afraid of because love is the antithesis of fear.

Freestyle Roleplaying / homecoming queen | closed
« on: 12/06/2020 at 22:41 »
December 27, 1960
A small bookstore in Residential Wizarding London
continued from here

It wasn't easy, but they made it work.

Adam pulled together enough money for a Christmas dinner for Martina, Bea, and himself, and it was the best meal he had eaten in a long time. He slept on the sofa and gave his aunt the bed, as he had promised to himself he would. It was no great tragedy; he'd spent plenty of nights, some more sleepless than others, on sofas and armchairs in the Ravenclaw common room. And it was worth it for the days with the three of them together, talking and smiling and laughing. It wasn’t something he did much back in his school days, but things were better now. It got better.

Martina Wells was not the same woman she was before the summer of 1953. He had not expected her to be. He could not expect every memory to be perfect, everything to be perfectly intact, and not so long ago, he could never dream that anything close was even a possibility. No, she couldn’t tell the stories of her travels in perfect detail as she always had to attempt to send him into a peaceful sleep. No, she didn’t remember all of Louise Hoying’s tidbits of wisdom or the exact way her apple pie tasted. No, she didn’t remember John Hoying’s booming laugh or the sound of his drumming in the early mornings when she came to New York to visit.

But then again, neither did he, not as much as he once did. Time was a strange thing, corrupting the minds and memories of all who fell victim to it. The universe could put one in the wrong place at the wrong time...but it could also allow one to recover from those unfortunate circumstances. It wasn’t to the same degree, but then again, what could ever be? Adam Hoying had learned that change was inevitable and undeniable in any circumstance. As much as he wished he could avoid or escape change, it came for everyone in the end. For most of his life, he feared it; change for Adam usually meant things got worse.

But he was learning now that it could get better. Martina Wells laughed and spoke like she used to. She moved her limbs restlessly as she spoke, always eager to wander even when it might not be in her cards, and her eyes lit up when he told her about something he loved. It was not the same, but it was good.

And so, at twenty-two years old, Adam John Hoying learned to accept change.

“And this is the children’s aisle, and the fantasy books are over there.” Showing two of his favorite people the little bookstore he worked at (he had a job, like a proper functioning adult!) was certainly a change - one he quite liked. Bea quickly found a book and retreated to the reading nook in the corner once he finished his tour (not much of one - it was small but cozy, which was why he liked it so much), but his aunt stayed by his side. She had barely left it in the past couple days - perhaps still getting used to the fact that they were truly together again.

He smiled directly at her; she used to be taller than him, but now, even with his shorter stature, he could look her in the eye. “Do you want help finding a book to read, Aunt Martina? I have to work the register soon, but they won’t mind if you hang out here.” That meant he had to talk to whatever customers came in; he was always nervous about it at first, but most typically only wanted someone to run the transaction or help them find a book, and those were things he could do. He was always good with books, though he still liked the idea of writing them even more than talking about them. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going overly well for him, but in the past few weeks, that had barely been a thought on his mind. His life was no longer about him and his own loneliness; it was about the people he loved, and that was a nice change, too.

“I told you, Ads, call me Tina.” Her hand was a comforting weight on his shoulder, familiar even after so many years without it.

“And I told you I’m not used to your new nickname yet and...” No one calls me that, he thought, but that was not entirely true. Martina - or Tina now - did; it had just been seven years since then. He was surprised that she remembered.

“Well, get used to it. I’m a whole new woman now, remember?” She chuckled as if this were the funniest thing; it was just like her to already make jokes about remembering.  “I’d like to see your favorites.”

“My favorites?” He frowned thoughtfully. “I...I guess most is fine if it’s written well.” His literary and writing standards were high, but when it came to topics, he simply wanted to learn or feel something.

“What are you reading most right now?”

That was an easier question. He took her to the small section full of books about travel and the world beyond Great Britain, a topic he would have never touched in his school days. Now, with the loss of most of his first-hand source of knowledge on it, he found it intriguing. Such was the irony of life.

For the next few hours, when he wasn’t helping the few customers that wandered in, he watched her read a book about the sights of South America rather than see them firsthand as she once did, and he wondered if she would rather be there than here.

era of doubt
it's been quite some time since Adam's aunt lost her memory and he isolated himself for a week...

December 16, 1960

He was staring at a blank page, pen lingering over the paper but not quite touching it, too many thoughts storming through his mind without direction as he cursed the page for its persistent emptiness, when he heard the tapping at his window.

Adam Hoying had been in this position for about a year now, ever since he started writing again. For the first few years after graduation, his life was empty and inspiration was nonexistent; where would he find it in a life of nothing but static? But since those summer days in 1959, he found meaning, purpose, a reason to smile and to create.

And he had. When the Hoying inheritance got low, he worked in little shops and bookstores until he built up the courage to eventually sell his first painting; when he got more for it than he expected, he sold another. It wasn’t easy for a boy who had always been afraid to share himself with anyone, but he got by. He had to - not only for himself, but for those who cared about him. He had people who would miss him if he were gone. It was a wonderful thing to know.

But as he doodled and drew, painted and created, he always returned to his notebooks. Adam had always been a writer; he expressed his emotions and ideas much more vividly and eloquently through the written word rather than the spoken. He didn’t stutter so much anymore, but still, he spoke more clearly through a pen or quill than his mouth, and the pages were destined to be where he told his story.

The idea to do that struck not long ago, during a conversation with Vanessa over lunch at The Yellow Door. She wanted to travel and see the world - just like Martina Wells, though she was still in a long-term mental rehabilitation facility in Scotland. The staff sent him monthly updates, and with their experience in such matters, he learned more than he ever had from St. Mungo’s Magical Psychology ward. Recovering from severe memory loss was a process of careful magic, mental strengthening, and slow, steady persistence. Even with those, plenty of miracles were required for it to be even remotely possible after the brain sustained such damage. He visited her a few months ago and told her about the drawing he gave to Beatrice, the girl who had been family to him for eight years now, during a Hogsmeade weekend. She smiled and laughed and was almost like he remembered from his childhood...but different in a way he couldn’t pinpoint. Maybe because what she loved most in the world - her nephew and the great big beautiful world - had both moved forward without her.

With the thought of her wandering soul trapped by her own mind for so many years lingering with him, he knew he would write about travel. He would see the great big beautiful world she always told him about -  the Taj Mahal, the Grand Canyon, the Hanging Gardens, the Great Barrier Reef, Machu Picchu, and every other place she loved - through words. He had a character - a boy in search of a lost family relic, but also his true self. He had books - so, so many books about every topic he wanted to write about.

And that December day, when he heard the tapping at his window, he had nine drafts of a first chapter, seven of a second, and three of a third with a fourth in progress. Oliver Wiseman had yet to leave his small Welsh hometown.

The sound was a welcome reprieve from the pen in his hand and the paper that haunted him with its emptiness.

He stood up from his desk, crossed his bedroom to the window that looked over the streets of Residential Wizarding London, and opened it for the determined little owl with a letter clutched in its talons. The poor thing looked like it had been through hell - or perhaps it had just come from Scotland. The snow was getting bad these days, after all, and it was about time for a monthly update. As soon as he let the creature in, it stumbled right into his hands and promptly collapsed. He smiled and carried it to the living room, where he set it beside the cheerfully burning fireplace before sitting down with the letter.

Mr. Adam Hoying,

An early happy Christmas to you!

(Funny, even with all his preparations for Bea to return home for Christmas break soon, he had forgotten how soon the holiday was.)

We are delighted to inform you that Marina Wells’ request to be released has been filed, reviewed, and approved. With her knowledge of both English and Spanish intact (to a lesser degree than before her accident, but receptive to improvement), as well as her ability to recall a significant amount of her life, we fully believe she is more than capable of performing everyday activities and more. [...]

Once she settles in, you are free to set her up with other lodgings. In the meantime, she has requested to spend a few weeks at minimum with you. With your permission and confirmation that your address remains the same, we can book her travel to send her home to you by Christmas.

Home by Christmas.

He leaned back in his chair and felt everything at once. Too many times as a boy, he was overwhelmed by emotion, unable to process the sheer power of what lay below the surface, but this moment, in his apartment with only the sounds of the crackling fire and his beating heart to break the silence, showed how much had changed since then. Adam John Hoying was no longer a boy; he was a man. He felt much still, but now, he could float rather than drown in the tidal wave. Now, he did not fight back or let it crush him. He allowed himself to feel it, every part of it - the shock, the disbelief, so many others even the writer could not name but, above all, pure and utter joy. Happiness could not begin to describe it.

He thought this day might never come. Over a year ago, when he visited her in her new long-term residence for the first time, the director confided in him that long-term often meant forever. They worked tirelessly to help their patients remember, but some minds no longer functioned well enough to ever retain memory of how to function in society. Adam told him she remembered a lot, did very well in St. Mungo’s...but there was a reason her nurses finally convinced him to send her there. It wasn’t enough.
Miracles happened, the director said, but he didn’t sound like he quite believed it.

But they did. Oh my god, they did.

The world had never been kind to him. He and the universe rarely found themselves on the same wavelength - hadn’t, in fact, until two summers ago. But finally, mercy and kindness and light shone upon him and those he loved. Miracles - a concept he lost belief in at nine years old, when he realized his parents were never coming home - were real.

Miracles happen, he told that man in his mind, and he went to his notebook and wrote faster than he had in weeks. Mere minutes ago, he had been trying to write something he had never experienced, but this, he knew with every fiber of his being. It was a simple thing to write: yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

It was a small apartment and Bea would be home soon, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. He would make room, he would sleep on the sofa, he would work extra hours for a Christmas dinner big enough for all of them. He would do whatever it took. Miracles happened, the world smiled upon him, and he could not let it slip by. No longer could Adam sit at his desk and crumble up another piece of paper and let the world pass by with the passive resignation that had always dominated his life.

He had people who cared about him, loved him, would miss him if he was gone. Miracles happened.

He didn’t send the ragged little owl out into the winter night; he thought about it, but it didn’t feel right to make the poor thing suffer anymore. Instead, he pulled on his coat, went out into the darkness, and made it to the local owlery just before closing time. He told them to send the little owl back to Scotland once it recovered, bought a treat for it, and sent a stronger bird with his answer. Everyone deserved a chance to recover, to find themselves again, to find joy and strength when all they had ever known was despair and weakness.

His night was sleepless, but now it was by choice rather than fear. He wrote three and a half versions of a poem for Aunt Martina before he was satisfied with it and finished the fourth draft of the third chapter, and when he couldn’t write anymore, he drew. It wasn’t so long ago that he was stuck in a complete creative block, but now, art flowed from his fingers like wine from the glasses that would sit beside his and his aunt’s places at the dinner table Christmas evening.

Miracles happened.

December 25, 1960

They delivered on their promise; she arrived bright and early that morning, just in time for Christmas.

They greeted her, he and the girl who had become like a little sister to him, and she hugged him for a solid minute. When they finally released each other, tears in both their eyes, she hugged Bea too.

After so many years lost to cruelty and unpredictability, what he had once viewed as the universe’s only traits, she was home - finally home in every sense of the word. The universe was kind, and miracles were real after all.

His girls were home for Christmas, and Adam Hoying could want nothing more.

p.s. this is canon :)

Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.

MODERN DEMIGOD/CAMP HALF-BLOOD AU. In which Marilyn-Rose Wilson is a child of Aphrodite with a love for plants who's eager to take on the world and Adam Hoying is a child of Athena with a sassy side who's just trying to get by.

Don't feel bad, I'm usually about to die.

First day of summer, 2019
Camp Half-Blood, Long Island, New York
Mess Hall


Adam Hoying let out a sigh - one that would have been utterly exasperated for anyone else, but he just didn't have it in him when it came to Marilyn-Rose Wilson. This was unfortunate, because Marilyn-Rose Wilson was the one who insisted on attempting to sit at the wrong table every single summer.

"How many times are we going to have to tell you to stay at your table this summer?"

Freestyle Archives / weaving time in a tapestry // closed
« on: 03/25/2019 at 00:11 »
saturday, june 23, 1956
residential wizarding london
outside a section of flats

Six summers ago, Adam Hoying had been in a townhouse in Wales, watching silently as Aunt Martina did her best to cook supper for the two of them. Now, here he stood in London, prepared to strike out on his own when it came to living situations and procuring meals for the summer so that he could visit her as she struggled to remember. Time, Adam thought to himself, really did change everything.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" he spoke to the back of the first person he saw on the street, "W-would you happen to know if there are any f-flats available for rental?"

His stutter had improved over the past year. Apparently not enough to disguise his apprehensiveness over independence.

Freestyle Archives / Everybody Talks // Aldessa
« on: 12/09/2018 at 02:57 »
july 4, 1955
shuddering wood; just within the treeline
most definitely after curfew

The Fourth of July always tended to strike a feeling of nostalgia within Adam. He could clearly recall the gatherings that used to take place annually, celebrating America's independence with barbecue and fireworks. Of course, such a holiday was nonexistent in both Britain and Narnia; that entire part of his life now was. This was something he had long since accepted, but he couldn't help wishing to see one more firework show.

It was late, he knew, but the night did not deter Adam Hoying. Perhaps it was not the right time to explore the forest, but it was where his feet had led him, and he paused to lean against a tree and wonder why that was. Holding his wand tightly in his hand, he absentmindedly wondered what might happen if he were to create just one firework of his own--break the rules, just this once--knowing the whole time that he wouldn't.

july fifth, 1953
the interior of pixie hollow

He was alone, and that was the first thing she noticed. She could not remember seeing him before, and that was the second thing she noticed.

"Hi," she said by way of greeting, "Have we met?"

Past Workshop Prompts / prompt three: a new chapter
« on: 12/20/2017 at 22:58 »
September 1st, 1950
Platform Nine and Three Quarters
The Beginning

It's here.

The day I've been looking forward to for so long. The day I've been waiting for. The day when maybe, possibly, everything might change. I might finally find friends. I'll learn more and more about this incredible wizarding world. This day, today, is the day I have been waiting for.

It's kind of surreal, now that it's finally happening. Now that Aunt Martina is nodding at me and telling me to just run at the brick wall and I'll arrive at the platform, and I do and here I am. Here it is. There's the Hogwarts Express, the train they used to describe in great detail, with its comfy compartments and trolley full of sweets that I will finally experience for myself. People are everywhere, students rushing towards the train, waving good-bye to their families. Seventh years and fourth years and second years and the first years, like me. There's so many of them, everywhere. I try to fight off the feelings of suffocation, feelings that I will never belong amongst them. I'm in the same boat as all the other first years. I can find a way to belong. Right?

Martina hugs me. Her embrace is warm and sweet, and I hug her back, though I can't help wishing that she was Mum instead. That instead of this being enthusiastic, free-spirited Martina, that I'm hugging my wonderful, warm, loving mum, and Dad is standing beside her, clapping a hand on my back maybe, and beaming in pride.

But they're not here. They're gone. They're not here at one of the most important moments in my life. They won't be here at all the other departings and homecomings. They won't be here when I graduate. My parents have been dead for two years now, and that is something that I cannot change.

It's awful. It's terrible. It's horrible. It's true.

I don't want it to ruin this day. The day when I will finally see the castle I've always dreamed of, be Sorted, see the magnificence of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry at long last. But I will always think of writing them about my day, and then remember I can't. Always think of seeing them during the holidays, and then remember that I can't, that they're gone, forever and always. It is only me and Martina and the ghosts of the two of them, now.

Their deaths were the endings of a long chapter in my life. Martina rescuing me was the beginning of another. September 1st, 1950 is the end of that chapter and the beginning of a brand-new one. It all begins today. I decide how the story will go. I write my story.

Will this chapter be a good one? I don't know. I don't know if I'm ready to know. But I will not know until it begins.

I hug her back, and she smiles at me. "You'll be wonderful, Adam. Remember to write me. Be good, don't get in trouble." Does she really expect me to get into trouble? "I love you."

How I wish there was someone else in place of her saying those words. But it is Aunt Martina, and it is illogical to try and believe differently. "I love you too." It's the truth. It is the truth and will always be the truth, but Martina is not my parents. We are not the same as the parents sending off their child a few feet away. And that is the truth, too.

A whistle sounds, and students begin to crowd onto the train. I know it's time to leave. And so I give my aunt one last hug and resignedly turn away. I pull my trunk along behind me and it bumps along the ground with each step I take away from the most recent chapter of my life.

I stand in front of the train, now, my heart in my throat. This is the beginning. It all starts here.

I turn and wave to Aunt Martina, one last time. She waves back, and I can see something dripping down her face. Tears? But I cannot dwell on it now. The train is about to leave the station.

Lugging my trunk behind me, I step onto the Hogwarts Express, and the chapter begins.

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