#“ Such a kind soul; she wonder if plants have emotions... my beloved; my ocean's heart; ma fleurette; ma petite ange...”

[vanidrabbles]

Neuvillette: [fully immersed in a new case file, listening to classical music, occasionally sipping his water glass, very focused]

Furina: [upside down on his office's couch] Do you think lakelight lilies have feelings?

[swishandflickwit]

Shirbert — to live would be an awfully big adventure 1/1

Summary: Gilbert gives Anne her troth necklace.

(shirbert + neck kisses)

Words: 2.1k

Rating: General Audiences

AN: I just finished Anne of Windy Poplars and idk if I just missed it but I honestly don't remember how Anne got her pearl necklace??? It was like I was reading and poof! It was there! And my overactive ass started to think about where Gilbert could have gotten it and how and thus, this was born :)

Special thank you to the beta babes: @acourtoftruelove, @tiredsosleeping and @ofshipsandswans!! Your input is invaluable as always!!!

Also on ff.net | AO3

Other writing

He doesn’t mean to buy it.

No, really.

He. does. not.

And even if he does, they certainly aren’t for her.

(This is what he tells himself, laying on his hammock in the bowels of the ship, surrounded by pitch black and clutching at them like they were the very last source of light in the world)

No—he buys them because he can, and because the peddler’s heart radiates a kindness and a benevolence that resonates to Gilbert’s own soul and so he knows, with indisputable certainty, he deserves not to be separated from those he loves most.

There are, what seems like, hundreds of stalls littered all over Trinidad. The docks alone boasts of a market filled with a ragtag combination of goods, of differing shapes and sizes, catering to all sorts of distinctive ailments and demands. Not that Gilbert needs anything… which is why he doesn’t know what draws him to the ramshackle pile arrayed into a sorry excuse for a booth.

Or maybe he does.

He doesn’t have an eye for jewelry, at least he doesn’t think so, for his mother’s own baubles had been sold off—to provide for his father’s health care and sustain the farm—save for a few key pieces and heirlooms, but there is no denying the pulchritude of this merchant's wares. He and Bash were headed for the ship when a glint from his peripheral caught his eye, so bright was its glare. Like a moth to a flame, he gravitates towards its light, bypassing the droves of attractive vendibles for the multitudes of spherical orbs strung together in artful strands.

“You have.”

A weathered hand enters his line of vision as it presents the precious goods with a proud flourish and he follows the length of the muscled arm to the person attached to it. His olive skin gleams gold, telling of many a days spent working under the sun. His eyes are angular, his nose flat and his lips full and wide, as if always poised to smile. It prompts Gilbert to twist his own mouth into a grin, and the two smirk in delighted conspiracy though they have never seen the other before this very moment.

“You have,” the jeweler remarks again, this time tugging at his sleeve lightly. Gilbert laughs, not because what he says is particularly funny but because of how he says it, not so much phrased as a question or suggestion yet not a command or a rude edict either. Instead he hears a statement, a finality within those two words, spoken as they are in knowing yet gentle tones. As if Gilbert was always meant to land in this deserted and decrepit corner of the port—his eyes destined to feast upon the rows and rows of effulgent pearls laid before him like a banquet to feed his starving gaze.

“I didn’t know we harvested pearls in Trinidad,” Bash remarks, a wonderment to his inflection that informs Gilbert his friend is just as captivated as he. The jeweler shakes his head.

“No—no Trinidad,” he pauses, the two men leaning forward in anticipation. The jeweler smiles, a flair for dramatics evident in his every gesture as he tilts his head, takes a deep breath and reveals, “Las islas Filipinas.”

“Las islas Filipinas,” Gilbert repeats, as though harkening the words back to him would stunt his ever growing curiosity. “Where is that?” he asks, almost aggressively, that same curiosity puppeteering his movements. The jeweler’s grin only widens as he delights in Gilbert’s inquisitiveness.

“East,” the jeweler says and in his own vigorous eagerness, Bash adds, “East? Asia?”

He nods, a whole new light entering his eyes at the recognition of his homeland. “Sí, sí! My home—Perlas,” he points at the rows and rows of pearls, “ng Silanganan.”

Gilbert shakes his head as dejection weighs heavy on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I don’t speak…”

“Tagalog,” provides the jeweler. “It is all right,” he reassures, “I speak, little English. Little Spanish. We understand each other, sí?”

The smile never once wavers from his lips and Gilbert feels something in him lift. He cannot pinpoint what that something is exactly, only that he senses a bond between him and this jeweler that he finds difficulty putting into words. Still, it isn’t an unwelcome sensation. If anything, it puts him at ease.

“I’m Gilbert,” he says and with a nod to his companion, he introduces him. “This is Bash. What’s your name?” He holds out his hand.

The jeweler tilts his head at the proffered limb as though seeing it for the first time, confusion clouding his gaze. “My name?”

All of a sudden, the cloud in his eyes transforms into a mist, overflowing till they line his face. Gilbert blanches, panic seizing him as apologies spill from his lips. The jeweler stops him by grasping his outstretched palm between his own. “No. No sorry. It has been long, long time since I have told another my name.”

“You were a slave.” There is no question to Sebastian’s hard tone, only harrowing familiarity and resignation as he eyes the jeweler with a newfound affinity. The jeweler’s shoulders sag.

“Still slave.”

“What?”

“That is why I sell perlas. Save enough money to join boat. Go home to my country and fight. Find my beloved. My sinta.”

His name is Alon, he tells them. In his native language, it means waves—“I was born in sea, I work in sea, and I will die in sea.” He hails from one of over 7,000 islands in Filipinas where generations of his family gathered pearls, going out to the ocean where they lived at the first hint of dawn and returning just when the remaining trace of sun was a line of orange ray along the horizon. But the reach of the Colonizers throughout the country grew till their island and eventually, their village, could no longer escape them any more than the rise of the tide. His master took him from his family—a wife and one child, for they had been married only a short time and they could not bear to bring more into a life of servitude—to sell the jewels in Acapulco, Mexico. They arrived but he managed to escape, with the pearls fortunately, and had been trying to make his way back home by selling them bit by bit since.

“For you,” Alon points to Gilbert before handing him a hoop of gleaming, white pearls.

“Oh, I—I don’t,” he stutters. I don’t have anyone waiting for me back home, not like you, is what he means to say though for an inexplicable reason, he cannot bring himself to speak the words out loud—his fingers closing over the necklace even as he thrusts it back to Alon’s direction. He shakes his head.

“For you,” he repeats, his eyes fixed and his tone firm through the elated smile that unendingly shapes his lips. “For your sinta,” he affirms with a hand to his heart. With his free hand, Gilbert slips into his bag to dole out his payment when Alon stops him. It is Gilbert’s turn to insist. He pays double the asking amount.

“I hope you find your way home. I hope you save your country, and you be with your wife.”

Bash, who till then has remained tense and stoic, brings out more than a couple notes himself.

“You deserve to have your life be your own,” Sebastian says as he passes the money to Alon, whose eyes have filled with insurmountable tears once more. “May this bring you closer to freedom, friend.”

Alon leaves his place behind the rickety stall to hug them both.

“Maraming salamat,” he murmurs, droplets coursing down his cheeks to land onto the cloth of their shoulders. “Thank you.”

They pull away, but only at arm’s length from each other.

“I have greeting in my home, mabuhay. It means live, but we say it both hello and goodbye so… mabuhay, good friends.” He kisses both their hands. “Mabuhay.”

Gilbert closes his eyes, his entire being awash in peace even as he stands in the middle of one of the busiest places of Trinidad. They may have just met, but it is with stunning clarity that Gilbert finally understands what Anne means when she speaks of meeting a kindred spirit. For what other name could there be for the emotions welling inside him? For the way his soul had reached out to Alon’s from across the market, hidden as his booth was? For the immediate, albeit brief, friendship that sprung between them?

This is what he murmurs onto Anne’s skin, after all these years, once he clasps the circlet of white pearls around her neck.

“What?” she says, turning with a flourish as she tilts her head back with pride, so that he may admire her better.

(And admire he does, planting another kiss onto the hollow of her throat, falling enraptured by the way her breath hitches and their hearts beat in perfect unison—booming, racing, delicious staccatos against their pressed chests)

“Mabuhay,” he reiterates, though no louder than a whisper as he pulls her even closer, this divine enchantress who holds his heart. “I bought this necklace during my travels and the man who sold it to me, it was his parting words. I never forgot them. It means ‘live’.”

“You’ve had this all that time?”

Anne gasps as astonishment brightens her blue eyes at the revelation. It brings forth a chuckle from him.

“It’s funny. I told myself that these pearls weren’t for you. I fancied myself merely helping a friend out. But to see them now… how could I be so foolish?” He traces the line of gems, his fingers brushing against her collarbone in lambent strokes. Anne purrs, her eyes fluttering, and Gilbert—unable to help himself—captures her bottom lip between his, sucking at the luscious curve of her mouth before uttering, “they were never meant for anyone but you.”

She blushes, the blooming red staining first her cheeks then her neck. He kisses her there again, harder this time, till he leaves a mark. Anne moans and he feels it to his bones, a shiver pulsing down his spine.

“You make me feel alive, Anne.”

“I think… I think I was drowning, before I met you,” she tells him when his kisses have made their way from the curve of her shoulder to the curve of her cheek. “I think you saved me.”

“Impossible,” he avers, sincerity coating his inflection and burning through his molten, silver gaze. “As much as I want to, you’ve never needed anyone to save you. You’ve always been strong enough to be your own prince.”

She kisses him, for how could she not? Anne has often thought she needed other people to save her. It isn’t till Gilbert that she figures, it was within her to save herself.

“Maybe so,” she concedes. “But I was lost,” she tucks a stray curl behind his ear, her thumb caressing his cheek as she goes. “I was lost until you.”

For three years they will be engaged albeit living in separate places, Anne to her principalship in Summerside and Gilbert to medicine school in Kingsport. But on the long and lonely nights he is away from her, when the din of the boarding house becomes too loud, the presence of the men too suffocating, he will think about those pearls. He will think of Alon, and what he had to endure having even been further away from his sinta than Gilbert ever will be and he will sigh, mabuhay, because he is here and he lives in a world where Anne too is alive and he will hope. He will hope and hope and hope, that his friend and his family are too.

(And even more years later, he will smile and triumph when news arrives on the island, of the independence of Las islas Filipinas from a 300-year tyranny)

He will think about how he was on the other side of the globe and still, upon seeing the jewels, try as he did with all his might to deny it, his first thought was of Anne. He will think about the sheen of it against her delicate neck and how it illuminates her skin. He will think about how it isn’t so much the pearls that shine but Anne herself, her very essence and spirit infusing the air around her with a glow that draws you in.

But for now… now he avows—

“You are the sun, Anne. You are the sun, the moon and the North Star. Should a tempting peregrination strike me in my darkest hours away from you, I will look to the sky and know.”

He cups her face between her hands.

“All the roads lead back to you.”

AN: This one is really close to my heart. I hope you enjoyed it!

come say hi to me!

[stayminho]

MAMA

part 1

recommended song: 2! 3! by BTS 방탄소년단

Love comes and grows in many ways. We watch it like plants, such as a flower or a tree. The first sprout of green would always be taken by chance, bursting through the shell of its seed and slowly inching, seeping through the ground to rise to the surface. It’s the first spark of a firework, working its way up the dark black night sky and past the dissolvable wisps of clouds covering the far-away constellations of diamond-like stars.

But a flower wilts eventually and a firework disperses into nothing in a matter of seconds.

Barely we see a love wounded to the bone, burned from a fire so red and hot to the skin, but risen from the ashes left behind.

That is when we know, love can be ever so incredibly real.

They say Korea is the “land of the morning calm”, in which the sun rises in the east and sets in the west with a warm smile, but it is also the land of happiness and hardships. Here, you feel the thrills of a nightclub, playing upbeat popular songs from the Western industry or the Kpop industry. The neon colors dancing off the walls in the darkened room makes you wonder if they got high or drunk, in tune to the boosted base. You can listen to the endless laughter that echoes ever so deep into the smallest crevices and corners of the Earth. They say home is the true hearth of rawness, but it is harbored within the hearts of people no matter where you go. For example, the variety shows broadcasted daily on the same TV channels. An amusement park filled to the brim with excitement. Movie night on the couch with popcorn.

At the same time however, you can watch the days blend together into a monochrome canvas weighted heavily with negative emotions as well.

Like in the country’s midst, a simple ghost town that used to thrive, now deep underground left in the heart of a city. Quite ironic though, because it seemed that every passing season of rain and gray skies had chosen the seemingly abandoned district as its canvas, making sure the shades of color never strayed from their favorites. The only thing they could never decide was how their masterpieces were left ruined by the imprint of human beings.

No one ever comes to these parts anymore, for everywhere seems like open space, exposing the unspoken secrets of merely nothing. To them, maybe even just the thoughts of “nothing” must’ve been more than just “nothing”. Broken memories that tore even the thickest of materials. An uncomfortable loneliness left to salivate every inch of the body to an endless hunger. Or possibly a dark horror that forcedly dragged them down to a cold, oceanic abyss. This kind of feeling pulls up defenses in various distraught ways.

Yet, for her, not only was it alarming, but also comforting.

The deafening silence masked and kept hidden away even the evilest of fears in an invisible small box made of glass mirrors on all sides that night. It made a reflection that could never be touched, both sides parallel in relation, similar to a wall of two rooms. It is likely that some would have determined otherwise, that the Earth was holding its breath, but instead, both sides only seemed to hold a staring contest at the moment, chaos not ensuing for once. The only thing that seemed to be heard was her breath, her chest distinctively rising and falling in attempts to calm the overused, lasting adrenaline in her veins and the desperately needed oxygen.

Her legs had grown weak, no longer able to withstand the loss of strength, soon collapsing herself into the room. The past long nights had turned into endless running to the void of nowhere, her instincts forgetting the meaning of sleep, and instead, taking over the directional path she took. Her destination eventually became a room in an abandoned apartment building, presumably, because she only caught glimpses in her rush to where she now found herself. Exhaust had finally taken over, letting a few tears roll down her cheeks in the process. Not long after, it became a beautiful cascading waterfall, painted by its glassy delicacy and touch of heart, but her emotional cries of pain had scared what was left of the hours of night.

Soon enough, dawn rose above the horizon in splurging colors of golden yellow, pure white, blush pink, and hints of maple leaf orange. Streaks of light  settled through the open window, dancing and giving hope across the ruined gray cement walls. This new revival kissed the young woman, enlightening the dark chocolate brown strands of her tangled hair and the tone of her skin that riddled with specks and dashes of dirt. It also utterly struck her with so much awe, she had forgotten how persistently tight she was to her own being, never letting go, but only now loosening the embrace of the bundle she had held very close in her arms in that moment.

The bundle only holds the beloved memories of a past godforsaken home and time whisked to dust, but when big round shining eyes looked back at her, it didn’t matter.

Finally, this one sunrise was when she could feel herself genuinely smile and let it reach her eyes. She was filled with joy. And that joy, caused by this lovely bundle, was all hers. It was finally over.

“Ma-ma.” He smiled grinning back at her in the best way that he could.

“Yes, Mama’s here. And she loves you very much.” She rubbed her against his, earning multiple entertained claps and sounds from him. Taking his small hands and fingers, she rocked him slowly and gently, cooing at his existence and having relief take over once more.

The years of the past seemed only to be in the span of yesterday, and that today would even be the breaker, but tomorrow is the future, the one thing that can be truly made yours.

She just has to take it before someone else did.

And matter-of-fact, it was laid out right in front of her.

“Mama...”

“What is it baby?” She let her gaze fall away from the pretty skies, that brought her infinite thoughts, with gentle care.

“Mm...ng...”

Her eyes widened, a little frantic. “No, no, no, no, no, don’t cry, love. Are you tired from all the running? Do you want to nap?” She swayed with a little more movement, and at the same time, she looked at him, taking in his sweet and soft features, noticing that his breathing slowed in weariness. She didn’t know what it was, but there was just something about him that made her want to believe it was going to be okay. No matter what.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get to sleep soon,” She carefully brushed the growing hair on his head too. “I know, we both are, we’re both worn out, but listen to mommy, okay? I need you to watch me with those big brown eyes of yours so I know you’re with me while I’m talking.”

With him in her arms, she just knew she couldn’t let seconds go by just yet.

At least, not before promising something.

She first offered him a smile. A smile that could never be forgotten. Ever. “My sweet, look at you. You’re so precious and pure for this world. I couldn’t have asked for anything more.” She would’ve started tearing up, but all of them had dried up already.

“The lives we live in this world are too bittersweet for our tastes, especially for your father. He loved you so much, but he fell out of it too soon to envision the future for us. He may never be the same as before, so I cannot, no, I won’t let you  live a life like his, but one day, maybe he’ll realize and come to his senses.”

The little stayed quiet, as if urging his beloved resilient queen to continue.

“Although, as of right now, we’re not the most fortunate, huh? I don’t have much to give you. For you to stand up on your own feet and smile with pride. But that’s what dreams are for, right?”

“But as of now, you’re my dream. Complete family or not, you’ll always be my dream, okay? My most beautiful moments in life. My wings that will take me places. My love that will reach for the stars. My airplane that could never leave me behind.” Her legs had begun to feel color again, so she let them out from under her so they could start to regain vigor. She even let a few moments pass just so that it could sink in for a little contemplation until the finishing touches would be made.

“And yes, trust me, I know that’s a lot to take on, to keep a hold of. But I feel that you’re a strong one, probably even stronger, and greater, than me. Because, in this lifetime, and eventually, hopefully, not just me, but you’re all I need, you’re my everything, and that’s all that matters.”

She kissed him on the forehead, pouring not only her heart, but also her soul, and sealing the oath that would never once be unkept.

“Jung Hoseok, you are my hope.”

masterlist

[the-captains-ayebrows]

The Long Road Home - Canon Extension for 3x11 “Going Home”

My contribution to this year's CS Storybook! Check out the cover art by @elaine--captain--swan  who makes very beautiful things, and I highly recommend looking her up on Tumblr.

A series of missing and extended scenes that mostly take place during the Season 3 "Missing Year". It begins with Emma and Killian saying good-bye as Pan's curse rolls in. Lots of internal monologue.  Canon-compliant mentions of Emma and Walsh's relationship. This also contains a favorite headcanon of mine about where Blackbeard gets all those portal beans

Length ~4K words. Rated T for a few swear words. Also on [AO3]

There’s not a day that’ll go by I won’t think of you.

Good.

-- Killian --

One word. One word is all she gave him, but it’s enough. It’ll have to be enough. Because there’s no time now. There’s never enough time. Her friends and family surround her. Then she’s disappearing into that bizarre yellow carriage of hers, and then even that disappears from his view in a wash of purple smoke. But he meant it, what he said to her. He hopes she meant it, too.

-- Emma --

One word. One word is all she could offer. Because there wasn’t enough time. There’s never enough time. And everyone else is around her, hugging her, and when the hell did she become a hugger? Anyway, it’s not the time for heart-to-heart confessions. She and Henry have to run. She always runs. At least she has her son with her this time. At least she’s not alone. But, Hook… he meant it, what he said to her. Her inner lie detector was absolutely silent. She meant it, too, her one word. And she hopes he can hear in that word what she didn’t say.  

Don’t forget me. Don’t give up. You have to remember for the both of us.

But most of all, Bring me home again.

-- Killian --

Will mermaids ever cease to be the bane of his existence? Bloody hell. The Crocodile and Pan are finally dead - rather considerate of the Croc to have taken himself and his accursed father out in one blow - and he would’ve thought all the tribulations he encountered from his centuries in Neverland were behind him. But no. Bloody mermaids. Can’t a man pay off a harlot in peace?

Still, if the lass is telling the truth about Blackbeard and his beloved Jolly Roger, all the sins of her piscine race shall be forgiven, at least as far as he’s concerned. From where he sits, or rather crouches, behind assorted cargo crates with this Ariel person and Smee, it would appear her information is accurate.

By the gods, it's been so long since he’s seen her, the first love of his life. Before Milah, before… that lass whose name he refuses to speak aloud, though it certainly echoes through his thoughts constantly. Before any fair maid had tempted him, there was her. The Jewel of the Realm. The Jolly Roger. His constant companion. His confidant. His home.

Even as he thinks the words, he feels a tug behind his breastbone, a fisherman’s hook (the irony is not lost on him) buried deep in his chest that pulls him in a very different direction from the gangplank before him. He ignores it. He forces the emptiness in his breast into the shape of a gracefully curving hull and towering sails, instead of the softer lines, painted in shades of red and gold and green, that have haunted him of late.

“You know you’re talking about a boat, right?”

Bloody mermaids. “You have your love and I have mine.”

And he does love her, his Jolly. He needs her. Needs to feel like himself again. He feels like he’s losing himself. Losing everything. He lost his revenge, the one thing keeping him alive over the centuries. The Croc now dead by his own hand. He’d lost his ship to Pan’s curse. He’d lost…

But now here the Jolly sits, ready to welcome him back with open yardarms. What is he without her? Without his identity as Captain Hook? He’s a pirate. He’s always been a pirate, just as he told the Prince those months back. He needs to get back to that, back to himself, back home to his beloved ship. It’s all he has left.

And Blackbeard is daft if he thinks he can stand in the way.

-- Emma --

He spilled his coffee on her. Ran smack-dab into her on the street, his latte splattered all over her bright red wool coat. It’s the most cliched of meet-cutes - actually, it reminds her of some story she heard a while back. Maybe an old friend met their fiancee that way? Whatever. But still… since her place in Boston burned down, she really does need new furniture for her new home, and the insurance money was surprisingly generous. He seems nice enough. Mostly harmless, anyway. So, when he gives her his business card and an apparently sincere offer to pay for her dry cleaning, she accepts it.

Walsh Ozman, Antiques and Fine Furniture.

But, here’s the thing… The wood puns may be too much for her to handle.

“Wizard of Oak. Really? Was ‘Shiver Me Timbers’ already taken?”

His smile at seeing her in his shop flickers for a moment, and she senses she’s said something wrong, but she can’t imagine what. Perhaps he’s the one who can’t handle it? His grin is right back in place before she can figure it out. He does, in fact, pay for her dry cleaning, and she buys an end table.

He calls her a few days later to ask if she’s satisfied with her purchase. She is, of course. Something about the scrollwork beneath the table top reminds her of ocean waves, and she finds it strangely calming. She’s caught herself more than once tracing her fingers across it absently as she reads a book on her couch. He asks her to dinner, and she says she’ll think about it.

She does. Think about it, that is. Henry is, first and foremost, the love her life. She thanks whatever deity is listening every day that she decided not to give him up all those years ago. Can’t imagine what kind of a person she’d be without her son. She’d probably be a lot more guarded, more jaded, without seeing every day all the light and hope in his sweet, brown eyes.

Still, it’s been just the two of them for years. She didn’t have time for anything resembling a love life when Henry was little, to say nothing of the lingering wounds Neal had left on her heart. Henry’s not a little kid anymore, though, and she’s in a really solid place in her life. Good apartment. Good job. Maybe a nice guy is the logical next step?

She can admit that she’s been lonely. Every once in a blue moon, when the loneliness got too much for her to bear, she’d been known to send Henry off to sleep over with a friend, while she ‘slept over’ with a stranger. Not that she ever spent the night.

It feels like ages since she’s even had that level of adult contact, though. She literally can’t remember the last time that someone made her feel, well, anything really. Not even base lust, and certainly not anything resembling an actual emotion.

Even as she thinks the words, something pricks at the back of her mind. It’s not a memory exactly. Or really, it’s more like a memory of a memory? Is that even a thing? Like a Xerox of a photograph. Faded, corrupted, colorless, but still there. Pieces of a dream, maybe. Has to be. Who the hell would wear black leather in a jungle in real life? As if she’s ever even seen a jungle.

Emma Swan is far too pragmatic to let herself get bogged down in fantasy. So yeah, after getting the official go-ahead from Henry, she agrees to go to dinner with Walsh. And he’s kind, and he likes Henry, and there’s something familiar and appealing about his dark eyebrows and messy hair.

So, she tells herself to hope that this, this is what’s been missing. This is the thing that’s finally going to make her feel like she’s found a home.

And she’s not about to let some stupid dream stand in her way.

-- Blackbeard --

By Neptune’s left testicle, look what the tide’s washed in! That bloody ponce has some gall to show his face in here. He knows full well this is the regular gaming establishment patronized by Blackbeard’s crew. Wonder how he feels seeing the Captain himself in residence this evening?

Perhaps he thought his old nemesis had been swept up in this latest curse, but even a scurvy git like Hook should know better. He’s not the only sailor on these waters with the sense to steer clear of an onslaught of purple smoke. If he only knew how easily Blackbeard could extract himself from any… unfortunate situation.

He’d have used a bean when Hook made him walk the plank if that little mermaid hadn’t saved him the trouble. He’s always got a handful on him at any given time, and when he runs low, he simply uses one to transport himself to the uncharted island where he grows the blasted things. Oh, everyone believed that all the beans had been destroyed when Prince James (the original, not his insipid twin) and his little strumpet Jack defeated the Giants of the Beanstalk. Certainly, Blackbeard’s taken great pains (and inflicted great pains - ha!) to ensure that is the only story being told.

In truth, the Prince had managed to steal a small cache of the beans before the last giant set the fields ablaze, then paid Blackbeard a ludicrous sum of gold to hide them from King George. Probably planning a patricidal coup or some such thing. Blackbeard swears the Prince would’ve made an excellent pirate, not that it matters anymore. The Prince went and got himself killed, and there was no other living soul to know Blackbeard still had possession of the beans.

So, he’d made a little investment of them. He’d located a tiny island not found on any map, gathered up a crew of… shall we say, 'indentured workers' to plow and plant for him, and now he’s got a field full of lovely little stalks growing as many beans as he could possibly need. Even used one to pay off a former fairy for a bit of cloaking magic, to ensure his plantation is never discovered.

Honestly, you’d think someone would’ve noticed by now. How he can be in Arendelle in the morning and the farthest reaches of the Maritime Kingdom by tea time. Bloody idiots, the whole lot. Heads firmly up their own arses.

Ha! Oh, but this is too delicious. Hook absolutely reeks of desperation, and apparently, one such bean is the object of his desire. No. Check that. It’s a woman. Captain-bloody-Hook has been bested by a woman!

This is rich. Simply glorious! He swears by all the gods, this is the best day of his life. He shall not take a single coin of Hook’s gold. No, no. The son of a codfish tried to kill him. His utter humiliation is a far better price. Blackbeard wants Hook’s ship - the very ship they dueled over before - and he’ll accept nothing less. Far be it for him to tell Hook he’s got hundreds of the damn beans at his disposal.

Let the fool trade away his pride. His ship. His home. And all for some damned wench! Ha!

-- Henry --

He knows. She hasn’t said anything, but he knows. Henry’s a pretty smart kid, after all. And it’s been just the two of them - he and his mom against the world - for too long for him not to notice.

Walsh really seems like a good guy. He’s got terrible taste in music and his store has, like, the lamest name ever, but Henry can tell the guy actually likes his mom. Like… like , likes her.

It just... Doesn’t seem like enough? He can’t explain it. His mom still seems like something is holding her back. Like her brain and heart aren’t talking to each other. She loves Walsh - says she does anyway - but Henry is grown up enough now to know there’s a difference between love and Capital-L Love .

Henry knows his mom loves him , though. Capital L truly loves him. No question. That doesn’t mean she isn’t still lonely. For, you know, the other kind of love. He worries about her. He’s the kid and she’s the parent - she likes to remind him of that when he’s acting ‘too grown up’ - but he still does.  And she’s definitely, totally, lonely.

He just… he wishes they could find that missing piece, you know? So, he asks her to go with him to his usual thinking spot. That big fountain right beside the library. The books kind of help him focus, and the water… well, that’s what fountains are for. Wishing.

He feels - he’s always felt - like there’s something about this place. Something special. Magical.  That’s stupid, he guesses, but he can’t think of a better word for it. So, he tosses his coin and makes a wish.

He knows his mom thinks he’s upset about something from school, and he should tell her he’s worried about her. He should. But there’s something holding him back, too. Something he can’t quite remember. He doesn’t know how to tell her what he thinks is missing because he really doesn’t know. There’s just this empty space, you know?

So, he tosses a coin and he wishes - more than he’s ever wished for anything - for their little family to be complete. He isn’t even sure what he means by that. He just feels like they’re waiting for something. That something is out there waiting for them. An adventure, a future, a home.

-- Emma --

What. The hell. Just happened. Emma blinks once, twice, and again, licking her lips before she can think better of it. She can’t really think of anything. Her brain feels like a cat in a YouTube video frantically scrambling on a freshly waxed floor, but never actually getting anywhere.

“Mom? Who was that?”

“No idea. Someone must’ve left the door open downstairs.”

Because no. She had no idea who he was. Just some crazy person. He had to be, but she…

Sh- she…

She froze . Emma Swan absolutely vapor locked. It was weird enough that she opened the door without looking out the peephole first - especially since the way he’d pounded on the door already had her on high alert, but even so. A strange guy dressed like a freaking pirate is standing in her hallway sighing her name as if she’s an oasis in the desert and she just, what? Stands there with her mouth hanging open, squinting at him, listening to his voice, trying to place him.

Why would she do that? Why not just slam her door in the face of the weirdo in his elaborate costume? Nope. She asked him if she knew him. As if she’d forget that face. Or that outfit.

What the hell is wrong with her? Why did he seem so familiar?

And, and, and -

God, he telegraphed that kiss. Like, every nerve ending in her body could sense it coming from the way he was looking at her alone, not to mention the awkward full body twitch before he leaned in. Even if she wasn’t a pro at reading body language, the guy practically had a neon sign over his head that said, ‘I’m about to reach for you.’

And she stood there. And let him. She didn’t step back. She didn’t grab his wrist and twist it behind him and shove his pretty face into the wall and shout for Henry to bring her handcuffs.

She stood there and closed her eyes and… time stopped. She was in a jungle, the one from her dream. Everything smelled leafy and sweaty and a mosquito was biting the back of her neck, but she didn’t give a single fuck because his lips were touching hers, and it felt like - it felt like…

Funny thing about time stopping. When it starts back up again, it zooms ahead even faster to catch up to where it should have been. It also makes a noise that sounds very much like your own voice screaming in your ear, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”

The kick to his balls was a (literal) knee-jerk reaction. But even then - even then - she still stood there talking to him. A random stranger kisses her on the mouth and she gives him the chance to explain himself. Like he’d tell her the truth.

He was telling her the truth.

Just because he believes it, that doesn’t make it true.

Oh, sure, she threatened to call the cops and finally managed to remember that her door does, in fact, close. But god, the whole interaction…

There shouldn’t have been a whole interaction. Who even is she today?

Maybe she’s overly tired. She’s been working a lot of late nights recently. Maybe tonight she’ll take a sleeping pill so she’ll get a good night’s rest. No...unwanted dreams. Unwanted in the sense that she doesn’t want confirmation of exactly where she’s seen his face before.

Maybe her blood sugar is out of whack and she just needs some pancakes and hot cocoa.

“Come on. Let’s eat.”

-- Henry --

What. Was. That. Let’s eat? That’s all she’s gonna say? Henry’s twelve, he’s not deaf and blind. Fine. If that’s how she wants to be, Henry can play it cool, too.   And he’ll do it better than her, without all the out-of-breath huffing. He can keep a secret after all. He hasn’t told her that Walsh is about to propose, even though it’s been a week since he asked for Henry’s blessing. So, fine. He won’t talk to her about this either.

But like… really? He knows what he heard. There was some guy at the door - he definitely heard a guy’s voice - and that guy was talking about  Cs mom having a family and that her family was in trouble and, well… Henry’s also about 99% sure his mom punched the guy or something. But then she kept talking to him? What even is that?

It was kind of like she knew the guy, but she didn’t at the same time, if that makes any sense. She never opens the door for people she doesn’t know or isn’t expecting. She says it's because of all the skips she’s put in jail. Never know when one might try to come after her. Or him. She’s really protective of him. She wouldn’t even let Walsh come over until they’d been dating for months .

Really, his mom is being super weird, even now that the guy is gone. She never acts like this. Her face is flushed, she keeps licking her lips and it’s not because of the pancake syrup. She hasn’t even touched her food which is also very un-momlike behavior. She loves food. About the only time Henry ever sees her this way is when she’s really close to solving a big case, like right on the edge of figuring it out.

Maybe that’s all this is. Maybe that guy is part of some big case she’s trying to crack.

Or… maybe she’s just being weird because she’s got a date with Walsh at some fancy restaurant tonight and she’s figured out what he’s going to do. That’s probably it. He really wants his mom to be happy, and if marrying Walsh will do that, then he’s cool with it. But, he’s not sure. It could be Walsh is the missing piece for their family like Henry had wished, but it doesn’t seem to fit somehow. He’s not sure why.

Speaking of that wish, Henry can’t stop thinking about what the strange guy yelled right before his mom slammed the door. “You have to remember, ” he’d said. Like it was the most important thing ever.

Family. They have to remember. It’s all so… Henry’s not sure, but it sends a shiver down his spine. It was seriously just a couple of days ago that he’d made that wish. That their family would be complete. Because it felt like there was something out there that he couldn’t quite remember. It’s spooky and way too much of a coincidence to let slide.

So, maybe magic isn’t so stupid after all? Maybe some strange guy showing up is somehow connected to his wish? And his mom just slammed the door in the guy’s face!

-- Killian --

That went… about as poorly as he should have expected. Nothing is ever easy with that lass. Crumpled on the floor outside her door, Killian isn’t sure which hurts more, his manhood or his heart. She did a rather stunning job of crushing both.

He’s a bloody idiot. He should have known, should have realized that she didn’t… that she wasn’t…

Gods above and below, he actually attempted to give her True Love’s Kiss. They’d only ever shared one kiss of any kind. One soul-shattering, life-altering kiss, to be sure but…

A one-time thing. Don’t follow me.

It was just a kiss. How is that your darkest secret?

He should have known, but he had hoped. He’d hoped in a way that he didn’t think he would ever be capable of doing again. She’s given him that, and even as he sloshes through a mire of self-loathing disappointment, he’s grateful to her.

I never thought I’d be capable of letting go of my first love, of my Milah… that is, until I met you.

She is his new dream, his beacon guiding him out of the storm into a fair harbor. It matters not that she doesn’t return his feelings. He came here to save her, not to make love to her. He will find a way. He will bring her back to the people who love her. All the people who love her. He shall bring her home and she’ll save the day once more, not because she’s ‘The Savior’, but because she’s Emma-bloody-Swan and he’s yet to see her fail.

He must not give up. He must encourage her to remember who she is, her true self, not whomever Regina’s blasted false memories have conjured her into thinking she is. Emma is a smart woman, practical, but with a keen intuition. He’ll need hard evidence to get her to listen to him. Once she does, he hopes (there’s that word again) that her innate ability for detecting lies will convince her he’s speaking the truth.

But what evidence can he possibly offer? He racks his brain as he drags his sorry carcass off the floor and stumbles down the hallway. Gods, but this is a strange land. All these people living in what amounts to nothing more than little crates all stacked on top of each other into towering monstrosities. He’s seen tenement buildings in his travels, of course, but nothing like…

Wait. He’s seen exactly this kind of tenement before. It was here, in this very land. Baelfire’s - that is to say, Neal’s - place. He found it once. Perhaps he can locate it again? He’s grasping at straws, he knows, but this may very well be his only chance. The only place he can find something to make Emma believe again.

And when she believes, when she remembers… No. He tries once more to snuff out the tiny spark inside him that should have been fully doused when her knee connected with his groin, and yet it persists.

When I win your heart, Emma, and I will win it, it will not be because of any trickery. It will be because you want me.

There’s not a day that’ll go by I won’t think of you.

Good.

Perhaps she did want him. Perhaps she does… No. No, no, no. No. At the very least, he cannot waste time thinking on it now.

For now, he must focus on the task of getting her to believe. To remember. Once she does, he will bring her home.

Whatever happens after that, well… That’s up to her. As for him, he’s made his decision. Even before he made the deal with Blackbeard. Home is where the heart is, after all, and his heart is with Emma Swan.

[cowgirlluminary-blog]

John Scagliarini

To the Town of Plymouth board of Selectman.

I am coming to you with a story. One I will shorten in this email to grab your attention, hopefully. I am coming to you as a direct descendant of the Harlow family. I am also coming to you as the granddaughter of Harriet Harlow Smith Pond, the wife of Myron Smith who was the original and long time owner of the town’s beloved Smiths. I am coming to you as a woman that has played on your Long Beach as a child and clammed on Browns Bank;  a teenager who combed for sea-glass and as an adult, ran and walked and asked the shores to be my guidance. I truly know every inch of the sands on Plymouth Beach. My husband asked me to marry him right there on the shores of Long Beach. I mourned the death of my grandmother and mother, who's ashes remain as guardian to your Plymouth Harbor. This will eventually be my very own resting place.

Today, as promised, I will shorten my story. I am writing you in regards to a home that exists on Plymouth’s Long Beach. A home that now belongs to a man, whom I plan to tell you, touched my heart in the most unusual way. A man whom has lived out there for the past 20 years and treated the entire beach as his own and nurtured even its trees and foliage.

On a cold day in December 2016, days before Christmas, I was running out to the point on Long Beach; something I have done more than a thousand times in my life. I spend my runs without my earphones and relish in the emptiness and the sounds of the ocean. I feel as though my mother and grandmother can hear my thoughts and words sometimes spoken out loud. I was halfway out and saw smoke rising from a familiar chimney. A chimney of a house that as a child I spent days and nights and years. This home is the home of my mothers very good friend, Al Fugazzi, who was a local fireman for the town, I remembered. I have not seen him since I was young, but still I pass and remember fondly my time spent in this exact location. I always smile and wonder what became of him and wonder if even he still lives there.

I reach the point of long beach and stare off to the lighthouse and as if the souls of my mother and grandmother are listening, the wind picks up answering my prayers, speaking to me. The sand takes flight and depicts clouds circling the very point where the water runs in all directions. I laugh out loud and even record what seems to me to be a moment where once again I am reunited with my loved ones.

I return to my journey back, heading towards the main parking lot of the beach, as the tide is still too high, I must take the road which once again runs in front of my childhood monument. I have just run past the house when suddenly an enormous dog comes barreling down the road and after me. I stop immediately because of his size and not wanting to create chase. I calmly hold out my hands and the dog is friendly and engaging and I know that I am not easily going to be able to walk away. I see a man hastily walking towards me, clearly the owner of the dog and I’m again surprised, as he is approaching from the spoken of house. I watch him walk up and we partake in small talk about the dog. He is very kind and easy to speak with. I couldn’t help wonder if this was actually my mothers friend Al, from yesteryear. I ask as I am ready to move on, what his name is? he tells me and it is not after all the man my mother was friends with; but I feel obligated to tell him that as I child I had spent time in his home. I even add casually that my mother had made a stained glass window that was once his bay facing window. He smiled a smile that stretched from ear to ear. With excitement almost, he asked me if I would wait for him for a moment, he wanted to get something from the house. As he disappeared down the driveway and into the house, I stood there with the dog in the inclement weather thinking what a bizarre meeting this was. It started to rain, I wondered what he was getting and what story he was about to tell me and how I had anything to do with it.

He appeared moments later with nothing but his grin. He asked me if I had a moment he would very much like to tell me a story. I obliged and he started and told me that indeed he had bought the house from Al Fugazi, 20 years back. There was indeed a stained glass window that was in the bay window and to be honest, he remembers that he was not in love with it. Although he appreciated the artwork he felt the colors were too dark and he felt as though it obstructed his view of the bay. But he didn’t replace it; money, time, complication, whatever the case, the window had remained. He had been in the house for years when one day he was out in the front of the house and a truck slowed down. The driver engaged him and asked if there was a stained glass window in the house? The man said he remembers ranting a bit, similarly saying that he appreciated the art, but really wasn’t fond of the window. The driver then admitted bashfully that he was the husband of the woman that made the window. The man felt terrible and awkward and felt really as though he had stuck his foot in his mouth. He lamented as the truck pulled away. Later that very same evening. A calm evening with no wind and a harbor of glass, a large explosion rocked the house around 2am. He ran down to find that the window had indeed imploded. The practical excuse was that as the house shifted it put extra added weight on the window, but he could not get the feeling out of his head that that very day he had criticized the maker and he felt as though she was having her vengeance. If he didn’t like or appreciate the window, well then he didn’t have her permission to have it any longer. He felt so badly about the whole circumstance and couldn’t shake the coincidence of it all. He called a close friend who did lead work and asked him to come look at the window to see if it was at all salvageable. Unfortunately it was not and he regretfully gathered all the pieces and discarded them. Then years went by, he said. He finally got around to replacing some furniture out in the sunroom and when he moved a chest in the corner of the room, he found this piece of glass. The man took his hand out of his pocket and held out the piece to show me. I indeed recognized the colors and my mothers perfect solder lines.  It was a broken piece from the very bottom. That was not the amazing part. The amazing part was that it was the piece that my mother had etched her name into the art. Not any other random piece of a 500 piece stained glass window that once broken could have well been one of ten thousand pieces. It was the one piece that she had etched her signature on. The needle in the haystack. Tears streamed down my face as this perfect stranger handed me a piece of my long gone mother. I couldn’t stop myself from bear hugging him. In my 39 years of life I have never received a better Christmas present. He went on to tell me that after he found it, he had placed it on the window sill and there it stayed. He didn’t know why he had kept it all these years, but always figured that it was meant to be. And now, in this moment he held it out to me because he said it had found it’s way back home..

It is hard to explain the emotion this small piece of broken glass had on me. My mother has been gone for 11 years. I have quite a few of her stained glass pieces, but here this little fragment on a wet, cold, windy day finding it’s way into my possession was an overwhelming experience. I was so overwhelmed that I wasn’t sure if I should take the glass. Maybe her signature, this little piece of her heart should stay with the house. Maybe it truly is it’s home. The man insisted that I take it, although I hesitated, he continued that he may lose the house this year 2017 and he doesn’t know what he will do with all his things. Because I am not one to walk through life believing in chance, I probed deeper. He told me the long and the short of it. The house is being taken back from him as his lease has run out and the town wants the property back to build a parking lot. He was forthcoming about his struggles, but resoundingly broken that he will have to walk away from his home. Because this man gave me such a gift I feel eternally grateful to him. This is a man whose made a life out on Plymouth beach and raised his family of dogs out on Plymouth beach. A man that has taken care of the trees and the plants on Plymouth Beach. This is a man who does not deserve to be kicked out of his home to make room for a parking lot.

One of the things I have continued to admire about Plymouth beach is that it serves a large population and yet you can still find yourself out there alone with your footprints because of it strict laws, enforcing difficult stickers to obtain, and few parking areas before and past the crossroad. The dunes have remained beautiful and the birds nest because of Plymouth’s belief that this should remain mostly in it’s raw state. This is extremely rare to find these days. Wouldn't building a parking lot do exactly the opposite of what the town has so carefully preserved?

My mind spun, could I raise the money to fix up the house? Would that be enough to convince the powers that be? What can I do? It’s hard to raise money to fix a house that will be taken from you on a year to year basis. Although admittedly he has had tax trouble he has been in the black for quite some time now, so why can’t we try and help this man? I feel very strongly that although it was a blessing to receive this gift from this man, I must try to return this favor. After all, I have been running this beach forever and now 11 years since my mother passed, so why did this coincidental meeting happen now?

Please tell me what I can do? How can I represent a vote? How can I petition for this man? Without stepping on toes and playing some political game, how can we really accept taking a house from a man to create a parking lot that will allow more people out onto plymouth beach and steal away the integrity that the town and it’s people so believe in?

This story is almost 3 pages, I’m a writer; This could be 20. It could be a very well written nonfiction short story. If we are living in a world where there is current emphasis on looking in and at our neighbors and helping those around us, how can we abandon this man who has no where to go come this spring? No one is giving him back the money he bought the house for. How is he supposed to live? There must be a way. I beg you to hear my voice and consider this story when deciding this man’s future. I have not reached out to social media. I have not caused a stink. I have not reached out to local media outlets. I am vocal only to you and it will stay that way if there can be a resolution to this. I so hope and pray that this is the case. And I suppose the wind beneath my wings is my mother and the story that brought me here to you today.

This man’s name is John Scagliarini His physical address is 354 Ryder Way, Plymouth, MA 02360 Mailing address is ScagTree, 130-10 Camelot Drive, Plymouth, MA 02360

I reach out with a sincere heart and would very much appreciate your thoughts and guidance.

Yours, Shakari Harlow D’Annibale