#//STORYTIME INSTEAD KIDS GATHER ROUND

[sindumpster]

Say It With Me

[ReaderXJake Drabble]

CW: mass vore and overstuffing, implied digestion/fatal, indigestion, minor belching, lots of teasing, and a fat dragon

=====

You smirk as you rest atop the dragon’s massively bloated midsection. Your eyes glide momentarily to the carnage around you. What was previously was a busy buffet is in complete disarray. All the buffet tables are empty, effectively cleaned out; some have been ripped out and destroyed. And there’s a distinct lack of people. The place was thronging with customers when you arrived, but now they’re gone.

Well, technically they’re still here, you muse, and smack the side of Jake’s towering gut. The view from up here is quite nice actually. You can nearly reach the ceiling if you stood, and you have a nice front row seat to the dragon’s digestive misery, far from his reach. Not that you think he’d try, from the way he groans, and his stomach churns and whines in pain beneath you. A loud, long, gurgling belch only adds credence to your suspicions.

“You know…” You lean forwards to face him. “I’d hate to tell you I told you so, but~” You smack the side of the dragon’s gut again. Harder this time. The massive tanks rumbles its complaints beneath you, and the glutton groans.

“Ughh…shuddup…” He grimaces, not appreciating the rough treatment. “Dun do that...”

“Or what?” Your smirk widens. “You’ll eat me? Add me to all this?” You pat the gurgling dome. “Reach me from all the way down there? Fat chance~”

It’s hard to say if he catches your clever little pun. He groans all the same. “Ughh...whatever...” He brings his hands to his face. Even he knows he can’t win. “Jus’...help me, alright?”

“I dunno...” Admittedly, you’re tempted to give him what he wants. To sink your hands into his rumbling belly. Feel it churn under your hands as you massage it, helping his overtaxed stomach digest his ridiculous feast. But then again, you have a rare opportunity to milk the situation. To tease him. Relentlessly. Without repercussion. “I think I might need some magic words~”

You’re grinning now. For whatever reason, Jake hates polite words. Much less asking for anything, or showing gratitude, when he can just take it. ‘Please’ and ‘thank you’ are usually far outside his repertoire.

And yet, disappointingly, he gives in immediately. “P-UoRp...please...”

You’re not surprised though. You’re clever enough to know when the dragon is down. When he’ll relinquish that control. You planned for this outcome. “Hmmm no. I don’t think that’s enough~” You snicker sadistically. “I need words, Jake. How about...‘I’m a moron’~”

Green eyes stare at you, and his brows knit it into a glare. You can see the gears in his head turning, but he says nothing.

“Go on. Say it.” You coax. Your finger mindlessly draws little circles on the surface of his gut. “Just three little words.”

You don’t need to look at him, you can feel the daggers he’s staring into you.

“......I hate you...”

“Oooh, so close! You got three words down,” your voice oozes with smugness as you coo at him. Patronizing him like the misbehaving toddler he is. “Come on. Let’s try that again~”

You can see the confliction on his face. Oh, the dilemma he must be having! The poor, poor (not so) little egotist, having to admit to a personal flaw. That he, once again, did something rash. And stupid. Oh the indignity!

Yet again, he says nothing. But you can sense him wavering. Only one more strike, and this petty victory will be yours.

“Here, I’ll help~” You face the overstuffed dragon once more, grinning.

“Say it with me…”

[stitchkiss]

tell me a story about u

bestie you know more of my stories than anyone and you still want more?? i can’t believe you aren’t sick of them yet lmaoo. i’ll tell you a few from that liam-esque list i sent you a while back.

GATHER ROUND KIDS!! STORYTIME!!

story 1: idek when this was probably when i was like 13 but anyway we were gardening n shit and i was by all the tools takin a break bc i planted like 20 zucchini seeds (bad idea in hindsight all we ate that summer was zucchini) and i was tired. so i look down and there’s a garden hoe next to me and i’m getting flashbacks to my childhood when i watched tom and jerry obsessively and i think “huh. i wonder what would happen if i stepped on it” guess what happened. smacked me right in the face the second i stepped on it. blood went everywhere. face, clothes, tools, soil. brother is laughing. sister rushing for towels. mom making sure my nose wasn’t broken. dad wishing i was never born. my face messy with tears n blood n sweat. i consider this a win bc not only did i get to live out a childhood fantasy but i didn’t have to garden for the rest of the day!

story 2: i am. dumb. and impulsive. and i think movie magic applies to me. all this, but i’m 9 years old. we had just moved and a perk was that a golf cart came w the house. so when, for reasons i can’t remember, there was a dirt hill in my backyard i knew EXACTLY what to do with it bc i had just watched wreck it ralph AND played a mario kart tournament the night before so i know a ramp when i see one. see where im going w this? when i saw the dirt hill i got on the golf cart and fuckin floored it. the thing is, i didn’t know that the dirt wasn’t packed in, so it was too soft for the tires. i did not make it over. the cart tipped over and i fell out. it almost crushed me. the funniest part ab this is when my mom came over to check on me she was like “i saw you speed off and i KNEW what you were doing” i wasn’t allowed to try it again.

3. i had a goldfish named herbert. i won him at a festival when i was like 12 and he came in a plastic baggie like from finding nemo. so i brought him home and i quickly realized i had no place to put him bc he was my first (and only) fish. so i threw out these flowers my mom had in this really big vase and i put him in it instead. during this time i didnt have a phone bc i accidentally broke it a few days before when i was jump roping and had it in my pocket and it flew out. SO i didn’t know what to feed herbert bc no google and neither did anyone else and they didn’t want to help me raise my new son so i had to figure this out by myself. do you know what i fed him instead of fish food? ritz crackers. how tf was i supposed to know the salt from the crackers would kill him. the concept of “freshwater fish” eluded me at the time. i woke up the next day and he was floating at the top of the vase. but the worst part of this story? i was preparing a small, intimate funeral for herbert bc he deserved nothing less and i took him out of the vase and put him on a plate. then i left for like 5 minutes to make sure my brother and sister were going to be in attendance and to throw some rose petals in the toilet bc if i was gonna flush him it might as well be beautiful. but. when i went back to the kitchen to get herbert, my cat was eating him.

4. last story! my cousins and i are really close and we do this thing when all of us are available and we call it a version of guy’s grocery games based on who the judge is that night (we replace the g with our initial) where we each make food but change it up in a creative way. this time was pizza. i teamed up w one of my cousins and we decided to make a pizza based off the fast food chain raising canes. so we go to canes and order a bunch of chicken and fries and bread and we even got a cup full of canes sauce for $5 and we also bought a premade pizza dough. the pizza was DIVINE and i’d eat it again but be warned you need pepto bismal on hand if you eat it bc it’ll rly fuck up ur insides. but, even tho it was the best invention ever, we didn’t fucking win. what did we lose to, you ask? a ramen pizza. my brother and his gf made it w the recipe I SENT HIM!! but the thing is, this recipe called for soy sauce and my cousin is allergic to soy. my brother asked me for his allergy list in preparation and i forgot to put it on there. so my cousin was ab to take a bite when my brain connected the very very important dots and i smacked it out of his hand.

hope u enjoyed all that!!

[thearchivistsjournal]

Day 300,

It’s been raining hard all day.  As I write this I’m passing the time, waiting for it to let up so I can make the walk back to the house.

The day’s been a slow one.  In lieu of being able to go outside for recess, I wound up giving the kids free (supervised) reign to draw on the blackboard while Cass took those who weren’t so interested in that down to look around the archive.  She seems to enjoy being the oldest one in the room and trusting her to take care of things down there without me was an apology of sorts for the other day.

At the end of the school day, with the rain being the way it’s been, more than a few of the kids opted to wait for it to let up before heading home.  Same as I’m doing now, really.  This led to an additional round of storytime while waiting for that.  Said story got cut short by the only break in the rain we’ve had today.  

Foolishly thinking the weather might stay that way, Cass and I spent the next couple of hours going over potential stories for telling at the inn tomorrow evening.  Of course, by the time we were through with that the rain had returned.  With a shorter walk to deal with, Cass went ahead and left.  I stayed and had a bite for dinner while gambling on the rain letting up instead of getting harder.  It looks like I’ve lost that bet with myself and now it seems the wind is picking up too.  Between that and the fact that the sun will start setting before too long, I should probably just go ahead and leave now if I’m going to spend the night at the house.  Sure, I could just walk over in the morning, but the more time I’m at the house, the more chance I have of being there if when Maiko returns.

*******

Once more I have danced stormy-eyed in the night, reveling in the words of what the thunder said.  

As I attempted to return to my home the wind tested the umbrella.  Lifted it.  Threatened to invert and break it.  It was strong but I sensed it would not hold.  I folded it down and hid my bag of writings within the collapsed canopy.  If it could not shield me, it could shield that which I claimed it was for.

No longer resisting the rain, I strode through the rising storm bereft of pretense.  The wind through the avenue of trees woke the branches to music.  An orchestral prelude to the thunder’s voice.  The gathered clouds drove the earth to darkness in advance of the sun’s own setting and my mind was cast back to my first encounter with the storm.  How easily lost I became.  Overwhelmed by the wet and the noise and the dark.  Frightened and driven to seek shelter.  Now I know the road like I know myself.  Embrace the rain’s caress.  Sing along with the wordless song.  Carry my own light.

But I could not tarry in my revelry overlong.  I have a duty to the words of ink I carried.  They cannot withstand the dance and had need for deliverance unto the shelter of hearth and home ere I indulge in whimsy.

Duty recalled, I slipped from dance to march.  For the first time I truly felt the ring upon my finger.  With every quickened step the road seemed to flow beneath me, first the cobbles, then the mud.  The wind and the rain parted around me.  Soon my dear, soon, but work before play.

I have noted before a seeming quickening of passage along the roads while wearing that pale ring as well as feeling that I was less sodden than I ought to be after being out in the rain.  And, in truth, that’s become my default state with almost never taking the ring off.  But this was something else, a thing I do not believe I could ever force at will.  Is it too a thing of wind and storm?  The wind does ever travel with ease.  Or perhaps it was simply an alteration of my own perception brought on by a rare mood, and I was truly no quicker nor more dry than I ever am.

Whatever the case, the sight of the lights from the windows of the house sparked me back to such sharp lucidity that memory of the journey from Village to home fell away in a haze by contrast.  That last stretch from yard to door was an entirely ordinary sprint out of the rain.  The first order of business, of course, was to make sure the books, this journal included, had survived safely and lay them out to dry from any creeping dampness.  And then to doff my boots lest I track yet more mud around the house.  And then a change into drier clothes.  But throughout it all, the call to the storm was still there in the back of my mind.  The urge to dance.

I had not yet fully re-garbed myself when the first true crack of thunder came.  With that signal I knew better than to finish that course of action, for any new garments would only get wet as well.  And besides, I wished to feel the wet grass beneath my feet.

Looking out the door, I was struck by the thought that the expanse in front of me was far too dark.  The sun had set in truth and no moon nor star could hope to penetrate the theatre roof of the clouds above.  True, light spilled forth from the house, but that was far too small a stage.  This would not do at all.

Obviously the solution was to bring the light outside to the storm and so I gathered up every crystal in the house and carried the armful out the door.  I paused briefly behind the curtain of water at the edge of the porch.  A voice in some far corner of my mind cried out that we’d gone far past mere whimsy by now.  Perhaps it is time to reel this in a bit.

I smile, acknowledge the voice is right, and continue.

Step through the curtain.  Take the stage.  The music is already playing.

Light the stage with movement.  Leave behind pieces of home.  Grow the stage.  

Do not rush the process.  This too is part of the dance.  Release your burdens when it feels right.

Free now.  Weightless.  Let limbs flow unbound.

Twist and turn.  Whirl and writhe.  Leap and lunge.

No wrong way to dance with the wind.  Be one with the music of the rain.  Listen to the thunder speak without words.

Lift face to sky as lightning flashes.  Catch its shine on your teeth.  Burn the afterimage of your eyes and grin onto your audience.

Jump.  Land.  Slip.

Hit the muddy grass.  Laugh.  This too is part of the dance.

The fall is your own lightning.  The splash is your own thunder.  The pain is your own afterimage.

Rise again.  Repeat it all.  Renounce time and care.

Welcome the audience who joins you.  Not the partner you hoped would come, but they do know the steps.  Be the one to lead this time.

Adjust the dance for a partner.  Feel the rhythm flow differently when channeled through two.  Rarely touch, but that’s not the point.

Lightning once more.  Let it illuminate your eyes to match the other’s.  Make them look away first this time.

Thunder follows.  Shout with it.  Raise voice with the intensifying chorus of the wind.

Circle and slide.  Approach and abjure.  Reach and retreat.

Feel the rain on your shoulders become sheets.  Feel the wind decide your direction more than your will.  Feel the water at your ankles force a slowness.

No!  Faster!  Livelier!

Do not slow at the storm’s peak.  Do not heed the protestations of flesh.  Do not let gravity, friction, resistance hold you back.

Revel.

In the life of the storm.  

Rejoice.

For you are alive.  

Renounce.

Your worries, if only for a night.

Will others join the dance tonight?

No, not here, not now, not with us.

Is this what it would have been like to accept that rhythm?

No, that is a different dance, a different song, a different joy.

Can this last forever?

No, nothing does, nothing will, nothing should.

Lose yourself until the storm fades.  Watch your partner blow away with the last flash of lightning.  Begin to find yourself again.

Gather up the lights.  Bring them inside.  Illuminate home.

Heat the bath.  Let the warmth ease your tired limbs.  Bask.

Dry yourself.  Ready for bed.  Recognize the last ember of the night still burning in your mind.

Open your mind of paper and ink.  Draw out that ember.  Burn it into the pages.

Relive your day, as you do every night.  Examine yourself.  Find what you missed in the moment.

What do you add?  What do you leave out?  What do you change?

Smile.  Satisfied.  Sanguine.

Empty now.  Ready for sleep.  No need for dreams.

<==Previous          Next==>

[tinfoiltemplar]

Liesal as a Diety: @noblehcart

NAMES: So I think that mostly people call her “Mother Liesal”? Like that’s not an exact phrasing, it would probably be more accurately something between “mother” and “lady” but with all the sort of soft maternal connotations and all the powerful respectful connotations. It probably does not translate very well culturally. There used to be mystery cults where you had to be initiated into the cult to learn the true name of the deity, however Liesal doesn’t really strike me as a mystery cult type of girl, not because she couldn’t be but because she wants to have a more open relationship with humanity (humanity can be a lose term). I do think she would ascribe to the “my priests/esses only know/speak my true name on occasions” version of this in a “evokes great power to get my attention NOW” sort of way. ( I was going to do some titles too but I’m over 800 words and my brain won’t do the thing).

TEMPLES: Liesal has some temples, mostly in major hubs, but I think in general she would prefer worship as a sort of house god. Like people put up a little shelf and that’s her shelf but it’s in your house so you visit it daily and it’s just part of your life. Also sort of Kitchen God-esq. The easy thing to say about Liesal’s temples would be that they’re libraries, but tbh the vibe is wrong. I imagine her temples are very homey and warm, they have a lot of green curtains in different shades to accent or divide space. Round doorways and domes. Delicate embellishments but never anything that could be called gaudy. Lots of things made by the people, from bread to teas grown in the mountains to kids who turned their first paintings and samplers into little icons or quilt squared. Green things- living things-flowers. Herbs. And Frescos. Like watercolor murals almost just all over. A place for people to stay if they need safety but mostly for worship.

WORSHIP: little offerings, a lot of them are food. Tiny hand painted icons, many very rough, of people laid at her altar or hearth of people that her worshipers want her to look after. Caring for other people. Preserving old books (priesthood probably). Sprinkles of water on her statues in people’s homes, or trinkets placed on her shelves. Gentle touches. She DOES have a festival though! It takes place on the cusp of spring and summer and involves the erection of temporary alters in town centers where people don’t have temples for her, good food, company, dancing, games- think a mayday vibe, but with less emphasis on fertility and more on enjoying the company of the people you love and telling the stories of your home and your people.

DOMAIN AND FOLLOWERS: Liesal is a goddess of common people mostly. Of course there are scholars that love her and dedicate their lives to her, but mostly it’s just normal people. Her priesthood is mostly female, because it requires a certain amount of love and humility (think people who could conceivably lead storytime) and the men who come thinking they want to pledge her priesthood often realize very quickly they’re too worried about “official scholarship” or the “respectability” of things more than the actual job. Think people who get mad if you call them a cook instead of a chef one time. She’s very widely loved. Liesal isn’t a top 5 type goddess in terms of power, but she makes up for it in influence. Typically people see her as a goddess of stories, poetry, literature, home, family gatherings, gathering places, languages, beautiful things (but in an organic, approachable way), memory, and most importantly perhaps cultural preservation. This also makes her a popular goddess with travelers or people who are living far from home or in foreign lands because they see her, even if she isn’t a goddess of their homeland, as someone who will help them protect and pass down their culture and traditions to the people they love. She also sometimes serves as a muse figure, usually in songs during homey crafting (weaving for example) or as an invocation at the beginning of a piece. Small symbols are often drawn on the first page of books, or painted into soft art, or woven/stitched into handicrafts.

SYMBOLS: some funky almost geometric symbol I’m not going to try to draw but I want you to feel with me, the attached color palette, possibly sunsets, fern leaf peonies, rhododendrons, caucasus, viola incisa, rose root basically weird flowers that bloom in scattered parts of Russia. Snow geese. Sable. Picture books. Probably a comet that comes around about the time of her festival every year. Fuschite or amazonite.

MYTHS:

Idk why but I feel like Liesal would have an underworld myth. Thanks for coming to my TED talk.

The story of how Liesal saved [her people] from [big bad empire] even during their struggles to keep a cultural identity.

[alias-b]

honey, i’m home (hold for laughs)

A/N: So, I’m taking a break from my long fics. Just to gather myself again. I’m having sort of a bad day and idk I wrote this to deal with some stuff. Just something rough I punched out quickly. A somber blurb character study for Martin Brenner and Lucy Garland from my Hopper/OC fic, LFTM. Brenner dreams that things could be different if he weren’t such a monster.

   It was the same dream. Night after night. Waking in a cold sweat. Rinse. Repeat.

  Sheets that still smelled of her perfume. Lucy had never stayed over. In this house that was too big. In this bed that was always chilled. But, she was in everything he saw. 

  Martin Brenner dreamed so deep, he woke in a pit every morning. Fingers shifting to feel for one caress of that supple skin. Tread into black locks. He wished sometimes that they never chopped it off. 

  She truly looked like a siren with black silk spilling over her warm bronzed shoulders. Eyes glowing even in the dark. A rich brown. Almost honeyed like amber. Lucy was warmth and she was fire and he longed to hold it within his palms. Watch it spill and burn this entire town down.

   That would have been breathtaking. 

  But, Brenner couldn’t have that. So, he smothered her. Pressed her like coal until she was a sparkling diamond instead. It was for the best. 

  So, he dreamed and tumbled. Woke before a smaller house, but it looked loved. Something out of a fairy tale in black and white. Surrounded by a lush garden of marigolds. Beautiful even if they’re all grey. 

  A place where the sun was always high framed with a white picket fence. Neighbors who smiled so wide they might crack. Waving in sync. Robotic in how they navigate.

  Martin always carried a coat and briefcase. Dons his expensive Italian suits. Taking in this perfect world of black and white. Same at the funny sitcoms he secretly enjoyed. Wondering if Lucy likes them too. If she’d curl up with him and watch.

  Steps took him up toward the door. Always unlocked. 

  “Honey,” Martin offered to the air, “I’m home.”

  Hold for laughs.

  And there she was. Materializing out of the kitchen with a wide painted smile. A little cinched polka dotted dress. Even a frilly apron. So pristine and untouched by this world. Martin figured the dress was a forest green only because he knew it was Lucy’s favorite color.

  “How was work, dear?” Lucy never stopped smiling at him. That much was always static. Hands reached for his coat to hang it up. She didn’t wait for an answer and slipped into his arms. Kissed him on the lips like she’d been waiting for his return all day. And she had.

  “Just fine.” Martin grasped her hips. Kept her pressed there flush.

  “My husband. Fighting all the bad guys.” She cooed. Another peck. “Dinner’s almost ready. I made your favorite. And I didn’t burn it this time.”

  Hold for more laughs.

  Lucy always made his favorite. 

  She went to the doorway, posed a little like a mannequin.

  “Kids! Your father’s home!”

  Steps rumbled down the stairs. Two children lined up in front of Lucy. Matching mechanical grins on their doll faces. 

  Martin recalled their names.

  The girl. Amanda. Dark brown hair and blue eyes. She must be about eight. Little spitfire. And her younger brother. Five years old. Martin. They called him Marty for short. Brown hair and eyes. Shy.

  “Daddy!” The children jumped at him. Holding so tight like they might fade at any second. And they would. Lucy was all smiles at the sight. Protected by these four walls. They were safe here.

  “Go wash up for dinner now.” She ushered them off, taking Brenner by the hand. A wedding ring sparkled same as the pretty pearls round her neck. “I made a surprise for dessert. Can you smell it?”

  “Is that cherry?”

  Lucy giggled. 

  “Isn’t it divine?” She shrugged and pulled out a pan. Some chicken and dumpling recipe his mother used to make. The pie came next. Piping hot in the window to cool. Glistening and lush. “That’s what fear smells like.”

  “What?” Brenner had started to roll his sleeves up. Eyes snapping. Lucy clasped her hands. Her face must have hurt with that grin plastered. 

  “I just said it smells so good, I could ruin my appetite right now. Couldn’t you, honey?” She gushed. 

  Hold for laughs.

  They gathered as a family. Looking around at these gifts. Happy. Sharing a perfect meal in a perfect little dollhouse. The child playing with them loved them too much. 

  “If you don’t eat your carrots,” Martin had to point at his son, “you won’t get dessert.” He smiled too like it was half a joke. Marty stuffed himself full and pie was served. “Don’t forget to thank your beautiful mother.”

  “Oh, stop.” Lucy playfully smacked the hand from her hip. “I’m just happy to have a beautiful family.”

  Martin could swear he tasted this rich meal. Succulent cherries hot on his tongue.

  The rest of the night was clockwork. Get the children ready for bed. Storytime with daddy. Plenty of soft kisses goodnight. Lights out.

  Lucy lotioning herself at the mirror in a little pink nightie. Martin’s mouth on her shoulder. Kissing her dizzy until she was up and in bed. Mounting him in nothing but those pearls. Them trying to stay as quiet as they could because the children were sleeping. Her tuckered body falling in next to him, spent. Blissful.

  “We could have another baby.” Martin suggested. “Another little girl.”

  “I always liked the name Jane.” Lucy mused. Haunted, he peered at her there against the pillows. Naked skin dewy and soft. “You look like you've seen a ghost, darling.”

  “You know what’s going on, don’t you?” His head lifted to see her clearly in the dim lamplight. “You know this isn’t real.”

  “Of course, it’s real, baby.” Her hand touched his cheek. “I’m real. Feel that?”

  “You can’t love me.” The stinging thought welled his eyes.

  “But, I do. I always will.” Lucy kissed him all better. “Do you feel it? Do you love me too?”

  “Yes.” Brenner pulled her impossibly close. Lips trailed over her neck. “I love you more than anything.”

  “To the moon and back?” Lucy melted into his frame. Sighed.

  “Yes.” Martin had gasped it because he wanted it all so bad. This dream. This love. Felt Lucy in his bone marrow. That fire. A crack.

  Lucy’s skin broke like glass. A mirror fracturing out. Martin felt her sag back into the bed.

  “Honey, I don’t feel well.” A little porcelain doll breaking to perfect pieces. Ashes seeping out instead of blood. “Can you hear that? It’s a symphony playing just for us.” 

  “No, Lucy, you stay right here. With me.” Brenner brought her into his arms. Felt her quiver and shake. The horrid sound like nails on a chalkboard when her skin broke apart.

  Lucy’s never able to stay.

  Hold for laughs.

  It broke his heart every single time. Seeing her shatter.

  And he knew it was all on him. Everything. He did this. He broke her. Lucy trembling to ashes. Sinking between his fingers.

  Hold for laughs.

  The children are always shattered in their beds too. Safe and sound from him and this world of rot.

  Brenner felt his chest filling with cries. With screams and bellows to stop the torment. It all became ashes and he mourned it. Even the marigolds. 

  It shouldn’t ache this profoundly. Martin Brenner with his pressed suits and pristine hair. The world to save upon his shoulders. Floating through science and logic. He could have let Lucy Garland go that day in his office. Could have let her blossom.

  He doesn’t regret it. The greater good demanded all the sacrifice. He told himself that like a mantra. Lucy had to burn and become something greater.

  But, when she looked into his eyes and lied so politely…

  Nothing in his life hurt like her sweet deception.

  He cannot love in full and she will never be his. Even if she sinks into his arms willingly. It’s all painted like those damn sitcoms.

  Hold for laughs. Scream instead.

  The dream’s ending was the same too. Lucy weeping softly. In the garden burying a pie dish with a bloody beating heart inside.

  Martin never has the chance to figure who the heart belongs to. But it’s the only splash of color in this muted, artificial world. Lucy cried over it and brought the ruby red into his dreams. 

  Waking, Brenner gave a start. Breathed deep to capture life again. 

  Felt around.

  Lucy would not be here.

  Sometimes he dreamed of her naked and holding that knife above him.

  It felt better than nothing. Maybe he had that coming for carving her out of marble against her will.

  Brenner turned in darkness and smelt the perfume even still. The torment he brought this world turned back at him the day Lucy Garland walked into his office with those starry eyes. 

  He didn’t blame her, he deserved to die. Martin always knew that deep down. He owed Lucy a life debt and she would collect one day down the line.

  Martin Brenner only hoped she’d hold him as the end came. Saving the world was a thankless job.

  Liked to think maybe he earned that much. One pair of warm arms and a heart beating in his ear. Dreamed that something in Lucy could love him back just for a second. One perfect second where there were no ashes between either of them. Maybe she could forgive something and sleep better after too.

  There was true hope in his soul that she could. This love. It would grow. Rot. Spread. Kill.

  He dreamed something prettier for both of them.

  It was only fair. When he laid his head down, the dream would come again like a silent monster. Make a fool of him because he still believed in it every single night.

  And the only courtesy he could do was hold for the damn laughs and let Lucy Garland slip through his fingers. Smell her perfume and cherry pie again because she was a craving he’d never lose.

  Not until she killed him.

  Sometimes when Brenner walked the path in that perfect black and white world and looked at those swaying marigolds, he knew she already had. Martin would remember to thank her for it one day soon.

  Hold for laughs.

[tracle0]

Okay storytime kids gather round 

I’m sure that you writers know that weird moment when someone mentions a word that is Very Important in your writing, right? Say it’s the actual title of your book or some important word in a line of dialogue. You just go !!!! for a second. 

I’ve gotten used to that feeling for Collateral because y’know.... slightly common word. Sonder, however, is a very made-up word which I have, until recently, only ever hear spoken in relation to my book. 

I was in a radio studio, which in itself is a Very Sonder Location, so I was thinking about it a bit. It was also the three year anniversary for Sonder, so I was thinking about it a lot. But I digress; I was in the radio studio to record some folly noise, as there was minimal interference in there. At this point, I had most of the noises I required, I just needed some dialogue. 

Hence why I was in the radio studio with this guy, who was looking out the window while I was setting up. 

There must’ve been someone outside and he must’ve been thinking about stuff too because he suddenly turns to me and goes, “Hey, you know that word where it’s like the realisation that every person you see has a life as vivid and complex as your own?”

And I’m there like,,,, yes I’m aware of this word I have written a novel about it five times over and am celebrating its existence on this day, please continue.

Except I met him about three weeks ago so instead I just went c: yep! Sonder is the word you’re thinking of! c: 

It was a weird coincidence.  

[auburnfamilynews]

Rod was Auburn baseball.

In the wake of Rod Bramblett’s passing, we’ve started to look back at some of the things that built his career. While you’ve assuredly heard of the big calls — for Cadillac, Cam, Miracles, and more — we wanted to highlight some of the everyday moments, and there weren’t any moments that were more everyday for Rod than what he did above the baseball diamond.

Earlier this season, Rod and Andy Burcham celebrated 25 years together behind the microphones describing the pitches of Auburn baseball to fans around the southeast.

What an incredible weekend for @aburcham04 & myself. Thanks to all who helped “surprise” us Saturday night! 25 years is a long time, but it has flown by! It was made even better with a big @AuburnBaseball series win. Here’s to 25 more! #WarEagle pic.twitter.com/LC4bn7GAHK

— Rod Bramblett (@VoiceofAUTigers) May 6, 2019

Rod’s career calling baseball games started with a bang, much more so than his football tenure did. Yesterday we told you about the inauspicious start for Rod at Jordan-Hare Stadium, where it took more than nine quarters for the Tigers to score a touchdown for him to describe. Baseball didn’t wait around.

Hal Baird took Auburn to the College World Series in 1994 after the Tigers ran through the Clemson Regional (back then there were only eight Regional sites with six teams apiece). Despite the fact that the Tigers lost two straight games and finished 8th in the College World Series, it was the first appearance in Omaha in 18 years for Auburn. They wouldn’t have long to go before they were back again.

Just three seasons later, Auburn was led by future MLB All-Star Tim Hudson in the outfield and on the pitcher’s mound. They also had help from a future World Series champion as well. David Ross hit a home run in Game 7 of the 2016 World Series to help the Chicago Cubs win their first championship in 108 years. When the 1997 Auburn Tigers went down to Tallahassee for the Regional matchup against Florida State, Ross started a clutch career with the blast that mattered most.

Those voices you hear at the start are young Rod and Andy, absolutely ecstatic that Auburn pushed Florida State to the elimination brink. That game, an 8-7 Tiger win, led the way to the Tigers making their second College World Series appearance in four years. They’d do a little better in Omaha this time around, finishing 6th after a win over Rice and a couple of losses to Stanford.

Auburn would make the NCAA Tournament each of the next six seasons, with eliminations in Tallahassee coming in four of them. Punishment for daring to embarrass the Seminoles like that, I suppose. However, after 2003, Auburn made just one postseason appearance in the span from 2004-2009. They went to Tallahassee again in 2005, only to get eliminated by Florida State.

It wasn’t until 2010, with an absolute gorilla ball powerhouse of a club rolling on offense, that Auburn got back to the Tournament. This time, they were hosting for the first time in seven years. After falling 5-2 to Clemson in the winners’ bracket, Auburn rocked Southern Miss to send the Golden Eagles home, and got another date with the purple Tigers for the Regional Championship.

Down to their final strike, and the hometown kid Creede Simpson up to bat, Auburn trailed Clemson 9-8 in the top of the ninth inning. An out sends Clemson to the Supers, but if Auburn could make something happen, they’d play again for the chance to host the next round.

It’s, quite frankly, Rod’s best call outside of football. This is a man that had seen enough baseball, and he sat on the fastball just like Creede SImpson did. Rod had a flair for the big moments, and he didn’t get enough of them in baseball. That sport lends itself to a sleepier storytime atmosphere, but this was a raucous moment. Rod nailed it. Listen to the rise of his voice, like the fans getting to their feet as that ball rose over the monster. Once it was certain, he kept it simple. “IT’S GONE! IT’S GONE!” As a broadcaster, often it’s down to you to let the emotion take over instead of trying to find just the right words to say. Just like the Miracle in Jordan-Hare, Rod didn’t pontificate. He told you what happened, and somehow his inflection told the rest of the story. This was momentous.

Unfortunately, Auburn didn’t win the take-all game three after this, but the call stands. In his original sport (maybe his favorite?), Rod was the master of the craft. With a rapport like he and Andy had, it was such an easy broadcast to listen to. You gather stories and little moments to pepper in, and those two made it sing. We’ll miss Rod’s lazy Valley, Alabama timbre this upcoming season, and I hope there come more than a few moments to make the Auburn moods sing to the high heavens.

from College and Magnolia - All Posts https://www.collegeandmagnolia.com/2019/5/28/18642610/rod-bramblett-retrospective-diamond-roots