#ASK ME ABOUT OLD TIMEY DRAGON DAD

[dzamie-oc]

14 - Sea

I just... I really like that "here there be dragons" thing, okay? It got the imaginations of old timey bards and seafaring boasters going, and it gets me thinking about dragons, too.

Length: 1600 words Rating: G Summary: A sailor goes exploring in what he thinks are uncharted waters. He finds them perfectly charted.

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William checked his boat’s navigator against the old map spread on the table. It wasn’t a treasure map, and a lot of the handwriting on it was barely this side of legible, but it was one of his father’s most prized possessions, and he intended to finish it. The old man had always insisted to him that it already had been, but Will was no fool. Written on the space just - he checked his speed - just five minutes away was, in large script, “Here There Be Dragons.” He’d tried to explain to his dad that that was what old cartographers would write in unexplored areas, where the unknown was speculated to have fantastical, unreal beasts, but all that ever got him was a condescending smile and a shake of his head.

He wasn’t going to deface the map, of course; he was raised better than to mistreat old heirlooms. He was, however, going to fill in the region on a copy he’d made. Probably with some little doodles of fish, unless an island popped up real soon. Until then, of course, there was little reason not to enjoy the salty sea air, so Will set the navigation computer and strolled out onto the deck to watch and listen to the waves.

The sun shone splendidly down with only a few clouds in the sky, and its light glittered off the wide, open waters. Will half wished he’d brought some fishing equipment, though admitted to himself that it would mostly be there for habit - an excuse to just sit back and relax while pretending not to be wasting time. After motoring to the middle of the “Here There Be Dragons,” noting the surprisingly shallow depth on the fathometer, and anchoring his vessel, the amateur sailor went around the deck, trying to see anything of note in the area. He thought he caught a glimpse of a fish over one side, but other than that, nothing, after the better part of half an hour. 

He made a note of the somewhat shallow water on his map, and went to draw the anchor back up. However, the thought of relaxing in calm waters tugged at his mind, so he stayed his hand and instead settled himself in a chair outside the cabin. After all, he reasoned, he had budgeted ample time to explore an uncharted island or a somehow still-floating derelict, so he might as well use it for a nap. And like that, to the sounds of the waves ebbing and flowing atop the water, and gently slapping against the boat’s hull, he let himself fall asleep.

“...rwater? Captain Bradley? Is that you? Wow, time has been good to you!” a female voice said, rousing William from sleep.

Groggy, the sailor stretched, then squinted towards the voice, shading his eyes with his hand. “Miss? Who... why are you out so far? There’s nothing here.”

The voice made a confused noise. “Hm? I live here, don’t you remember? Oh no, did you somehow lose your memory?”

William shook his head. “Gimme a second, here.” He rose from his chair and stumbled slightly, catching himself on what felt like damp leather. “Thanks, but ma’am, you’re soaked!” Finally, he was able to clear his vision and adjust to the sunlight once again, and nearly fainted dead away at the sight.

“Well, SOME of us swim through the water,” said the scaly, blue-green... creature. One forepaw was outstretched to keep William balanced, and her hindlegs were easily a dozen feet past that. She resembled an eel, with her long body and her even longer tail, sporting a single fin down her length, and her head was almost avian with its triangular shape and beak-like muzzle, except she was absolutely covered in scales, and sported a single horn right below her eyes. The shape of her face didn’t lend itself to smiling, and nor do many animals express themselves with a smile, but the tone of her voice told him plainly of her happy, playful attitude.

Will realized he was staring, and tried to figure out whether it was more important that he was staring at a very large, potentially carnivorous creature with claws and what must be a powerful tail, or staring for an awfully long time at someone who thought she was familiar with him. Before he could come to a conclusion, however, the creature drew back and veritably strutted about the deck, striking a pose and showing off the profile of her horned head. “Hey, I hardly blame you for looking, when what you’ve got to look at is a dragoness as beautiful as me. But, seriously, are you okay, Bradley? You’ve hardly said a word.”

“Sorry, who do you think I am? I’ve never been out here,” Will admitted, then took a careful step towards the cabin. “Please don’t kill me.”

“You’re not Captain Bradley Clearwater?” the dragon asked, “then... why do you have his boat? And look just like him?”

“No, I’m William Clearwater,” he replied, half out of habit, “Bradley was my fa-”

The two of them stopped and stared at each other in shocked silence as the pieces clicked into place.

“Bradley had a kid!?” she shouted and rushed towards Will. “And he didn’t TELL me!?”

Will, to his credit, displayed a phenomenal reaction time, diving away from the lunging sea monster. Peering out from the cabin door, he saw her hesitate, then take a step back. “Also, uh,” she said with less energy than earlier, “I’m not going to kill you. Or, well, I’d rather not. Decency aside, Bradley would be pissed if I killed his kid.”

The sailor took a tentative step out of the cabin, though stayed close by and warily eyed the dragon. “Okay, first thing’s first, I’m dreaming, right? Fell asleep on the open ocean, and my mind is making up some sort of benevolent sea monster who knows my dad?”

The creature shook her head. “I don’t think so, unless you’ve been asleep for longer than you’ve been alive. I’m just one of the only dragons who let humans see us. How is Bradl- your dad, anyway? It’s been awhile.”

“He...” Will sighed. “He passed away a few years ago. That’s why I have his boat.”

“Oh. And you came to tell me the news?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t even know you existed - er, no offense. I just came because of a map he made that had been bugging me.”

“Ooh, a treasure map?” She stepped forward, her body lightly wiggling from nose to tail. “Can I see?”

Will looked at her still-wet body, and thought of the aged paper map. “I’ll... here, let me show you the copy I made. It’s not a treasure map.” He ducked in, grabbed his map from the table, and walked over, holding it so they both could see. “See, the only difference was that his map had a “Here There Be Dragons” in this empty spot, so I came to finish exploring.” He blinked, then looked at her. “Also, I don’t think I caught your name?”

“Well, if you were your dad, I wouldn’t have needed to tell you, so I haven’t yet. I’m Carol,” Carol said. “If that’s the only difference, I’d say it is a treasure map.”

“Wait, what?” Will stared frantically all over the map, looking for some hint or clue or anything that he might have missed, that Carol had somehow seen immediately. “How?”

“The real one says “Here There Be Dragons,” right?” She stepped back and raised a forepaw to her scaly chest, standing proud. “I’m the treasure!”

“No, it’s a shorthand that medieval cartographers used to represent... ah, nevermind.” Will smiled. “In that case, I think I’d like to get to know this treasure, at least for a couple of hours before I head back.”

“Awesome, I love talking about myself!” Carol chirped. “Plus, you definitely have to catch me up on the last... three hundred moons or so?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Will returned his map to the cabin, then emerged onto the deck once more to pass the time with his unexpected guest.

-----

Dragon and sailor spent the next few hours talking, teaching each other about their cultures, and just hanging out in general. By the time William had to leave, he had grown bold enough to ask if he could feel her scales - on purpose, this time, and Carol was more than happy to show him just where on her head to rub, and then joked that now, he was obligated to do that more, the next time he visited. After he said his goodbyes, Carol dove over the side of the boat and into the water. It surprised William, how little her leap made the boat rock back and forth, and what small splash she made, in spite of being easily four or five times as long as he was tall.

Carol helped lift the anchor, even though William tried to explain that it was an automatic thing now. Once it was all up, they bid farewell one last time, and then William started up the engine. With Carol keeping her neck and one forepaw above the water, the two waved at each other for a bit as they receded into their respective distances, and then the dragon vanished beneath the waves, leaving the man to his thoughts.

William looked at his map, thinking about his original plan for the trip - to prove to himself (and his father’s memory) that the map really was incomplete. He stared at the little mark he made on his map, noting the unexpectedly shallower waters he dropped anchor in. And, with a confident, humorous smile he suspected looked like the one his dad gave him whenever he brought up the old map, William put pen to paper, making sure to write in the correct place, and write legibly:

“Here There Be Dragons”

[dustedmagazine]

Listed: His Name Is Alive

While Warren Defever’s name is perhaps less recognizable than that of his band His Name Is Alive, he’s also been connected with a seemingly endless array of other projects: Princess Dragon-Mom, Elvis Hitler, ESP Beetles, Control Panel, and far more. This doesn’t get into his recording and production credits for the likes of Michael Hurley, Iggy and the Stooges, and Mdou Moctar. Forever associated with Michigan’s weirdo-underground music scene, Defever has recently been issuing a series of long-buried recordings as His Name Is Alive. In February, the Disciples label released Hope Is a Candle, the third and final volume in the "Home Recordings" trilogy exploring Defever's teenage tape experimentation as well as A Silver Thread (Home Recordings 1979 - 1990), a four-volume collection of many of Defever’s solo home recordings prior to His Name Is Alive releasing their debut album Livonia on 4AD in 1990. In his review of A Silver Thread, Tim Clarke writes “For a collection of home recordings, what’s most striking about this music is how fully realized and carefully executed it sounds, comparable at times to contemporary artists such as Grouper, Benoît Pioulard and Tim Hecker. This is not the 1980s that I remember.”

Defever gives us his “What Else Is New” list, a set of personal snapshots, memories of a life spent in music, warning the reader that “the descriptions don’t always have an obvious correlation to the video, but welcome to my nightmare brain.”

In The Line of Fire

I started performing when I was five. My grandfather was a self-taught musician from Saskatchewan in Western Canada and he showed me and my brothers how to play banjo, guitar and fiddle. One of my earliest memories is having a full size 127 lb. accordion placed onto my lap and my grandmother voicing her disappointment when I refused to play. I did learn slide guitar from her later though. I have many, often terrible, memories of performing at square dances with his band and we would play old timey country music, folk songs, polkas and waltzes. There were also gigs at the trailer park, old folks homes and a convent. Although my grandfather believed that popular music died with Hank Williams in 1953, he still found room in his heart for Lawrence Welk and Slim Whitman.

Meet Me By The Water

By age ten I had a tape recorder and was using it to capture the sounds of nearby lakes, thunderstorms, and my older brothers LP collection played at the wrong speeds. I recently found the cassette, Echo Lake (1983) which features waves crashing onto the beach on the Canadian side of Lake St. Clair but it was recorded right after I got an echo pedal so it’s got a heavy dose of dreamy delay. Tape loops of the next door neighbor raking leaves and shoveling the driveway would be repurposed a few years later as rhythm tracks on the first His Name Is Alive LP, Livonia (4AD, 1990). Detroit in the late 70s and early 80s had totally insane radio and one of the highlights was Met-Ezzthetics, a late night show on WDET hosted by Faruq Z. Bey who also played saxophone in Griot Galaxy. Shortly before his death he played with His Name is Alive and we had a chance to formalize our student-teacher relationship.

Search For Higher Energies

In high school I was studying Bach Chorale harmonization and counterpoint during the day but recording and touring with the band Elvis Hitler at night. The other guys in band were older but at 16 I was a familiar sight at shitty Detroit punk clubs and Hamtramck dive bars, the nerdy teenager reading a book or doing homework sitting at the bar waiting ’til midnight or 1am for our slot to play our hellbilly hits, “It’s A Long Way From Berlin To Memphis,” and “Hot Rod To Hell.” I was still trying to make sense of the post 1953 music scene and when I met the guy with a giant afro and shiny super hero outfit complete with shiny cape I had no idea he was Rob Tyner of the MC5. We released three records before I was twenty one and played shows and toured with Devo, the Dwarves, the Dead Milkmen, Reverend Horton Heat, the Beat Farmers, Helios Creed, Babes In Toyland, the Cro-Mags, Corrosion of Conformity, the Frogs, the Gories, Pussy Galore, the Unsane and way more I can’t remember I was just a kid. It was some kind of education.

You Don’t Have To Go Home But You Can’t Stay Here

When I signed with 4AD I thought I was a composer and they let me write my own bio, so I called His Name Is Alive the work of a “fucked up, irresponsible teenage composer.” I had only been writing music for three years. When I heard “Tom Violence” by Sonic Youth I thought for the first time in my life, “I think I could do that.” In 1988 I made a mixtape with Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car, Leadbelly and some of Big Star’s third album and I tried to arrange it like it was an album, then I made my own album in that same shape, it was called I Had Sex With God and I sent it to 4AD. Our first album contained three of the first five pieces of music I had ever written. Within a few years I was playing festivals for contemporary classical composers and new age artists who were thirty or forty years older than me. His Name Is Alive played the Musicas Visuales Festival in Mexico with Harold Budd, Paul Horn and Jorge Reyes. The mayor of the city presented me with a guitar but then dramatically walked out of the theater during our performance realizing he had made a terrible mistake. I remember the surreal moment when from across the room Harold Budd walked in and greeted me as “Mr. Defever.” He had a cold and was sniffling during his set, the audience thought he was crying. I recorded his show and when I got back home to Livonia I added my own guitar to some of his songs and then edited the tapes, looping my favorite parts and editing out the parts I didn’t like, also adding additional layers of reverb and echo. More recently I did a concert in a five hundred year old temple in Japan where the unamplified meditation music never rose above a whisper and the monk had to turn off the furnace because the heat molecules were too loud. The show was recorded and released under the name Mountain Ocean Sun and features Ian Masters and Hitoko Sakai.

Energy Dealer

Both my parents were born in Canada, my mother in Saskatchewan, my father in Ontario. I have dual citizenship as my father was American and my mother had Canadian citizenship. I spent summers, holidays and weekends in a tiny cottage on Lake St. Clair that did not have a telephone and had curtains instead of doors separating the two rooms. Myrt Fortin who lived next door would receive phone calls for my mom, walk over to our place and yell into the window, “Hey wake up your ma, your dad’s on the phone.” My mom took a lot of naps, so she was always asleep when something important was happening. I remember always getting cut on broken glass while swimming in the lake or getting stabbed by one of the neighbors and having to go wake up my mom to take me to the hospital.

Lord I Don’t Believe You Exist

When I was ten my parents sat me down and told me it was time that I got a summer job. There were only two businesses in town, a gas station and a hardware store so I walked up to the hardware store and asked the owner for a job and immediately fell to the ground crying. Completely fell apart. He asked me why I wanted to work in hardware. I didn’t know what to say, I was only ten but I knew not to tell the owner that his store was stupid and I didn’t think he could handle the truth. It turned out he also owned the gas station so that didn’t really work out. Later that summer, I began working for the Pickseed Corporation as corn de-tasseling season was just beginning. All the moms would drop off their kids in the church parking lot in Tecumseh, just outside of Windsor, around 4:30am where an unmarked windowless cargo van was waiting that had cinderblocks and 2'x4' boards instead of benches so they could squeeze in the maximum amount of children. There were three job requirements to work in a cornfield, the child (it was only children, no adults) needed to show up with a baseball hat, a thermos with water and a large black plastic garbage bag. I think this was before sunglasses were invented. Upon arriving at the cornfield, we were separated into pickers and checkers, younger kids each taking a row of corn (a row could extend a mile or more) and a slightly older kid would organize and manage several of the younger kids. In the morning we were instructed to poke two arm holes and a head hole into our garbage bags and put it on like a raincoat because the corn was covered in dew and kids wearing wet clothes would walk slower than dry kids. So almost every day there was a point, usually around 11am when the dew would dry and we would be roasted alive from the summer sun coming down on our ridiculous shiny black plastic outfits. We worked from sun up until sun down. I received three dollars and thirty five cents an hour. For all you city folks, corn is planted in alternating rows of types of corn so that when the top part of the plant is removed, or “de-tasseled,” it can seed or cross-pollinate easily. It’s a terrible job with a high turnover rate and every day I would hear the sound of kids in nearby rows that had given up hope, sat down in the middle of the field and crying for hours. The following year, at age 11, I was promoted from picker to checker, and was put in charge of a group of about ten sixteen year old’s.

Sleep It Off

Mostly I like to record – His Name is Alive has over a hundred releases and I’ve done another fifty records under various names, Control Panel, Warren Michael Defever, ESP BEETLES, ESP SUMMER, Forest People, Infinity People, Jeepers Creepers, Layla al-Akhyaliyya, Mirror Dream, Princess Dragon-Mom, the Dirt Eaters, the Fishcats, the Whales, plus way more I can’t remember probably because the names were so dumb. I’ve recorded about four hundred records for other bands at my house or other studios. I’ve worked on records with Danny Kroha, Ida, Fred Thomas, Elizabeth Mitchell, Wild Belle, Michael Hurley, and when I was a teenager I helped record the first Gories album which was especially unique as I was the junior assistant engineer who helped move their equipment into the dirt floor garage next to the studio where it was decided the acoustics would be way worse. Also, I helped collage about a hundred Destroy All Monsters tapes from the 70s for a couple of their releases which led to remastering a bunch of tapes from the John Sinclair White Panther Party archives. I’ve done remixes for Thurston Moore and Yoko Ono and when Iggy and The Stooges started touring again I got a phone call from Ron Asheton seeing if I would help them record demos for their reunion album with Mike Watt on bass. They wrote the songs together while they were recording in Niagara’s basement sort of simultaneously. Iggy didn’t have a notebook with all his lyric ideas, instead he just sang about whatever happened that day – one song was about the airline losing his luggage, one about ATM machines and another was about reading in a newspaper that Ray Davies of the Kinks had been shot in New Orleans. In the end they weren’t terribly excited by my suggested song titles including “No Shirt” (you know because it’s like “No Fun” plus you know Iggy never wears a shirt) and they didn’t seem to love the mixes that I did that sounded kind of like those crappy Raw Power bootlegs.

Cost Of Living

Two summers ago I recorded an incredible concert by Mdou Moctar live at Third Man Records in Detroit. They’re wild hypnotic Hendrix style jammers who live in the desert. The band didn’t speak much english but I think I was able to communicate to them how excited I was about their amazing fingerpicking and hot guitar solos after the show by screaming and replaying the best solos over and over again and then screaming the word fuzz and pointing at their fingers. It’s insane and having seen them a few times since then with a different drummer and the addition of a bass player, I’m convinced it’s their best album. It’s wild but it’s still not Tchin-tabaraden wedding wild.

Licked By Lions

Jonathan Richman walks into Ethan and Gretchen's studio and asks if I can remove all the rugs, take the acoustic treatments off the walls and strike the baffles which normally separate the instruments, drums and amps, so the room will have the most echo possible, he has also invited about ten friends including Johnny Bee Badanjek the drummer from Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels and Mary Cobra from the Detroit Cobras to dance, sing and play percussion in the studio while he records. He has two vocal microphones set up at either end of the room and has brought his own microphones for the drums along with his own desired placement for them. He notices a tamboura near the control room and asks if I know how to play it or if I know how to tune it. Within seconds he’s tuned it and proceeds to sing Indian classical music accompanying himself on tamboura drone for about thirty five minutes. It’s beautiful and very surprising. He asks me if I recorded it, I lie and say no. Later he asks me not to play it for anyone. We record for hours. Some songs are quite long – ten and fifteen minutes, some are medleys of oldies or soft rock hits from the seventies segueing into new songs of his. It’s a confusing session as it’s not clear when songs are starting and ending and he often plays guitar and sings nowhere near a microphone. The distance between him and the microphone seems to have some meaning, there’s some formula to when he chooses to walk away in the middle of a verse but I am unable to determine the secret code. At the end of the session three or four songs are deemed usable, edited and mixed, although, sadly, an attempt at a completely insane and unexpected fuzz guitar solo is left unreleased. (The Harold Budd piece is at the opposite end of this spectrum.)

Calling All Believers

Shortly after Tecuciztecatl was released, I received an email from Dr. James Beacham at CERN inviting us to perform at a series of concerts that would combine experimental music with experimental science at the Large Hadron Collider in Geneva, Switzerland. He didn’t contact our booking agent, which would be how we generally receive offers for gigs, instead he sent an email to me, which would be how we generally receive crazy messages from our completely insane fans (murderous, delusional, poetic, threatening messages usually). I assumed the invitation was fake or a prank and replied that we would prefer to wait until they had successfully opened a pathway to interspatial dimensions and we’d play on the other side or that if that was unlikely to happen at a convenient time then perhaps we could set up our equipment right on the edge of a mini-black hole and perform as the Earth is being destroyed so we could release the concert film “Live At The End Of The World.” After a few messages back and forth, it was clear that he was legit and I apologized for being such a jerk. Soon I discovered poetry within the language of particle physics as well as a certain beauty in the idea that these scientists have devoted their lives to dreaming, searching and discovering basic principles that connect all things in existence. The song “Calling All Believers” refers to this devotion. “Energy Acceleration” compares the scientists to monastic life in medieval times and mystics trying to find and define the line between this world and the next and at the same time invoking the incredible amounts of energy needed to create the collisions experiments. The Patterns of Light LP was released in 2016 on London London Records and is about interpreting visions of light, trying to find universal truth with whatever tools available, it’s about the search for how everything works, why it works and how it got that way but also about being inspired on a basic level by the way a thing looks and how all your senses take in a thing. A thousand years ago Hildegard Von Bingen was writing about this same thing in letters, songs, medical texts, and had even developed her own language to use in her mystical writings, similar to Magma drummer Christian Vander using his own language for their concept albums or French black metalists Brenoritvrezorkre and Moëvöt.

The Light Inside You

We get a lot of letters from fans, mostly weirdos though. I think it started when we released Song of Schizophrenia, that sort of connected us to a certain demographic I suspect. Here’s a recent typical message we received. “Growing up in Panama City, Mouth By Mouth and Livonia were like passages to other realms. I drank a ton of cough syrup at the time but those albums helped make life more livable. I was about to go to art school for sculpture and graphic design and the textures I heard on those records had actual shapes to them. Most music I knew at that time was flat or linear. I got them on cassette via mail-order from an ad placed in a bmx magazine. Mouth By Mouth arrived just before going to work at the amusement park and I was able to listen to it twice on the way thanks to the never-ending beach traffic. As luck would have it, I worked on “The Abominable Snowman” ride, basically a tilt-a-whirl inside a dome with lots of fog machine action, blue lights, mirrors, and lots of air conditioning. It took about 10 listens that day before it wasn’t as weird as when I first put it on. Maybe it was my bubblegum flavor/robitussin combo slushie on top of no-doz that pulled it all together, but it was probably a weird ride for a lot of vacationing beach tourists and townies when all they really wanted to hear was “Naughty by Nature” by O.P.P. I had no business running those rides at the age of 17 but I really loved how disorienting that ride could be with all the mirrors, the fog, the cold and for the final 90 seconds the ride would go in reverse. I had a buddy named Kevin that did acid at work and would repeatedly run the mini-train off the tracks and all the riders had to walk back through the woods for about a half mile that summer.”

[wonderlandleighleigh]

98 Thoughts while watching A New Hope

1. Who was that silver protocol droid? What happened to them? Are they okay? where are they now?? I bet they’re cooler than 3P0.

2. Rebel helmets are just silly.

3. I love how dirty R2 and 3P0 are. 

4. Man, Rex is right. Empire-era Stormtrooper armor is total shit.

5. Shut up Anakin.

6. Oh Space Mom. I will miss Carrie Fisher forever. 

7. Anakin fucking - he asks a question just as he kills the dude. Like- why-? Shut up Anakin.

8. Something I really love about this first movie is that Leia doesn’t do anything overtly sexily. When she gets shot, she’s literally just laid out on the floor, on her belly. It’s not meant to be hot. And even later when she’s tortured, it’s not meant to be a male gaze thing.

9. For fuck’s sake Anakin. Your daughter is standing right fucking there, and you can’t even sense it. What a dumb. 

10. R2 is like “Fuck. This place again?”  But 3P0 was created on Tatooine and he doesn’t even remember. That’s kinda sad. 

11. As Dettiot says, you can really tell that 3P0 was created by a 9 year old Anakin. Yeesh.

12. I really love the Jawas. They’re so strange, and wonderful. 

13. I wonder what R2 was thinking about when he was walking all that time by himself on Tatooine. Was he thinking about Anakin? Was he thinking about the war? Or Padme? Or Ahsoka? 

14. Man, Tatooine at dusk is beautiful, isn’t it?

15. These Stormtroopers have sand on their butts. I never noticed. 

16. I remember thinking the Jawa going “bobit! bobit!” was very funny as a kid.

17. Beru Whitesun. Former slaver liberator. Secret bad-ass. She and Owen really deserved better. 

18. R2: I cannot believe my old master’s son is leaving me the fuck behind. What the fuck is this shit. Get back here. Do you know how much I suffered for your dumb dad? 

19. Luke playing with toy ships just like Anakin did. And didn’t Obi-Wan make some of those in one continuity or another? *sad* 

20. R2: ANOTHER SKYWALKER OH GOD. 

21. SHE IS YOUR SISTER. Do NOT falling in love with your SISTER.

22. R2′s memory has never been wiped. Aside from Leia’s message, gold only knows what other recordings are saved on his hard drive. 

23. Blue milk! 

24. And Owen lying his ass of to Luke. Ugh.

25. I remember as a kid thinking that Owen was too grumpy/mean. But he’s a really good person. He raised this kid, and wants nothing more than to do right by him. Done so dirty. 

26. But Luke’s pensive moment watching the suns set is so beautiful.

27. I desperately want to know how Beru’s cooker works. I want one. It looks so cool. 

28. I want a Bantha. 

29. R2 trying to wake Luke up is such a moment. 

30. Obi-Wan’s krate dragon impersonation is amazing. I wish he’d do it more often.

31. I have feelings about his old, dusty Jedi robes.  In fact, everytthing about old Ben gives me feelings. He lost everything, and has been hiding in the desert for twenty years. 

32. “He’s searching for his former master. I’ve never seen so much devotion in a droid before.” Obi-Wan’s face is so haunted in this moment. Fuck.

33. R2: WHY YOU PLAYING YOU KNOW ME! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU

34. Owen told Luke his father sold drugs. The. Fuck.

35. “He was the best star pilot. And a cunning warrior. And he was a good friend.” *sads* 

36. Obi-Wan sat in the desert with his brother’s lightsaber for twenty years, just mourning everything that had happened. Fuck. 

37. Obi-Wan stop LYING. 

38. Obi-Wan’s face clearly says, while Leia’s recording plays, “Oh shit. All this crap is catching up to me. Again. I’ll never ever be rid of Skywalkers.” 

39. Obi-Wan has such terrible ideas. Still.

40. I just love that Vader hates the Death Star. Anakin hates the Death Star the way Steve Rogers hates Stark Tower. 

41. Aaaand bye-bye senate. I wonder if that will happen here in the US at some point if Trump keeps Trumping along.

42. Tarken and Vader’s bromance is such a thing.

43. Ha! “accurate.” “precise.” Stormtroopers. Ha. 

44. Owen and Beru’s fate is so gruesome. I was always so shocked by how much we were shown. Damn. Grim. And again, done so dirty. More Skywalker adjacent family dead. 

45. Shut up, Anakin.

46. More grim shit. Burning the Jawa bodies. 

47. Poor Luke. He lost everything that day. He thought his father and mother were both dead, and now his uncle and aunt are truly dead. So yeah. Following a weird wizard on a quest. 

48. Mos Eisley doesn’t seem dangerous. Just goofy. 

49. Alec Guinness’  delivery of the Jedi mind trick is so casual. So sly. Love it.

50. CHEWBACCA! WHAT A WOOKIE! 

51. Why does everybody hate droids??? 

52. omg. Luke tugging on the bartender’s shirt. Wtf Luke. Just say “Excuse me.” That’s so rude.

53. Obi-Wan just slicing off that dude’s arm...a little reactionary maybe? AND NOBODY DOES OR SAYS ANYTHING. 

54. Obi-Wan is so unimpressed by Han. omg.

55. Obi-Wan is just gonna hit up Bail and Breja for cash when they get to Alderaan. Dang. 

56. “I’m never coming back to this planet again.” heh.

57. Han shot first. Fuck all of this.

58. You know why her resistance to the mind probe is considerable? BECAUSE SHE IS YOUR DAUGHTER YOU DUMB ROBOT MAN. 

59. CGI Jabba is weak sauce.

60. “Even I get boarded sometimes” is the name of Han Solo’s sex tape. 

61. Luke’s poncho is so cute.

62. Leia is the best. 

63. Tarken is wearing comfy slippers.

64. The reason why even if Vader made amends with Luke, Leia will never forgive him, is right here. Not only did he torture her, but he stood back and watched while they destroyed her home. She will never be able to forgive him. Ever. And that’s legit. She doesn’t have to. 

65. I believe Chewie actually does beat someone with their own arm.

66. Obi-Wan’s smile when Han says there’s no mystical Force controlling his destiny was so good.

67. Even when there’s nobody else in the room, Vader doesn’t get to sit down. What the fuck.

68. Obi-Wan knows he’s gonna die.

69. Mark Hamill talks so fast.

(I accidentally took a nap during Leia’s rescue and the trash compactor scene. I was tired, and I’ve seen this movie so many times)

70.  Han screaming after the Stormtroopers is such a fucking mood.

71. Vader vs. Obi-Wan here...I have a lot of feelings about these two disasters fighting agai- SHUT UP ANAKIN.

72. Not only does Obi-Wan sacrifice himself to give Luke an exit, but he does so because he’s giving Anakin a choice in terms of killing him or not. He’s giving him a moment of grace here, I think. To not be an evil fuck. But uh...Vader.

73. When Obi-Wan says “You can’t win.” He’s not talking about the duel. He’s talking about over-all. Being a Sith means that he can’t win. And his “If you strike me down, I’ll become more powerful than you can possibly imagine” refers to the amount of guilt and shame Anakin will feel in killing his brother. That that will eat at his soul. And it does.

74. Vader stepping on the robes to make sure Obi-Wan is dead is hilarious in such a weird morbid way.

74. In a weird flip, Vader now has Obi-Wan lightsaber, as Obi-Wan had Anakin’s. 

75. Poor Luke. Owen, Beru and Obi-Wan all in one day. 

76. 1st person shooter time! 

77. Oh Han and Leia. My first fucking ship. So fighty. So sexy. I love them.

78. Stop flirting badly with your sister Luke.

79. ...who is Luke jealous of here? 

80. I love the HC that Vader knew about the weakness in the Death Star, and hated that fucking thing so much he never mentioned it. 

81. R2 back in starfighter with a Skywalker.

82. I swear Red Leader looks like Don Knotts. 

83. I love X-Wings so much.

84. Vader’s reflexes behind the controls of a starfighter must be fucked compared to what they were pre-Mustafar. 

85. Luke watching all these people die like “Ooh. I guess this is what Han was talking about.” 

86. Oh Tarkin. You gonna regret everything in a couple minutes. 

87. Biggs’ mustache is majestic.

88. Luke saves Wedge’s life by telling him to get the fuck out. Later, Wedge will likely sing “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables.” 

89. The targeting system feels so old-timey. 

90. Obi-Wan you trained him for like 20 minutes. He doesn’t know what he’s doin- okay.

91. ANAKIN! HOw dare yOu ShoOT R2! 

92. Good job Han. <3 I actually really love Han a lot. He’s not a smart man, but he’s a pretty good man. 

93. The Death Star is destroyed, Tarkin dies, and Vader goes spinning off into space. Some fics have him traveling through time! 

94. The original trio is so pure in this movie. I love them so much. The sequels did all three of them so dirty. 

95. Leia’s necklace is so good.

96. And Luke’s Jacket is so bad. I’ve seen photos of it replaced by a brown jacket and it is so much better. 

97. Remember everybody. Rex is at the ceremony somewhere, watching a Skywalker get a medal. 

98. I love this fucking movie. 

[easyfoodnetwork]

Mushroom Hunting at the End of the World

Getty Images

While the rest of the country focused on something other than the forest floor, I started foraging for chanterelles

I’d been staring at the ground too long. That’s most of what foraging is, by the way. It’s ignoring the blue sky and the trees to focus your gaze on the dirt. I was walking through cobwebs, surveying the woodland floor for almost an hour, when I finally saw one: a tiny, pale chanterelle mushroom sticking up near the trail’s edge. It looked sickly, or at the very least elderly. Perhaps it was a sign that this section of the woods was untraveled, or maybe nobody had ever thought to pluck it from its habitat.

I peeled it from the ground with my paring knife and placed it into my netted, purple sack, which once housed grocery-store red onions. This lonely mushroom wasn’t the haul, mind you, but rather an indicator. When one chanterelle appears, more will follow. A few steps off the trail and they emerged in droves. Soon, my bag was filled with corpulent, spore-bearing fungi — big chanterelles with deep-orange hues and fantastical shapes, like something a Nintendo animator might draw.

Walking back with my giant bag of wild mushrooms, I ran into a couple, the first people I’d seen that day. We all scrambled to put on our masks at the distant sight of one another. “You get some chanties?” the man said in his familiar, spectacularly unusual Pittsburgh accent. “It’s a gold mine out there,” I said, trying unconsciously to disguise any hints of that same Pennsylvanian elocution. After they disappeared back into the woods, I put my mask in my pocket, where it stayed for the rest of the hike. For about 30 seconds, I was reminded that the rest of the world was focused on something other than the forest floor.

For about 30 seconds, I was reminded that the rest of the world was focused on something other than the forest floor.

A few years back I had tasted some wild mushroom conserva courtesy of my cousin, Andy, during a trip to my hometown in Pennsylvania. Andy is a budding locavore, a self-taught forager, and a mad scientist in the kitchen. His passion is infectious. Eighty percent of the meat he consumes, he hunts himself. He cures venison and butchers whole pigs in his garage.

That first spoonful of Andy’s mushrooms, meaty chanterelles salted in a strainer, then simmered in white vinegar with gothic-looking thyme and peppercorns, is preserved in my mind, so much so that I can access that memory whenever I want. The dim lighting in my parents’ dining room, Andy standing in the kitchen with his arms confidently folded, the sound of the Mason jar lid spinning loose, and the immense joy of my first bite — stocky chanterelle mushrooms, piquant vinegar, gentle aromatics, and then the brilliant opulence of olive oil, used to preserve the mixture.

I asked Andy if I could take a jar of them back home to Los Angeles, and he obliged. Every so often, I unscrewed the lid for a small bite. I would close my eyes and feel the cold air in my hometown. If I listened carefully, I could hear the train whistles in the distance. Those mushrooms became a portal to my hometown, a culinary object so emotionally resonant, so distinct from the food I bought at my grocery store in California, that I always longed to forage and conserve a jar of my own.

I began to miss rural Pennsylvania as the pandemic encroached into summer. Like a lot of people, I felt trapped in the big city, and so in June, I went home. In Pennsylvania, everybody’s houses are set at a distance, but everyone barters home provisions, ranging from venison pastrami to crooked cucumbers to gargantuan zucchini. The summer is when the Amish sell sweet corn, and when the berry farms open their orchards. The old-timey ice cream shops end their winter break, and people start roasting whole pigs and marinated legs of lamb. It was also not lost on me that a hot, wet climate is the ideal condition for chanterelles, and that this would be the perfect time to chase that dragon: the jar of preserved mushrooms.

Once I began mushroom hunting, the calm followed. I embraced foraging, an oft-maligned word after the chef-bro boom of the 2010s. If your reaction is to recoil, you’re not alone. Before my mushroom-hunting days, I usually laughed when I saw the word “foraged” on a menu or in a magazine. Oh, did you really go out foraging, m’Lord?

The first time I went, I rode in the passenger seat of Andy’s car, down the winding rural roads of Amish country. To be honest, I didn’t immediately connect with foraging; the experience felt educational. Of course, when you’re dealing with something that can be either good in a stir-fry, consciousness-expanding, or deadly, education is important. Poisonous mushrooms actually look evil, though, an offer of good faith from Mother Nature. They often have a sinister gray or red color, with warts and scales reminiscent of the toxic fungi in fairy-tale illustrations. Andy made sure to teach me enough that I didn’t end up hallucinating through the woods — or, worse yet, dead.

People in my hometown definitely don’t fall into the stereotype of knuckle-tatted, beanie-wearing “foragers,” but they’re pretty keen on the good mushroom spots. There’s an old Polish woman, for instance, whose stiff, territorial energy I can feel whenever I show up to Gaston Park the day after a rain. Because I didn’t want to move in on another gang’s turf, I had Andy show me a few of his favorite areas. Still, it didn’t feel right: These were his discoveries, not mine. I wanted to make my own way. I wanted that excitement of stumbling across a rare mushroom, of encountering a field of freshly sprouted chanterelles. I wanted to find my own mushroom haven, and so I went to Hell’s Hollow.

daveynin/Flickr

A view from the Hell’s Hollow Trail in McConnells Mill State Park, Pennsylvania

Hell’s Hollow is a national park and trail in New Castle, Pennsylvania, about a mile down the road from my childhood home. Apparently, it’s called Hell’s Hollow because some time ago a man fell asleep in those woods, and when he woke up, he was convinced that the place he was in was actually Hell. Are the woods deep and dark? Sure. Spooky at night? Yeah, of course. But, Hell? As in the place where sinners go and are tormented for eternity? Like, Satan-owned and -operated Hell? I scoff at the idea whenever I pass the old wooden sign for the trail. What kind of idiot would think that the woods is Hell? It’s beautiful out here. I mean look, there’s a flowing river. Why would the Devil keep a freshwater source in an eternity of suffering? Rule No. 1 of Hell must be to stay hydrated. Rule No. 2? No running.

Hell’s Hollow has been a constant throughout my life. When I was a kid, my mom and dad let me splash around the creek trying to catch minnows and small crabs. When I was 10, I gleefully collected rocks and declared that I was going to be a geologist (my family would be disappointed). As teens, my friends and I smoked shag weed and smashed cans of Mountain Dew together like Stone Cold Steve Austin there. The point is, I’ve been wandering around Hell’s Hollow my whole life, and it never dawned on me that I would ever find myself foraging there. But sure enough, it was my spot.

I did not expect hunting for mushrooms to clear my head the way it did. People say that about prep work, by the way. They say that peeling potatoes and kneading dough lets the mind wander and alleviates stress. But, to me, prep work is just that: work. Dicing onions pierces the eyes, lemon juice stings, and I will always associate chopping parsley with the incoming threat of a dinner rush at one of my restaurant jobs. When people say that cooking soothes the mind, they’re not taking into account all the people who do this shit for a living. What are those people supposed to do to get away from themselves? For me, I found that wandering in the woods alone with a sense of purpose was exactly the thing I needed to weather the fire tornado of anxiety the pandemic had produced.

The act of foraging, a completely unchanged activity in a pandemic, possesses the acute ability to make me forget about the state of things entirely. Specifically, it was easy to forget about a global virus. Hunting for mushrooms in the woods alone is already distanced; there are no guidelines to follow. Walk down the street in Los Angeles and you’re immediately reminded that restaurants are shut down and live performance spaces are shuttered. But in the woods? Go ahead — sneeze full force in any direction you please. Let off some steam, pal. You’ve earned it. Sure, I had a mask, but it stayed in my pocket on the off chance that I ran into another human being, though I was more likely to spot a deer.

When I’m hunting for mushrooms it feels like I’m achieving something tangible.

This wasn’t just a way to pass time, mind you. These weren’t nature walks I was taking. There’s a sense of ambition at the core of mushroom hunting. Purpose, the thing so many of us have felt without this year, I suddenly possessed. When there’s purpose, there’s a sense of reward, and when I’m hunting for mushrooms it feels like I’m achieving something tangible. All my energy is focused, my aim clear. Instead of staring at the ceiling in my studio apartment, I found myself scanning the ground for edible treasure. The dopamine you receive from finding a cluster of chanterelle mushrooms in the damp woods is immense, somehow both frivolous and survivalist. There’s a real sense of childlike treasure-hunting tied to foraging.

Take the elusive cauliflower mushroom, Sparassis, which is as rare as mushrooms come. They grow sporadically; their appearance is psychedelic and aquatic. It looks coral in a way, like a living, breathing self-sustaining organism that belongs at the bottom of the ocean. Jarring, then, to find one surrounded by leaves and mossy logs. The mushroom itself is wavy and ethereal, with petals like a flower. It’s so rare that when Andy and I found one, he jumped in the air with excitement. For seven years he had been hunting for a cauliflower mushroom, and he finally got it. His triumph felt like my triumph, and in a way, it was. Later, I fried the petals of the cauliflower mushroom in oil and ate them salted. The texture was outstanding and the flavor delicate, like a homemade noodle but with the specific earthiness of a fungus. “How many people are eating a cauliflower mushroom right now?” I thought.

I felt like jumping in the air like Andy when I spotted that lone, feeble chanterelle in Hell’s Hollow. To reach that first chantie was a hero’s journey, past a path that leads to a dazzling waterfall, down a steep hill, across a stream, and through a tunnel of decaying trees. The air starts to cool down and a trained nose can begin to smell the faint notes of mushrooms in the air. Clusters of chanterelles appear like small towns; they are golden trumpets that politely announce their presence with colorful glee. Oyster mushrooms grow shelf-like on the sides of trees, and chicken of the woods, these endlessly useful and tasty orange half-moons, light up your eyes like a gorgeous sunset. That’s the thing about wild mushrooms — once you see them, you can’t unsee them. After an education in foraging, you’ll be forever scanning your surroundings, trying to manifest treasure.

As I carried back my sack of mushrooms that first time, I thought about that man who woke up in Hell’s Hollow in the night. How must he have felt? Aimless, one would assume. Probably searching for a way out of the darkness. Disoriented, without a clue where he might be in relation to the outside world. Maybe that’s what Hell is. Maybe it’s quite simply feeling lost and alone. The pandemic can feel like that, as though you’re traversing an endless dark wilderness hoping to catch a light in the distance that’ll guide you back to society. But is that a new feeling? Hasn’t it always been that way? Maybe all of life has just been wandering in the dark.

Anyway, I’m glad to be walking through the woods with a purpose.

Danny Palumbo is a comedian and writer living in Los Angeles.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2JUbLZq https://ift.tt/3korg8w

Getty Images

While the rest of the country focused on something other than the forest floor, I started foraging for chanterelles

I’d been staring at the ground too long. That’s most of what foraging is, by the way. It’s ignoring the blue sky and the trees to focus your gaze on the dirt. I was walking through cobwebs, surveying the woodland floor for almost an hour, when I finally saw one: a tiny, pale chanterelle mushroom sticking up near the trail’s edge. It looked sickly, or at the very least elderly. Perhaps it was a sign that this section of the woods was untraveled, or maybe nobody had ever thought to pluck it from its habitat.

I peeled it from the ground with my paring knife and placed it into my netted, purple sack, which once housed grocery-store red onions. This lonely mushroom wasn’t the haul, mind you, but rather an indicator. When one chanterelle appears, more will follow. A few steps off the trail and they emerged in droves. Soon, my bag was filled with corpulent, spore-bearing fungi — big chanterelles with deep-orange hues and fantastical shapes, like something a Nintendo animator might draw.

Walking back with my giant bag of wild mushrooms, I ran into a couple, the first people I’d seen that day. We all scrambled to put on our masks at the distant sight of one another. “You get some chanties?” the man said in his familiar, spectacularly unusual Pittsburgh accent. “It’s a gold mine out there,” I said, trying unconsciously to disguise any hints of that same Pennsylvanian elocution. After they disappeared back into the woods, I put my mask in my pocket, where it stayed for the rest of the hike. For about 30 seconds, I was reminded that the rest of the world was focused on something other than the forest floor.

For about 30 seconds, I was reminded that the rest of the world was focused on something other than the forest floor.

A few years back I had tasted some wild mushroom conserva courtesy of my cousin, Andy, during a trip to my hometown in Pennsylvania. Andy is a budding locavore, a self-taught forager, and a mad scientist in the kitchen. His passion is infectious. Eighty percent of the meat he consumes, he hunts himself. He cures venison and butchers whole pigs in his garage.

That first spoonful of Andy’s mushrooms, meaty chanterelles salted in a strainer, then simmered in white vinegar with gothic-looking thyme and peppercorns, is preserved in my mind, so much so that I can access that memory whenever I want. The dim lighting in my parents’ dining room, Andy standing in the kitchen with his arms confidently folded, the sound of the Mason jar lid spinning loose, and the immense joy of my first bite — stocky chanterelle mushrooms, piquant vinegar, gentle aromatics, and then the brilliant opulence of olive oil, used to preserve the mixture.

I asked Andy if I could take a jar of them back home to Los Angeles, and he obliged. Every so often, I unscrewed the lid for a small bite. I would close my eyes and feel the cold air in my hometown. If I listened carefully, I could hear the train whistles in the distance. Those mushrooms became a portal to my hometown, a culinary object so emotionally resonant, so distinct from the food I bought at my grocery store in California, that I always longed to forage and conserve a jar of my own.

I began to miss rural Pennsylvania as the pandemic encroached into summer. Like a lot of people, I felt trapped in the big city, and so in June, I went home. In Pennsylvania, everybody’s houses are set at a distance, but everyone barters home provisions, ranging from venison pastrami to crooked cucumbers to gargantuan zucchini. The summer is when the Amish sell sweet corn, and when the berry farms open their orchards. The old-timey ice cream shops end their winter break, and people start roasting whole pigs and marinated legs of lamb. It was also not lost on me that a hot, wet climate is the ideal condition for chanterelles, and that this would be the perfect time to chase that dragon: the jar of preserved mushrooms.

Once I began mushroom hunting, the calm followed. I embraced foraging, an oft-maligned word after the chef-bro boom of the 2010s. If your reaction is to recoil, you’re not alone. Before my mushroom-hunting days, I usually laughed when I saw the word “foraged” on a menu or in a magazine. Oh, did you really go out foraging, m’Lord?

The first time I went, I rode in the passenger seat of Andy’s car, down the winding rural roads of Amish country. To be honest, I didn’t immediately connect with foraging; the experience felt educational. Of course, when you’re dealing with something that can be either good in a stir-fry, consciousness-expanding, or deadly, education is important. Poisonous mushrooms actually look evil, though, an offer of good faith from Mother Nature. They often have a sinister gray or red color, with warts and scales reminiscent of the toxic fungi in fairy-tale illustrations. Andy made sure to teach me enough that I didn’t end up hallucinating through the woods — or, worse yet, dead.

People in my hometown definitely don’t fall into the stereotype of knuckle-tatted, beanie-wearing “foragers,” but they’re pretty keen on the good mushroom spots. There’s an old Polish woman, for instance, whose stiff, territorial energy I can feel whenever I show up to Gaston Park the day after a rain. Because I didn’t want to move in on another gang’s turf, I had Andy show me a few of his favorite areas. Still, it didn’t feel right: These were his discoveries, not mine. I wanted to make my own way. I wanted that excitement of stumbling across a rare mushroom, of encountering a field of freshly sprouted chanterelles. I wanted to find my own mushroom haven, and so I went to Hell’s Hollow.

daveynin/Flickr

A view from the Hell’s Hollow Trail in McConnells Mill State Park, Pennsylvania

Hell’s Hollow is a national park and trail in New Castle, Pennsylvania, about a mile down the road from my childhood home. Apparently, it’s called Hell’s Hollow because some time ago a man fell asleep in those woods, and when he woke up, he was convinced that the place he was in was actually Hell. Are the woods deep and dark? Sure. Spooky at night? Yeah, of course. But, Hell? As in the place where sinners go and are tormented for eternity? Like, Satan-owned and -operated Hell? I scoff at the idea whenever I pass the old wooden sign for the trail. What kind of idiot would think that the woods is Hell? It’s beautiful out here. I mean look, there’s a flowing river. Why would the Devil keep a freshwater source in an eternity of suffering? Rule No. 1 of Hell must be to stay hydrated. Rule No. 2? No running.

Hell’s Hollow has been a constant throughout my life. When I was a kid, my mom and dad let me splash around the creek trying to catch minnows and small crabs. When I was 10, I gleefully collected rocks and declared that I was going to be a geologist (my family would be disappointed). As teens, my friends and I smoked shag weed and smashed cans of Mountain Dew together like Stone Cold Steve Austin there. The point is, I’ve been wandering around Hell’s Hollow my whole life, and it never dawned on me that I would ever find myself foraging there. But sure enough, it was my spot.

I did not expect hunting for mushrooms to clear my head the way it did. People say that about prep work, by the way. They say that peeling potatoes and kneading dough lets the mind wander and alleviates stress. But, to me, prep work is just that: work. Dicing onions pierces the eyes, lemon juice stings, and I will always associate chopping parsley with the incoming threat of a dinner rush at one of my restaurant jobs. When people say that cooking soothes the mind, they’re not taking into account all the people who do this shit for a living. What are those people supposed to do to get away from themselves? For me, I found that wandering in the woods alone with a sense of purpose was exactly the thing I needed to weather the fire tornado of anxiety the pandemic had produced.

The act of foraging, a completely unchanged activity in a pandemic, possesses the acute ability to make me forget about the state of things entirely. Specifically, it was easy to forget about a global virus. Hunting for mushrooms in the woods alone is already distanced; there are no guidelines to follow. Walk down the street in Los Angeles and you’re immediately reminded that restaurants are shut down and live performance spaces are shuttered. But in the woods? Go ahead — sneeze full force in any direction you please. Let off some steam, pal. You’ve earned it. Sure, I had a mask, but it stayed in my pocket on the off chance that I ran into another human being, though I was more likely to spot a deer.

When I’m hunting for mushrooms it feels like I’m achieving something tangible.

This wasn’t just a way to pass time, mind you. These weren’t nature walks I was taking. There’s a sense of ambition at the core of mushroom hunting. Purpose, the thing so many of us have felt without this year, I suddenly possessed. When there’s purpose, there’s a sense of reward, and when I’m hunting for mushrooms it feels like I’m achieving something tangible. All my energy is focused, my aim clear. Instead of staring at the ceiling in my studio apartment, I found myself scanning the ground for edible treasure. The dopamine you receive from finding a cluster of chanterelle mushrooms in the damp woods is immense, somehow both frivolous and survivalist. There’s a real sense of childlike treasure-hunting tied to foraging.

Take the elusive cauliflower mushroom, Sparassis, which is as rare as mushrooms come. They grow sporadically; their appearance is psychedelic and aquatic. It looks coral in a way, like a living, breathing self-sustaining organism that belongs at the bottom of the ocean. Jarring, then, to find one surrounded by leaves and mossy logs. The mushroom itself is wavy and ethereal, with petals like a flower. It’s so rare that when Andy and I found one, he jumped in the air with excitement. For seven years he had been hunting for a cauliflower mushroom, and he finally got it. His triumph felt like my triumph, and in a way, it was. Later, I fried the petals of the cauliflower mushroom in oil and ate them salted. The texture was outstanding and the flavor delicate, like a homemade noodle but with the specific earthiness of a fungus. “How many people are eating a cauliflower mushroom right now?” I thought.

I felt like jumping in the air like Andy when I spotted that lone, feeble chanterelle in Hell’s Hollow. To reach that first chantie was a hero’s journey, past a path that leads to a dazzling waterfall, down a steep hill, across a stream, and through a tunnel of decaying trees. The air starts to cool down and a trained nose can begin to smell the faint notes of mushrooms in the air. Clusters of chanterelles appear like small towns; they are golden trumpets that politely announce their presence with colorful glee. Oyster mushrooms grow shelf-like on the sides of trees, and chicken of the woods, these endlessly useful and tasty orange half-moons, light up your eyes like a gorgeous sunset. That’s the thing about wild mushrooms — once you see them, you can’t unsee them. After an education in foraging, you’ll be forever scanning your surroundings, trying to manifest treasure.

As I carried back my sack of mushrooms that first time, I thought about that man who woke up in Hell’s Hollow in the night. How must he have felt? Aimless, one would assume. Probably searching for a way out of the darkness. Disoriented, without a clue where he might be in relation to the outside world. Maybe that’s what Hell is. Maybe it’s quite simply feeling lost and alone. The pandemic can feel like that, as though you’re traversing an endless dark wilderness hoping to catch a light in the distance that’ll guide you back to society. But is that a new feeling? Hasn’t it always been that way? Maybe all of life has just been wandering in the dark.

Anyway, I’m glad to be walking through the woods with a purpose.

Danny Palumbo is a comedian and writer living in Los Angeles.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2JUbLZq via Blogger https://ift.tt/38Dk0DK

[bettsfic]

Baby updates on Sunday and Wednesday at 7pm EST on Patreon

excerpt from chapter 6:

Madison Correctional is in London, Ohio, situated on seventy-two acres surrounded by electric barbed-wire fence. The main building looks like an old-timey boarding school. Inside, they go through the rigamarole of signing in and getting wanded down and waiting in the area that looks like a cross between a BMV and a doctor’s office waiting room. Visiting days are slower in January than June. Today there are only a couple dozen people. Bobby has never seen Anita so nervous, which is one of the weirdest things about being an adult, finding the cracks in your parents’ armor. Feeling sorry for them sometimes. Taking care of them just as they once took care of you, and understanding they’re just as weak and vulnerable and afraid as everyone else.

Anita has chewed her nail down to the quick, opted for one of the most mundane outfits she owns — bootcut jeans from before Bobby was born, a baggy grey sweatshirt under a baggier coat, white sneakers. Short hair tucked under beanie he doesn’t recognize, black, which means she crocheted it last night. No makeup, either, like she’s trying to make herself invisible. She clutches her enormous purse to her chest and bounces both her feet in unison.

“What happens next?” she keeps asking. “How much longer?” 

“Mom,” Bea says, slouched low in a pink vinyl chair, staring up at the ceiling. “Chill out, okay? It’s just Dad.”

Bobby shouldn’t have sat between them. He catches the quick, hurt look on Anita’s face, hidden immediately by irritation. “‘Just Dad,’” she says to Bobby. “She doesn’t remember what he’s like when he’s free. A madman.” 

Bea jolts forward to look at her. “Don’t be mean to Dad. How would you feel if you were locked up for twenty years?”

Anita leans forward too. “I don’t have to know. I’d never be stupid enough to make his mistakes.”

The exact same hurt look that had flickered across Anita’s face now crosses Bea’s, and she covers it just as quickly. “You haven’t spoken to him in a decade. You don’t understand him.”

“Neither do you. If you understood him, you’d want him to rot in this place.”

“At least Dad likes me. He listens to me. You don’t even know me.”

“Bea,” Bobby says.

“You’re always at work or locked in your room,” Bea continues. “You don’t come to my games, or want to meet Junior’s family, or anything. You just set the rules and make Bobby enforce them.”

Bobby watches Anita’s knuckles turn white where she grips her purse. He puts his arm around her. Her whole body shakes as she leans into him.

“We can leave,” he offers quietly. 

She shakes her head. “I need to do this. I need to.”

He kisses her temple. Bea falls back against the seat with a dull thump, arms across her chest. She looks like she did when she was a kid and walked around pretending she was a dragon, setting everything on invisible fire. 

“He left us,” Anita says, just loudly enough for Bea to hear. “He knew the risks, and he took them. He chose this path over you, Beatrice. That’s all we’ve ever been to him. Something to gamble. Something worth losing.”

[read the rest on patreon]

[ecto-american]

Like Father Like Daughter

Summary: "I don't wanna!" Maddie's heart stopped as her granddaughter's annoyed, narrowed eyes flashed a brilliant glowing green at her before the girl returned her attention back to the TV. "Sweetheart, what was that?"

Rating: K+

Inspiration: It's just a plot bunny I had for a while.

Pairings: JackxMaddie, JazzxOC, DannyxWhoever. I had a specific ship in mind, but I left it purposefully vague so you can picture him as being with whichever DP lady you'd like.

Warnings: Contains fanchild OCs for JazzxOC and DannyxWhoever

Other Notes: It’s originally on AO3, along with a second chapter that I’ll post at another time, but I wanna go ahead and just begin crossposting some stuff. I’m planning a companion piece of sorts to this so might as well spam it everywhere I can.

Other Notes: I'm not really all that good with kids. Dawn's age is just kind of vague, but she's not in school yet. Probably around 4ish? I think you start kindergarten at 5. But also to be specifically clear, Danny's wife in this fanfiction DOES know his secret.

Maddie heard the child making car noises to herself as she moved the toy car along the carpet. She smiled, glancing up from the invention she was tinkering with, a relatively harmless little gadget, just a new and improved version of a ghost detector, to see Dawn crawling a bit on her knees to reach another toy from the toy box in the living room. She opened the lid, reaching deep inside.

"What are you getting into, sunshine?" Maddie teasingly asked. The little girl glanced behind her to flash a grin at her grandmother, black hair sticking out every which way. This was despite the girl's mother having dropped her off earlier with her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She still had the ponytail, but her hair just seemed to want to constantly stand up on end in a permanent cow lick.

"Vroom vroom," she replied, and she held up a toy airplane that she had retrieved.

She sunk to her knees again, making soft engine noises to herself as she 'drove' the plane around on the floor. Maddie smiled, and she began to eagerly screw the last bit of the ghost gadget together before standing up. She moved to put it on a shelf, out of reach of curious little hands. The invention was essentially done anyway, just in need of some testing, which would wait. Maddie sat down on the floor.

Dawn's bright eyes lit up in excitement, and she eagerly made the plane take off, hurriedly crawling towards her grandmother. Maddie opened her arms and allowed for the girl to 'crash' into her in an explosion of giggles, happily settling in on her lap.

"Uh oh, crash landing," Maddie told her, and she picked up a fire truck. "Here comes the fire department to help!"

"Grandpa would help!" Dawn added, and she wiggled to grab another toy car, one Jack had made of the Fenton Family Ghost Assault Vehicle. Maddie smiled.

"Yup, grandpa would come to make sure ghosts didn't crash the plane," Maddie replied. Dawn wiggled out of her lap and onto the floor, reaching to grab another car to come assist with the plane crash. The home was pleasantly silent as the two played.

Wednesday mornings were a special time for Maddie, where she got to be alone with Dawn, and she cherished them. On Wednesday mornings, Maddie would never understand quite how it even began, Jack would go golfing with Vlad before picking up their youngest grandson from morning kindergarten, who would join them until the other grandsons trickled in from their various after school activities. The Fenton grandparents often had a full house until their children came to pick up the grandkids. Dawn wasn't due to be enrolled in school until next year, nor eligible for any activities just yet. Had he been home, the Jack would be on the floor with her and Dawn, playing with their only granddaughter and Danny's only child.

Maddie gave a small chuckle to herself at Jazz's brief jealousy when Danny and his wife found out that they were having a little girl. Jazz had five very energetic boys, and Maddie knew this energy had no limits first-handed. One of the best perks of working from home was the luxury of being able to spend a lot of quality time with her children growing up, and now, she got to watch her grandchildren grow up first hand. Well, Jazz's boys anyway.

"Mom, I'm just not sure," Danny had said defensively. He seemed uncomfortable with the idea Maddie had proposed.

"She wants to go back to work in the future, and we already keep the boys," Maddie replied with a frown. "Danny, it's not any problem to leave Dawn with us while you two work. We don't mind."

"It's not that," Danny was so hesitant. Her son was resting in his living room, laying down on the couch, a four month old Dawn sleeping happily on his chest while Maddie sat in the armchair nearby. "I-I-I, just, you know. It may not be safe for her. You and dad are so active in the lab, what if you accidentally spill something on her?"

Maddie tried to not take it too personally. She remembered life as a first time parent. Danny had already grown incredibly overprotective of his little girl. Even now, he kept a protective hand on Dawn's back to keep her in place, as if the infant was going to suddenly float away.

"We wash our hands religiously, and what would it matter anyway? She's human, even if, somehow, something got onto her, she'd be perfectly fine. Any and all chemicals and liquids and gadgets we have only target and harm ghosts," Maddie lightly argued. Danny flinched, and she noticed that Danny's hand gripped Dawn's onesie, anxiously. "Danny we'd never let her into the lab anyway, and we've been keeping everything down there anyway. You know how nosy the boys are. They get into everything."

"Uh...just...let me think about it. And we both have to talk about it, ya know?"

Maddie shook her head, giving a light eyeroll at the memory. Danny was so overprotective of Dawn. It was endearing, but honestly. She dreaded to see him when Dawn became a teenager. It had taken nearly two years, much convincing and a lot of promises before Danny and his wife caved, allowing Grandpa and Grandma Fenton to keep Dawn while her parents went to work during the day. It hurt a little that Danny seemed so hesitant to let his own parents keep Dawn, especially when there was not nearly as much of a fuss when the other side of Dawn's family got to see and keep her. Jack had assured her that Danny was just worried because they had such a dangerous profession, while Danny's in-laws had a much more relaxed job. Maddie had agreed, despite her heart and gut telling her it was something else.

She forced herself to put aside those thoughts as she noticed Dawn going to grab another toy from the box, this time a spaceship toy. The girl seemed to take intense fascination over it, and she sat down next to the toy box to intensely inspect the toy. It was a new addition to the toy box, Danny's when he was a kid, and Maddie gave a soft smile. She was definitely Danny's little girl.

From the couch, Maddie heard a familiar text tone. She reached out to grab her cellphone with her fingertips, pulling it closer to view the message that she was already so accustomed to getting. A message from Danny, on his lunch break, asking her how Dawn was doing. Could her son be more over-protective?

Sure enough, there it was. Hey mom, love you. How's Dawn? Maddie rolled her eyes, and she sent back the same old, same old text. Hey sweetie, Dawn's doing good. Love you too, have a good day.

She put her phone on the coffee table, glancing at Dawn.

"Your daddy's silly," she informed her, earning giggles from Dawn.

"Daddy fell out of a tree yesterday," Dawn told her. Maddie frowned. This never came up in conversation with Danny.

"Is he okay?" Dawn stared blankly at her. "Did Daddy get hurt?"

"No," she replied. "He missed the ground."

Maddie thought little of the statement. Dawn often said odd things. She brought it up to Jazz, who was quick to say that sometimes kids just said weird stuff that didn't make sense. Dawn's mother defended the words. Maddie had a few memories of Jazz and Danny saying odd things, as well as some of their childhood playmates, and so she brushed it off. Dawn had quite the active imagination as it stood.

She spoke often of a ghost that haunted their home, describing her as a white haired ghost that was Danny Phantom's cloned cousin. Whenever Maddie or Jack showed discomfort, Dawn was always quick to clarify that she was a good ghost, and that she played fun games with Dawn. There was also a ghost puppy that Dawn often spoke of that protected her when she felt scared by becoming a huge dog like Clifford the big red dog only he was green, as well as a giant white, fuzzy ghost with a really, really cold ice hand that often made it snow just for her. There was a pretty princess ghost that turned into a dragon that would take her and her dad on magical trips to really, really old timey-times and who let her be a princess for a day once, trying on her crown and letting her sit in the royal chair. Another fuzzy ghost, this time black that she couldn't quite understand, but who was always very sweet to her and let her pet him. Dawn often reported that he was soft, and while he had sharp claws, he had never cut her, not even on accident.

Danny and his wife insisted it was the overactive imagination, and the grandparents soon agreed. A very active, if odd, imagination. It worried Maddie that Dawn seemed to think so positively of ghosts.

"Why was he in a tree?" she asked. Dawn giggled.

"Hiding from Mommy!" Maddie let out a small chuckle herself. That sounded about right. She glanced at the clock. 11:20am.

"Crash Nebula will be on in ten minutes," Maddie told her. "If you'd like to watch it, you need to pick up the toys you played with today."

Dawn's nose scrunched up, lower lip sticking out in annoyance at the idea of cleaning up, the expression being almost an identical mirror to Danny when he was her age. She looked around at all the toys she had dragged out over the course of the morning.

"I don't wanna," she whined.

"Too bad," Maddie's voice became firm. "If you'd like to switch activities, you have to clean up from your last one."

"Can I do it after?" Her lower lip stuck out further, and Dawn's eyes grew sad. A puppy dog attack, and Maddie gave a small smile.

"Then it'll never get done," she replied, tone light. She was used to the age old game of dealing with kids, and she stood up. "I'm going to go to the lab to put my own activity away." Maddie gestured to the invention she had put on the shelf. "When I come back, I expect to see all the toys put away."

Maddie picked up her invention, and she went down into the lab, closing the door behind her to prevent Dawn from wandering down. She began to put away the tools she had brought upstairs with her, as well as the invention in a proper place. Maddie picked up an ecto-gun Jack had been working on earlier, examining it to see the progress. She'd love to bring it upstairs and show Dawn, but she knew Danny would lose his mind. He had been very insistent on Dawn staying out of the lab, her daughter-in-law too.

She'd never understand that. Jazz's boys came into the lab regularly, with Jack or Maddie supervising of course. The boys had even helped with simple invention tweaking and tinkering. The Fenton grandparents even had the absolute cutest photo that Danny, ironically, had taken of Jazz's oldest mimicking Jack exactly. Jack was working on the Specter Speeder, using a wrench to tighten a bolt, and his oldest grandson was using a plastic toy wrench on his toy Specter Speeder (again, another toy Jack had created for the grandkids).

Maddie was a bit heartbroken that Danny wanted to deny Dawn the precious gift of science, engineering and family ghost hunting secrets that she and Jack had to offer. Her daughter-in-law seemed conflicted, wanting Dawn to have the experiences but also heavily mirroring Danny's worries, incredibly concerned when Jack had initially brought up that he was going to get the simple blueprints together to begin a small ghost tracker building project with Dawn, just like he had with all of Jazz's boys. Nothing they hadn't done before with a grandchild. But it freaked the parents out.

She sighed. Maybe when Dawn was a bit older. Or maybe at the next family dinner, she'd bring it up to Danny. There was nothing in the lab for him to be afraid of Dawn getting. Everything down there effected ghosts, and only ghosts. Anything that would be harmful to a human, such as some of the chemicals and gasses needed for some of the more biological side of ghost hunting and testing, was always locked away under key in a cabinet. Always had, always was. No exceptions. It was a safety rule Jack and Maddie took seriously.

Hell, Danny himself grew up practically being an active participant in the lab. Yes, as he hit his teen years, some of the inventions began to target him. They were just glitches in the system, and they only ever targeted their son. Maybe he was afraid of a similar malfunction? But he was never in any true danger. The inventions, the lab, the OP center, it'd only harm ghosts. Danny knew this by heart.

Perhaps if she could get Dawn excited about it, Danny would cave. He did nearly anything and everything to make his special little sunshine happy. Maddie clearly remembered her son swearing up and down a storm as he struggled to put a background playground set of sorts together (with Ryuu, Jazz's husband, and Tucker's eventual help). Dawn was always so eager to play helper whenever Jack or Maddie needed a hand repairing the kitchen sink or the TV, an electronic toy or the Fenton RV. With her imagination focused on ghosts and the interest in repairing, she had the Fenton ghost hunting spirit in her. Maddie could just feel it.

The idea cheered her up, and Maddie finished tidying up before going upstairs to check on Dawn. She heard the TV playing, the familiar cartoon theme song playing. She entered the living room, frowning.

"Dawn," Maddie scolded, putting her hands on her hips. Dawn glanced over her shoulder at her grandmother in annoyance, scowling. "I thought I asked you to put away the toys before you began watching TV?"

"I don't wanna!" Maddie's heart stopped as her granddaughter's annoyed, narrowed eyes flashed a brilliant glowing green at her before the girl returned her attention back to the TV.

"Sweetheart, what was that?"

Dawn's head snapped towards her with wide, thankfully baby blue, eyes. Maddie wondered if her eyes were playing tricks on her. She was getting a bit up there in age-no. No. She knew what she saw.

"What?" Dawn asked.

"Your eyes," Maddie said. Her entire demeanor shifted, and she was puzzled. Dawn looked guilty, as if she was caught stealing some of Jack's fudge (again).

"I'm watching Crash Nebula," was all Dawn said, and she turned her attention to the TV. Maddie shook herself out of her shock. Eye color change or not, Dawn still did not do as asked. Maddie strolled over to the TV, pressing the power button. Dawn's eyes grew wide. "Grandma!"

"Dawn, I asked you to pick up the toys ten minutes ago," Maddie reminded her. Dawn's eyes narrowed at her, giving an angry grumble. Maddie's heart skipped a beat as the girl's eyes flashed green again in her frustration. The look on her face was so familiar, but it wasn't an expression she ever remembered Danny giving her. It was eerily familiar yet not.

"I wanna watch Crash Nebula!" she argued. Maddie frowned.

"You may watch it after you clean up," she told her. Dawn's face scrunched up again, and her lower lip trembled. Maddie gave a soft sigh, anticipating the temper tantrum to follow.

As expected, the ghost hunter soon had an angry, tearful grandchild laying on the floor face down, screaming and crying. Maddie paid it no attention, simply sitting on the couch and waiting. Surprisingly, Jazz was the one almost infamous for her temper tantrums, and Maddie always found that letting it pass worked best. She sat back, watching Dawn cry and kick her legs angrily at the air. Her hands were clenched in fists, but she held them still as she bawled. Maddie squinted. Was...she glowing?

Dawn was. She had a faint glow to her, and Maddie sat up straighter, leaning in. Was it a glow, or was it just the lighting? She did have the curtains open wide to let in light. Maddie couldn't tell, and she stood up to walk over. Dawn had calmed down by now, and there was no glow, assuming one had been present to begin with. The girl simply laid on the ground now, sniffling unhappily.

"Are you finished?" Maddie asked. Dawn just nodded. "Are you ready to pick up your toys?" Dawn shook her head no. "Then I think it's time out time." Dawn's lower lip trembled, and more tears poured. Maddie used her hand to lightly nudge her into standing up, which Dawn did very slowly and reluctantly.

Maddie gestured to the small step stool in the corner that had been unceremoniously placed there years ago when the first grandchild temper tantrum had happened, and never removed. Dawn dragged herself over to it, and as soon as she sat down, she began to cry again. Maddie sighed sympathetically. She hated punishing any of the grandkids.

"I'm going to go get started on lunch," she told Dawn. Dawn sniffled, giving a nod. Maddie stole a glance as she went to the kitchen.

From her spot at the counter, she could see Dawn. The girl was sitting still, sniffling and beginning to get upset hiccups. Lunch was just going to be a simple sandwich and chips, and Maddie broke out the needed ingredients, keeping Dawn within eye and earshot. She tore her eyes away from Dawn for less than a second, to assure she was scraping jelly properly from the jar, but she froze when she saw...an empty step stool.

"Dawn?" Maddie called out, both as a warning but also initial panic beginning to set in.

"Yes?" her voice came from the living room. It sounded like she was still in the corner, but Maddie didn't see her.

"Dawn, where are you?"

"I'm sitting!"

Maddie frowned.

"I don't see you!"

"I'm sitting!" the voice was desperate and whining, louder and more insistent.

"Where are you sitting?" Maddie asked. She tried to keep her voice calm and level, but inside, she was angry and confused. Where was she?

"On the stool!" Dawn insisted.

Maddie's eyes scanned for any signs that Dawn had gotten up and moved. Her eyes drifted over to the couch and chair, and they went back to the stool. She jumped when she saw a familiar, teary-eyed girl sitting on the stool. She put her hand to her chest. Her heart was going crazy. Maddie knew for a fact that Dawn was not sitting in the stool a few moments ago.

"Honey, what happened?" Maddie tried to keep the accusatory tone out of her voice, and she did, but she knew she sounded a bit panicked.

"I didn't move!" Dawn cried out, lower lip trembling.

Dawn was never a liar. She was almost honest to a fault, and she had never, to Maddie's knowledge anyway, lied to her before. She was a good kid, a very sweet kid. Maddie didn't know what to believe. She knew she didn't see Dawn just a moment ago. She was almost afraid to leave Dawn alone in the living room again.

"Sunshine, why don't you come help me finish making lunch?" she asked. Dawn seemed to brighten up at the idea of leaving time out early.

"Okay!" she agreed, and the girl's sour mood seemed to lift.

Maddie kept a close eye on Dawn, but nothing else happened. As normal, lunch was served and ate. As normal, Dawn offered to help clean up. As normal, Maddie got the message that Jack had finished his golf game (having lost by a long shot but as normal, he had fun hanging out with his best friend and was on his way home soon with Dawn's cousin). It was too normal now, and Maddie couldn't help but wonder what happened in the living room.

After cleaning up from lunch, Dawn was finally willing to pick up and put away the toys.

"Do you want to watch Crash Nebula on Netflix now?" Maddie offered, and Dawn's eyes lit up, thankfully still blue.

"Yes please!" she chirped, and Maddie handed her the remote. She already knew how to work Netflix, and within moments, Dawn found the familiar icon of her favorite show and began an episode. Maddie smiled, leaning over to kiss her temple, earning a small giggle.

"Grandma's going to go get something from the lab real quick," Maddie spoke up. Dawn just nodded in response, already engrossed in her activity.

Maddie disappeared down into the lab, heart and head pounding anxiously as she tried to process what exactly happened. She knew Dawn was there. But then she wasn't. Of course, it would be logical to just assume that her granddaughter had gotten up and out of time out. Kids did that all the time. But to disappear from view and return as quickly and suddenly as she had...Maddie wasn't buying it.

She shook her head, picking up the detector she had been working on earlier, also plucking a few small tools before bringing it upstairs with her. Maddie didn't want to be blind to the obvious. Her granddaughter simply had discovered lying and was doing so to do. She couldn't get caught up in the nonsensical details.

Maddie returned to see her granddaughter in the exact same spot on the floor as she had left, eyes glued to the TV.

She settled into her seat, glancing at the clock. Jack would be home in less than a half hour or so. Maddie hummed lightly to herself, turning on the invention to begin testing. The display lit up, and it began to slowly load. Soon, the main menu popped up, and Maddie began to fiddle with the options and controls she had programmed. For now, she just wanted to assure that the controls worked at the basic level, that the options all showed up and that the settings could be adjusted, that the screens lit up and that the mapping system worked as needed.

She frowned as she noticed that it was detecting a nearby ghost, as indicated by the dark green outline that was designed to alert if a ghost was within a selected radius, the default being a ten foot. Was it glitching already? How could a ghost be nearby without her noticing?

Curiosity caused her to go into an option that gave the exact location of the ghost in question. The device should be able to scan a ghost and read their ectoplasmic signature, which would give the quick answers one would need if a ghost was nearby. Was it safe, how dangerous, who was it, etc.

Her heart froze, and she sat up straight as it told her a ghost was very, very close to her, barely three feet away. Which meant it was close to her granddaughter. It had to be a malfunction. It couldn't be within three feet of her without her noticing. Maddie went to check the information the device picked up on the supposed ghost.

Name: Unknown

Age: Unknown, est existence: 1wk

Pwr lvl: ERROR 412

Misc: ERROR 412

Maddie's breath caught in her throat. Error 412 simply meant that there was a lack of ectoplasmic sampling to get a proper reading. But with a ghost supposedly so close? She was on high alert, and she put her hand on her hip, where an ectogun was always there, just in case. As well as the Fenton lipstick. With one hand searching for the exact pinpointed location, she stared at it in disbelief as it told her that the ghost was two point six feet in front of her, sitting in the same spot as her granddaughter.

"Dawn?" Maddie spoke up, voice almost trembling a bit in worry. Dawn scowled, twisting to look at her, and for what felt like the hundredth time that day, Maddie's heart skipped a beat.

"What!?" came the cranky voice of her granddaughter, who was glaring at her with annoyed, bright green and glowing eyes. Maddie recognized the scowl. It was the same kind of scowl and glare she saw Phantom wear all the time towards her, and those eyes were a perfectly replica of his.

[hogwartswelcomesyou]

Hi, I wanted to check out the Sortings for the Baudelaires but it directed me to Glee. Also, could you please sort the Disney Princes or the characters of Once Upon A Time?

The Prince - Hufflepuff

Snow White’s prince is a dainty man, he sings to woo his lady, he feels careful about scaring her and won’t overstep his boundaries. He feels loyalty to her to save her at the end of her film with a gentle kiss before he returns to mourning her with the rest of the dwarves, only to realize HE is the one who has saved her. He’s patient with her and knows Snow will be ready for him at a later date, and is willing to wait to see her again, he’s kind enough to duet with her and not overshadow her lovely voice and he also accepts Snow entirely, for who she is. 

Prince Charming - Hufflepuff

Charming is truly a Prince, in a stereotypical way. He goes to lavish balls, lives in a grand palace and yawns at all the beautiful women put before him because he can see they aren’t the right woman for him (though yawning is a little rude, dude). But he’s humble enough to fall for the woman who gets lost, is late, has no title and who shows him kindness at the first glance. He shows the dedication to find his dream runaway girl, and also keeps his promise to marry her. He’s patient, in his wait (as it could have been anything from 24 hours to find her to weeks!) and values are his new wife’s previous life of hard work, patience, and loyalty to her abusive family. And Hufflepuff’s are very good finders, after all! He just needs a better memory and to ask for names before you start dancing!

Prince Phillip - Gryffindor

Phillip I think, is a cookie cutter Gryffindor. Honestly who else would randomly start singing and dancing with someone in the middle of the forest? You have to have real guts to go up to a true stranger, and attempt to woo them! He will do anything for the love he feels for the ‘peasant girl’, knowing he’s meant to be betrothed to the princess, and is willing to defy his royal duty and father’s orders to do what he wants with his life. The prince also escaped a castle, cut down countless thorns and brambles, battled a dragon, defied Maleficent and that is brave, reckless and chivalrous to no end. He doesn’t even come up with a plan! For being a true old timey prince I sort Philip into Gryffindor!

Prince Eric - Hufflepuff

Prince Eric isn’t exactly an easy sort, but I have to go with Hufflepuff. Prince Eric is kind to every person he meets, but he is sort of oblivious to when others need him. Eric enjoys the little things in life; a day on a boat, a pretty girl, and a big castle. The problem with Eric is though he does have loyalty, it sometimes isn’t the loyalty others expect. He has to be a Hufflepuff! 

Beast - Gryffindor

Beast is Gryffindor™. He’s arrogant, thinks he’s the one in the right and boy what a temper. But as the story progresses we can see chivalry ranks high on his list of virtues. Along with being self-sacrificing and being willing to do just about anything for Belle, he is incredibly reckless and daring. I mean who fights without thinking on a roof? And as a chivalrous act, I present to you, letting Gaston live even if the guy was a prick. For his daring, nerve and chivalry I sort Beast into Gryffindor!

Aladdin - Slytherin

The diamond in the rough. This little thief belongs in Slytherin and that is that. From a young age, Aladdin learned that in order to survive he has to do everything he can. And for stealing in a place like the market of Agrabah? You need to be as cunning and sly as can be. If he was caught the guards would cut off his hands. Al has wanted to live in the palace and he was sure that someday he will. That ambition. You can see his cunning and manipulative nature in many examples. The best two are the time he first meets Genie and cons him into saving them all from the Cave of Wonders, without using a wish. And the second instance was when he convinced Jafar to wish himself to become a genie. That was the only way Aladdin could defeat him. Because phenomenal cosmic powers resulted in an itty bitty tiny space. At the end of the movie, it was shown that Genie wanted Al to wish to become a prince again, but Aladdin made a promise to use the last wish to free his friend. That determination to keep a promise strikes me like something a Slytherin would do. While he used all the means necessary to get where he wanted to be, he gave his word and he would rather find another way than go back on his word. After all this and more I sort Laddi into Slytherin.

John Smith - Ravenclaw / Gryffindor

Ravenclaw: John Smith is the ultimate stud of his group of men, everyone knows that when John does something it is the right thing. Despite John’s undeniable bravery, his other qualities are what leads him. When John first meets Pocahontas, instead of shooting her like he normally, it is his job. John lets his curiosity get the best of him, and stop him from doing his job. John Smith is intelligent, and know’s that if he gets his men to see that Pocahontas’ people mean the best and that John’s people also mean the best, other than the governor. His Ravenclaw(ness) is truly proven when he takes the shot for Pocahontas’ dad. John Smith knew that Pocahontas would never be able to truly fall in love with him unless she had her fathers blessing. He also knew that Pocahontas’ father had found a way to make this work, and had been extremely kind to him. John also knew that Pocahontas’ dad would never survive if he stayed, and he would never leave. John Smith could survive a shot, but other’s could not. Ultimately John uses his curiosity, creativity, and intelligence to help him make the decisions he does. -Abigail

Gryffindor: John has no desire to learn, he’s in it for the money and the glory! He is in it for the adventure he’ll have, and to be the courageous first person to find the ‘savages’ and kill one, not to learn about his new environment. He breaks the rules that are meant to keep him safe at night (no Ravenclaw would break logical rules in such a rash way, at least they’d take another person with them) to be a badass, for the sake of it, and he finds it immensely difficult to accept a talking tree and that he could love someone who isn’t from England, while a Ravenclaw could use creativity and logic to realise that he’s just trying to comprehend something else. -Star

Li Shang -Ravenclaw

Li Shang is an icon, following in his father’s footsteps. For me, Shang’s defining moment is when despite the guidance of others, he decides to let Mulan survive. The decision is logical, she saved my life, it doesn’t matter if she is a woman, she saved my life, I’ll save hers. Though Shang showed an increment of kindness to Mulan by letting her survive, he doesn’t treat her with kindness again until he realises her immense intelligence and that she had been telling the truth. Shang is logical and very wise making him a Ravenclaw!

Prince Naveen - Slytherin

Another Prince™. Naveen has had his life handed to him on a silver platter all his life, and he’s never learned to chop vegetables or gain any real-life skills. I mean, it’s all well and good to play guitar, but when you’re a prince, I imagine they likely expect more of you than that. He’s ambitious, to want to be a guitar player (that doesn’t come easy!) , he is resourceful, in using his charm to convince Tiana to kiss him, knowing it is likely the only way he’ll get a kiss and a chance at his old life back, which also shows his cunning. To impress his love, he also learns to mince, even though he finds it difficult at first, which shows off his determination at doing what he wants if he puts his mind to it, and he wants to look after himself first. He lied to Tiana about having oodles of cash to save her restaurant, just to protect himself and turn himself human again, so he could go after his dream life with very little regard for what Tiana wanted. 

Eugene Fitzherbert  -Slytherin

Eugene/Flynn is truly a well-written dude, he’s sly, cunning, charming, daring, chivalrous, witty, AND lives to serve himself. His Slytherin traits though are his defining ones, being his resourcefulness in doing what Blondie wanted in order to get what he wanted, later on, his ambition is wanting to live somewhere am sunny, tanned, rested and alone, surrounded by enormous piles of money, which, same. He knows what he wants and he’ll do ALMOST anything to do it, so long as it doesn’t hurt him, which is where the self-preservation comes in. He only really changes his viewpoint on the world after he gets to know Rapunzel, but it only shifts a little, and he then views himself and Rapunzel as his little group, and the changes from protecting only himself to protecting their little bubble, which shows how he values fraternity as well, though it does take a little while to show it. 

[sach216]

Rich Randy Reveal

Part of the rich Randy AU @queenofhearts7378 and I have going on… This has been in the works since July for me… ^^”

I gathered the previous parts in case you wanna read them!

https://queenofhearts7378.tumblr.com/post/147312533634/rich-kid-randy-au

https://queenofhearts7378.tumblr.com/post/149560193554/randys-secret

~0~

The four teenagers were chilling in their European friend’s large bedroom.

They were sitting in silence, the only sounds coming quietly from the television where Danny and Jake were playing a video game together. Adrien was working on his homework, and Randy was watching the video game.

However, the latter teen was quietly fidgeting, playing with his fingers and constantly shifting positions from his spot on the sofa.

No one seemed to notice, though, since they were all engrossed in their own activities.

“Um… hey guys?” Randy spoke up, and looked around. No one reacted, so Randy decided to continue. “I-”

“Aw come on!” Danny shouted suddenly, startling Randy to make him look up.

Jake smirked at him and laughed, “Ha! I’m totally beating your ghosty butt!”

Danny growled, “New game, dragon breath!”

Jake sneered back, “You’re on, sheet face!”

“What? I don’t wear a sheet!” Danny retorted.

“Well, ghosts do in those old timey Halloween movies!” Jake mentioned.

“Those are so inaccurate!”

“Whatever, let’s just play!”

Randy paused to watch the two bicker before they began playing again. He cleared his throat, “So… as I was saying before…” He glanced around at his friends, none of whom were paying attention, “If you guys wanna come over to Norrisville and watch a movie…” He still continued, his eyes flickering between Danny and Jake.

“What movie?”

Randy jumped and turned around to look at Adrien, who was studying at his desk. He scratched his head, “Well, not a specific movie, but generally watch movies and hang out.”

Jake shrugged, his eyes still glued to the video game, “That’s cool, dawg. When?”

Randy looked around more, “Uh… tomorrow?” He asked uncertainty.

Danny shook his head, “No can do, got homework.”

Randy pursed his lips, “Friday?”

“No for me,” Jake spoke again. “Gotta train with G after school.”

Randy frowned, “Saturday, then?”

“Sorry,” Adrien said this time, “I have fencing practice, Chinese lessons, and then a modeling gig.”

Randy’s face fell, his eyes dilating sadly, “Sunday?” He tried tiredly.

“Sure,” Jake said.

“Good for me,” Danny added.

Adrien nodded and flashed a thumb up at Randy, “I’m clear then.”

Randy straightened up and grinned brightly, “Bruce! Just come to my house! I’ll see you guys then!” He jumped up and ran to their portal, flashing back home.

The three boys stared as the other teen disappeared in a flash of light.

“What’s he in such a rush for?” Jake muttered, “It’s only three.”

Danny shrugged, then turned back to the TV screen, “Ha!” He laughed, his fingers flying over the buttons on the controller in his hands.

Jake swirled back to the screen quickly, “Cheater! You can’t unpause without me-!”

Adrien laughed lightly as the two began bickering again, then turned to his papers in front of him. Something about Randy’s behavior made him expect something different from him. He smiled and picked his pencil up again to continue his work.

~0~

All of a sudden, three flashes of light burst from the ceiling in the room, and a figure fell from each. Unexpecting the unusual height of their fall, three figures screamed in surprise, before falling into a pit.

Within seconds of their plummet, they resurfaced with large gasps.

“What the heck?” Jake shouted, “Where are we?”

Danny grabbed one of the colorful orbs surrounding them carefully, “Looks like a ball pit.”

Adrien glanced around, “I think he means the weird arcade place.” He pointed around, and the three of them observed the large room with multiple arcade games.

The three of them eased out of the pit of balls and carefully looked around.

“Don’t touch anything,” Danny warned, and the other two nodded.

Jake stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked around, letting out a low whistle from his lips, “Yo this arcade is sicker than your place, Casanova.”

Adrien frowned at him.

Plagg zipped out of his pocket, “Wow…” He looked in awe, “I agree with the punk.”

Adrien snatched Plagg from the air and put him in his shirt again, “Plagg! We don’t know who’s around!”

Plagg muttered something, but Adrien ignored him.

Danny went towards the large door of the arcade and slowly pushed it open, finding a hallway. Glancing around, he waved Adrien and Jake, “Come on, it’s clear.”

They stepped out of the room and found an open area with several other doors in the hallway. Off to the left they also found a set of stairs.

“Which way?” Danny asked quietly.

Jake shrugged, “When in doubt, go down?”

Adrien shared an uncertain glance with Danny.

“Okay, whatever,” Danny agreed, and the three stalked forward.

They made it down the first set, lowering down to the next floor, when a voice called out.

“What the juice?”

They only knew a few people who spoke like that.

“Randy?” Jake gasped. “'What the juice' are you doing here?”

Randy, who looked like he was approaching the stairs the boys were coming down from, stiffened.

Adrien raised an eyebrow, “What are you wearing?”

Randy was wearing a blue dress shirt and a brown vest with a pair of navy blue dress pants. It was something the others had definitely never expected him to wear. “It’s, uh…” He shook his head, “How did you guys get here?”

“We fell into the ball pit,” Danny explained, jerking a thumb behind him.

Randy’s eyes widened, and he coughed. “I didn’t expect you guys so early…”

“Early?” Jake repeated, “It’s already four.”

“It is?” Randy gasped.

Danny shook his head, “Anyways, where are we?”

Randy rubbed the back of his neck, “Yea, so… follow me guys.” Without another word, he rushed forward, climbing down the stairs.

The others rushed to follow the nervous boy down. They reached a large lobby like area, decorated with beautiful golds and browns.

Randy ignored their sounds of awe and confusion, leading them outside the large doors. He waited for them to reach him, before going down the steps at the porch area of the building.

“Uh, guys… this is my home.”

Adrien turned his stare to the building. A large mansion stood proud, with five floors, easy.

Jake and Danny stared at the building with shock.

“Shut up, man,” Jake reacted first. “You live in that small house near Howard.”

Danny crossed his arms and nodded, “Yea. Randy. Tell us the truth; who’s house is this?”

Randy waved his hands in front of him, “No guys! I’m serious! My parents are the owners of Cunningham Enterprises! My parents!”

There was silence.

Adrien took this moment to speak up, “It’s true, you guys.”

“No way!”

“How do you know?” Danny raised an eyebrow at Adrien.

Adrien scratched his cheek, “Well… he actually needed a suit from my dad a while ago, and told me about it.”

Jake’s face fell and he turned to Randy, “You told Adrien but not us?”

Randy flinched, “I’m sorry guys… I don’t really like to be here. That’s why my parents let me stay in the other house… I’m normal there.” He sighed, “I didn’t want you guys to be mad with me…”

The three boys stopped, staring at their friend.

“Randy…” Jake muttered.

Danny stepped forward, putting his hand on Randy’s shoulder, “You know, this is kinda exactly like what Sam did to Tucker when she confessed the truth. She’s got rich family too.”

Randy’s eyes widened.

“And you know what we did afterwards?”

Randy shook his head innocently.

Danny smirked, “We had a sleepover.”

Randy froze, then he jumped up, “That’s perfect! We have a huge movie theater room! And a pool! And a game room! And-” He stopped, looking at Jake.

Jake met his eyes and nodded. He held out his fist, “We’re cool, dawg.”

Randy grinned and pounded his fist with Jake’s. “Alright!” He rushed into the mansion, the others following him quickly. “Miss Graham!” He shouted from the top of his lungs when entering.

The others groaned at the sudden yell.

A calm voice spoke right after, “Yes Randall? Was it really necessary to shout that loud?”

Randy laughed, “Miss Graham, get the snacks! We’re having guests!”

Ms. Graham gave him a blank stare.

Randy stiffened, “Please!”

She sighed, “It’s about time. I will meet you in the theater, I presume?”

“You bet!” Randy shouted, rushing forward to the stairs. “Hurry up guys, it’s on the third floor!”

Jake groaned, “Don’t you have an elevator in here?”

“Sounds like someone is slacking off,” Danny snickered.

“That is so not the case man! We just came down these steps, anyways!” Jake retorted.

Miss Graham smiled at her dependent as the voices of boys faded away. Yes, she was happy that Randall had finally revealed his secret to his friends.

[cbraxs]

Warped [Time Warp Trio Fanfiction] - Chapter 1

A layer of fresh white snow covered the sidewalks and buildings of a Progressive Era New York City. Horse drawn carriages and vintage cars trampled the snow in the road into brown slush. Pedestrians dashed between vehicles. Children ran free in the streets as they tossed balls back and forth.

The pale winter sun had little effect on the world below. Women in furs and elaborate hats, and men in long coats and top hats traversed the sidewalk, their breath visible in the frigid air.

Amidst the hustle and bustle, no one noticed the swirling green vortex open up on the porch of an apartment complex and spit out three boys: Joe, Sam, and Fred. The vortex closed and the trio landed with a thud on top of each other.

Joe groaned and rubbed a kink out of his shoulder. "Everyone okay?"

"Besides my broken neck?" Fred asked and surveyed their surroundings. "Where the heck are we, the fifties?"

Besides Joe, Sam sat up. He cleaned a smudge on his glasses and put them back on. "Ford Model T cars, old timey clothes, horses in the road. It looks like the nineteen-hundreds." Sam gasped. "We must be a hundred years in the past!"

Joe shot Sam a look. "Way to go, Sam."

"Me? I'm not the one who had my best friend hanging from the rafters!"

"Easy, guys," Fred said. "Let's just find The Book and—"

"Wait." Joe frowned and looked around. "Where's—"

The door of the apartment flew open. A blonde woman wielded a cane overhead and about to beat them to death.

Killed before they were even born. What else was new?

Before the three of them were nearly assaulted by a cane-wielding psycho, it was a normal day in their seventh-period History class. Ms. Kitsch allowed them to work on their homework worksheets in class while she read a book with a dragon on it.

Joe, Sam, and Fred sat together the farthest from the door and the closest to the windows. Four desks were pushed together, the spare desk across from Joe.

Most of the class either chatted, texted, or napped. Sam dutifully worked on his homework. while Fred bobbed his head to the music on his phone. Joe shuffled his deck of magic cards and nudged Fred next to him.

"Pick a card," Joe said.

Fred pulled out an earbud and rolled his eyes. "Again? Come on, Joe..."

"I got it this time. Honest."

Fred relented and drew a card.

"Now write your name on it."

"Uh..." Fred patted himself down. He nudged Sam. "Hey, you got a pen?"

Sam sighed. "You know, one of these days you should really bring your own materials to school."

Fred put his arm around Sam and jostled him. "Why would I do that when we have you around, Sam?"

Sam handed him a pen. Fred wrote down his name and handed the card back to Joe.

Joe grinned and shuffled the deck again. "Alright, now—"

"Joseph!"

Joe jumped and scattered his cards across the desk. His classmates snickered at him.

Ms. Kitsch stood at the front of the class next to a girl he did recognize. His teacher shook her head. "Joseph, please put your cards away until after school."

He nodded. His cheeks warmed. "Sorry, ma'am."

She cleared her throat. "As I was saying, we have a new student in the class. Want to introduce yourself?"

The girl wrung her hands together. Her eyes fluttered from person to person. "I'm Izzy Shabazz."

For a second, Joe swore her eyes studied him, but as soon as he noticed it, her eyes were averted elsewhere.

"Anything you want to share about yourself, Isabella?"

"Isadora," she corrected. "Um, I like art. Painting, sculpting. History's cool, too."

Ms. Kitsch eyes lit up. "We're learning about the Renaissance this month. Do you have any interesting art history facts you'd care to share?"

The girl—Isadora— scrunched up her face in thought. "In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, a lot of artists used Mummy Brown for their paintings, which was made of actual, real live mummies."

Ms. Kitsch face fell. "Oh! Um..."

"Pre-Raphaelite artist, Edward Burne-Jones, buried his tube of paint in his garden after he found out."

Kayla Hines, an attractive girl with long strawberry blonde hair, shot her hand up. "Is paint, like, still made of mummies? Cause I used to finger paint."

Isadora shrugged. "Let's hope not."

Ms. Kitsch shifted, a little disturbed by the new student. She clapped her hands. "Right! Anyway, class, please make Isadora feel welcomed. Isadora, here's your worksheet, due Monday. Take a seat in the empty chair back there, next to Samuel. Samuel, please raise your hand."

Sam cringed at his formal name but raised his hand.

Isadora sat down in the empty seat. Two curly pigtails dangled from the sides of her head as she rummaged through her backpack for a pencil.

Fred cleared his throat. "Hey, how's it going?"

An awkward beat. Izzy looked up, her brows knitted together confused. "Me?"

"Uh, duh, you."

"Fred!" Sam hissed. "Don't be rude."

Joe scooped up his cards. "Don't take it personally. Fred was raised in the jungle."

Fred held his hands up and feigned offense. His smirk gave him away. "What? I'm just trying to greet her. 'Make her feel welcomed' and all that." He turned his attention back to her.

Isadora twisted her earrings. "I'm... fine. Thank you."

"As you know, I'm Fred. That's Sam, and he's Joe." Fred motioned as he listed off their names. Sam nodded. Joe waved when his name was mentioned.

She smiled. "Nice to meet you guys."

She and Sam turned their attention to their homework. Joe collected his cards and tried to resume his trick. Joe noticed Isadora watched them from the corner of his eye.

Joe pulled out the Ace of Spades. "Was this your card?"

Fred snorted. "No."

"How about... the Seven of Diamonds?"

"Nuh uh."

Joe sighed. He knew he messed up when he spilled the cards, but he wanted to give it a go anyway.

"Is this it?" Isadora said. Joe flinched. She held up the King of Clubs. Fred the Freak was scribbled across the top.

Fred snapped his fingers. "That's the one."

Joe stared at the card as she handed it to him. "How did you get that?"

"It was under your seat."

Sam, who had apparently been listening to them the entire time, chuckled under his breath.

"Can you try with me?" Isadora asked. She spun her earrings. Joe noticed that they were little hourglasses.

Joe grinned. For some reason, no one (besides his uncle Joe) ever wanted to see his tricks. "Sure."

They went through the same motions as before, minus Joe spilling the cards. He pulled out the Joker card. "Is this it?"

Isadora shook her head. "Not quite."

"Then what about..." He reached behind her ear and pulled out the Queen of Hearts, with Izzy scrawled underneath. "This?"

Fred whistled, impressed.

"Finally," Sam muttered under his breath.

There was a twinkle in Isadora's eyes. "Are you a magician?"

"No," Fred and Sam said in unison.

Joe glared at them. "Yes, I am."

"That's so cool," she said. "So is my Dad."

She paused, her face contorted in sadness. It vanished as soon as it came, so Joe dismissed it.

"Who's your dad?" Sam asked.

"The Sensational Shabazz."

Joe's chin dropped. "No way. He's your dad?"

Fred coughed, sneaking in an audible, "Dork."

Isadora nodded, but her face turned dark. She frowned, her green eyes searched for something in Joe's face. "Don't you—"

Whatever she was going to say was drowned out by the school bell. On cue, everyone jumped up and swarmed to the door as Ms. Kitsch wished everyone a good weekend.

Joe stuffed his cards back into his back pocket. "What's your next class?" He asked her.

"Art."

"I have math." He hefted his backpack to his shoulder. "But if you're interested, I'm auditioning for the talent show. A magic act. You could probably already tell that."

She nodded and stuffed her worksheet into her bag.

Joe cleared his throat. "You can come watch if you want. It's in the auditorium."

She said she would, but she seemed distracted. The trio left the class and left Isadora behind, her brow furrowed in thought.

Joe thought he'd found his big ticket item. The teachers limited each act to be four minutes, so he figured he'd focus on one thing, something big. The Metamorphosis.

The Metamorphosis was one of Joe's favorite tricks. The magician would bind themselves in chains and be locked away in a box by their lovely assistant. The assistant would then stand on top of the box and shield them from the audience with a curtain. When the curtain dropped, the magician and the assistant would switch places.

The problem? Joe wasn't a hundred percent sure how the trick was done.

And he didn't have a big enough box.

And the only chains he had were ones kids used to play Cops and Robbers.

And Fred was far from lovely.

Joe had to make due with a metal laundry hamper and Anna's old pink bed sheets. He was grateful his friends were even willing to help. Fred slapped the handcuffs on him, while Sam stood on the catwalk, moving the spotlights around.

Joe crawled into the hamper. Fred couldn't stand on top without it caving in, so Fred stood in front, held up the sheets, and dropped them. When the sheets crumbled to the floor, Fred dashed behind hamper as Joe struggled to get out. The hamper wobbled and fell to one side. Joe shrieked.

He tripped getting up, the cuffs still on one hand, and waved his arms in a flourish. "TA—"

In a moment, Joe surveyed his audience. The teacher in charge slept, his head tilted back. Drool dribbled down his chin as he snored like a chainsaw. Two students were making out in the back row, shielded by the shadows. The janitor listened to his Walkman and pushed a sweeper vacuums down the isle.

He dropped his arms. "Da."

Enthusiastic clapping made him jump. Isadora sat in the middle of the first row. He stared at her, surprised that she came.

She forced a smile. "Well, that was—"

A light plummeted from the rafters and it exploded on impact.

"Sorry!" Sam called from the catwalk. "I was—AH!"

Metal ground together. Cables snapped and Sam fell. He hung upside down, fifteen feet from the floor. The cables wrapped around him were the only thing kept him from becoming a Sam pancake on the stage.

"Help!" He cried, waving his arms around.

"Quit flailing, Sam!" Fred stood up from behind the laundry hamper. He pointed a thumb at Sam. "I got him."

He disappeared behind the stage. Fred struggling to untangle Sam became white noise in the background.

Joe sighed and sat on the edge of the stage. "Were you gonna to say that I'm a pathetic joke who's a disgrace to the industry and should give up on magic?"

Isadora jumped up. "N-no! I was just— I meant—"

"Relax." He raised his hands in defense. "I'm just kidding."

"Oh. Right. Of course you were."

She looked down, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Joe wondered why she'd reacted so flusteredly like no one ever joked with her.

Isadora spun her earrings. It must've been a nervous tick. "So, you're a Houdini fan?"

"What gave it away?" Joe asked.

"The Metamorphosis was one of his signature tricks. My parents used to perform it at shows. I think you do need some practice with it, though."

"I need help. I'd love to get some pointers from my uncle, but he's, um, out of town a lot."

Joe wasn't about to tell her his Uncle Joe was a time traveling magician. That kind of thing tended to make you look crazy.

Isadora walked towards the stage. "That stinks. My dad's out of town, too."

"For a show?"

She nodded but frowned. She didn't look sure.

Joe opened his mouth to speak when Fred yelled above them, "Heads up!"

Their eyes shot up. Sam, now free from his restraints, fell towards the stage.

"Sam!" Joe cried.

Isadora grabbed the closest thing— Joe's backpack— and whipped it underneath Sam. He landed on the bag with a thump and rolled over. He groaned.

In an instant, the three of them were at his side. Joe helped him to his feet. "Sorry, Sam. Are you okay?"

"Just peachy," he said. He rubbed the arm he landed on and turned to Isadora. "Thanks for the quick thinking."

"You're welcome," she said. "I'm sorry I hurled your backpack, Joe. I hope nothing's broken."

Sam picked up the bag. "Jeez, Joe. What do you have in here—"

The Book slipped out of the bag and hit the floor. The pages fluttered open. The familiar green mist curled from The Book and surrounded the four of them.

"—bricks?" Sam squeaked.

Isadora waved her hand to disperse the mist. "What the heck is—"

In an instant, the four of them warped in a flash of green light.

The trio scrambled up as the woman swung the cane, missing Sam by a hair.

"Hey!" Sam yelped. "Watch where you're swinging that thing."

The woman hefted the cane over her head. "I'm tired of you good-for-nothing bums thinking you can sleep on my porch whenever you want."

She swung again. They dodged. Joe stepped in front of his friends.

"We're not bums, ma'am," he said. "We're actually—"

"Say 'magicians'," Fred muttered, "and I'll beat you myself."

The woman fumed. Her glare could melt the snow on the porch. She was six feet tall with blonde hair up in a bun. She wore an old fashioned blouse, high waist skirt, and a bowtie.

She lowered her cane. Joe's heart skipped a beat. A glowing hourglass filled with green sand sat on top of the silver cane.

How had he not noticed that before?

His eyes shot up to the apartment address. A familiar number "twenty-six" was printed on the windowpane. This was his home, a hundred years in the past, and this bloodthirsty nut must have been an ancestor of his.

Joe pointed at the number above. "Guys! Check it out."

Fred and Sam gasped.

"What are you boys jawing about?" the woman asked, the edge still in her voice.

Before they could answer, a boy step hopped forward from behind her, tugging on a dress shoe. His sweater vest was untucked, his tie was askew.

The boy smiled wide. "Bout time you three show up!"

The boys looked at each other.

"Us?" Fred asked.

"Of course, you knuckle head." The boy tied his tie. "I've been waiting for you guys. Mother, these are some of my buddies from work. Swell guys. We're heading to the show together."

The boy's mom squinted her eyes at the trio. The three of them smiled and tried to look swell.

"My apologies," she said through gritted teeth. She turned to the boy, and her eyes softened. "Eugene, be safe. I'll expect you home by eight tonight."

Eugene kissed her on the cheek and grabbed a coat from the coat hanger. "I'll tell you all about when I'm back. Come on boys, let's walk and talk."

Eugene motioned for the three of them to follow and bounded down the steps, a spring in his step. The boys looked at each other.

"Should we follow him?" Joe asked.

A muffled rustle. The woman peeked behind the blinds and glared at them.

Sam yelped and bolted down the steps after Eugene. "I vote yes."

Joe and Fred followed suit.

Eugene weaved through the crowd as if this was a regular routine of his. The trio caught up to him as he attached a rounded collar to his shirt.

"Thanks for the save back there, man," Joe said.

"You're quite welcome," Eugene said, "if you'll excuse my mother."

Fred tugged on his hat to keep it from blowing away. "Nice lady. In a murderous sort of way."

"Her bark is worse than her bite," Eugene assured them. "Besides, she's a little on edge since a certain, um, family heirloom vanished."

"This family heirloom wouldn't happen to be a blue book, would it?" Joe asked.

Eugene halted. "With silver squiggles?"

"That's the one."

"How do you know that? Are you another time traveler?"

Joe looked at Sam and Fred. A silent conversation happened between them in a second. Joe decided to come clean and told Eugene the truth. Eugene stared at him and listened in stunned silence before he accepted Joe's story. He surprised Joe with a bear hug and picked him up. Pedestrians gave them odd looks as Sam and Fred snickered.

"This is outstanding!" Eugene laughed and let Joe down. "I never met a future relative before. That explains what happened to The Book. Ours must have warped out you three warped in."

"And our Book is missing, too," Joe said.

"Which is just perfect," Sam mumbled.

"Hey, it's not exactly like this trip was planned. I didn't even know The Book was in my bag."

It was true. Joe remembered locking The Book in the box after a run in with a belligerent Bolshevik in pre-Soviet Russia (long story. Don't ask). Did he put it in his bag before school this morning? No, he didn't see why he would do that. Was Anna playing a practical joke? Joe doubted it. Anna could be annoying, but she was responsible with The Book.

He shook his head. It didn't matter now. They were already here, so all they could do now was to find The Book. Besides, it wasn't the only thing they were missing.

"Have you seen a girl around here, Eugene?" Joe asked. "She has pigtails, a bluish greenish shirt."

"Pants," Fred added. "That might help narrow it down."

Eugene shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell. But maybe she's at the Hippodrome?"

Fred frowned, confused. "That office building where my cousin Tyler is a janitor?"

"Why would she be there?" Joe asked.

"Maybe she's looking for a job?"

Joe rolled his eyes.

"Actually," Sam said, "the Hippodrome used to be the biggest theater in New York. It had circuses, operas. Houdini even had a show where he made an elephant completely disappear."

Eugene smiled. "That's precisely where we're going!"

Joe choked. "W-we-we're going to see Houdini?"

"That's right."

"And he's going to make a whole elephant disappear?"

"Well, half an elephant wouldn't make much of a show now, would it?"

Stars formed in Joe's eyes. "Let's go. Right now."

Joe started again. Fred snagged him by the hood of his jacket. "Dude, did you forget about the whole girl that we made disappear?"

He folded his arms. "No! Of course not. But there is a chance she's there."

Sam and Fred looked at each other like they didn't buy it.

Joe wasn't trying to cover his tracks. Of course, he was excited for the chance to see Houdini's show, but he did believe Isadora was there or at least was heading there. She was clearly a fan of Houdini, and, once she figured out what was happening, would probably take up the chance to see Houdini live, too. That is if she wasn't in any trouble.

Joe's gut twisted at the thought that his Book put an innocent girl he barely knew in danger. He remembered how lost and terrified he was when he first warped. He hated to think she might be going through the same thing.

"Besides," Joe said, "maybe Isadora has The Book?"

Izzy fell face first in the middle road and ate a mouthful of dirty snow. She sat up and spat out snow.

"Bleh," she groaned. Her head pounded. "What the—"

An old fashioned car dodged her by an inch. The driver laid on the horn as he passed.

"—heck!" She jumped.

Men and woman in vintage clothes scrutinized her as cars and horse-drawn carriages avoided her. The drivers shouted and gave her rude gestures.

She shivered. "Oh, God. Is this purgatory?"

A carriage drawn by two horses approached Izzy, but instead of moving around her, it forged straight ahead. Izzy barely noticed. She rubbed her eyes and stared at her surroundings, too stunned move.

At the last second, the man guiding the horses pulled at the reigns and the horses stopped.

"Imprudent simp!" The man yelled.

Izzy frowned. "I'm not a chimp."

The man on the carriage wore a black and blue Venetian mask, along with a black cape and suit. A ring with a blue stone shone on his middle finger.

Master Mysterio was painted on the side of the royal blue carriage along with a caricature of the driver.

Izzy nodded approvingly at the artwork. "Nice paint job."

The man, presumably Master Mysterio, narrowed his eyes. "Jaywalking in the middle of the road. Interrupting the flow of traffic. Are you a fool?"

"A fool?"

A crowd formed around to watch them. They pointed at Izzy and murmured, who shivered and hugged herself. She wished she had the foresight to bring a jacket.

"Are you aware that jaywalking is a crime?" Master Mysterio went on. "You should be arrested."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Arrested?"

Out of the corner of Izzy's eye, she noticed someone step out of a car and head towards the two of them. The man, who wore a bow tie long coat suit, was around her father's age with graying hair parted in the middle.

Some of the people in the crowd oohed and ahhed as he approached. Master Mysterio glowered down at him.

"No need to cause a scene, Lauren," the new man said.

Izzy's jaw went slack. "Y-y-you're Hou—"

"Houdini, my friend," Mysterio said in a way that made Izzy doubt he considered him a friend. "You're defending this delinquent?"

Harry Houdini— THE Harry Houdini— shook his head and motioned to Izzy. "Can't you tell that she's an immigrant by her eccentric outfit?"

She looked down at her outfit. She wore a teal tank top over a white t-shirt and pink pants. She wondered if the colors were too bright.

Izzy said, "Me, uh, ahoy-hoy! Wow! You're a—what?"

Oh, Isadora, she thought. Your eloquence is unparalleled.

"She can't even speak proper English yet," Houdini said. "The poor girl simply isn't privy to our laws yet."

"Ignorance of the law is not an excuse." Mysterio snapped his fingers and pointed into the crowd." Officer! Arrest this-this goon, post haste."

A chubby officer stepped forward, baton in hand. For a moment, Izzy worried that the cop would beat her. She could defend herself a little. She'd been learning Tae Kwon Do for about three months now on her father's insistence, but he also told her to always respect authorities.

But instead, he replaced the baton with rusty handcuffs.

Izzy squeaked and backed up. "I-I'm only fifteen! Don't I get three strikes or a stern talking to? A pink slip?"

Her pleas were ignored as the officer cuffed her. "Sorry, little lady. I got a quota to fill."

The masked man smirked. Houdini shook his head and trekked back to his car. The crowd dispersed, upset that the show was over.

Izzy was loaded into the back of patrol car. She was greeted by twins cuffed together and a plump elderly woman.

"Uh..." Izzy shrugged her shoulders in lieu of waving. "Hello?"

The woman snorted and flipped around a butterfly knife. For some reason, she wasn't handcuffed. The twins sized her up, looked at each other, and chuckled.

The vehicle started. Izzy tripped but managed to steady herself.

She backed up to the door and gave it a good kick. Locked. She spread her palms as best she could against the chill metal. Thin enough to slip past.

"Hey, baby," one of the guys said. "You ain't gonna get out. Why don't you come sit over here?"

"No thank you, sir." She wiggled her arms. The sharp edges of the handcuffs dug into her skin. They were thick and heavy, but breaking out would be child's play.

Her father often warned her about using any magic in public. People would freak out or ask too many questions, but the thought of going to jail made her stomach churn. Besides, she didn't think that the officers at the police station would help her, let alone believe her when she told them she wasn't from this time period, or pocket dimension, or whatever.

Wherever she was, those guys would have to know. Izzy remembered seeing the three of them after they were sucked into that glowing green portal. They had to be here, too, but where exactly?

She bit her lip as she tried to recall their names. She could kick herself, she was always so bad at names. She never had to remember any before today. After a moment, the names Sam and Fred came to her. She hadn't forgotten Joe's name.

The morning after her dad left, Izzy read and reread and rereread the letter he left her. Partially because she was dyslexic, and partially because she couldn't believe what was going on.

Her father told her to find the magician name Joe and she had. He was supposed to protect her while her father was away, but Joe seemed unaware of what was happening. Had her dad forgotten to inform Joe? He could be pretty forgetful.

She needed answers, about where she was and about her father. For that, she needed to find Joe, Sam, and Fred. Izzy hoped that they were in a better situation than she was.

But first things first, she needed to get out of the cop car.

"Well." She looked at her new friends. "You guys are gonna see something weird."

Lauren Anderson grinned as he headed to the Hippodrome. He considered the encounter with the "great" Harry Houdini a minor victory. For years, he'd struggled to outdo the man to no avail. While not in magic, Lauren had finally accumulated a win against him. Sending some silly girl on her way to jail was merely collateral damage.

He handed over the reigns of his buggy to the negro valet and grabbed his heavy jacket from his side seat. Something block shaped slid from the seat and hit the ground.

Lauren furrowed his brow. "What in God's name..."

A blue book decorated with silver ribbons and strange symbols stared up at him. He recognized it as that book his dimwitted assistant, Eugene Ellis, always had his nose in. Lauren figured that Eugene left it there when he made him wash the carriage yesterday.

Eugene was quite secretive of the contents of the book and would snap it shut whenever he noticed someone around. Curious, Lauren scooped it up and headed inside.

Lauren fought his way through the crowd. To his chagrin, the crowd was large, full of the rich, poor, and in between. Houdini never failed to drum up an audience.

He looked at the Lapis Lazuli ring on his middle finger. He considered making it rain on this little parade, but decided against it.

Once inside, Lauren picked a seat front and centered and flipped open the book. Blocks of text next to realistic pictures of Egyptian pyramids, medieval villages, Chinese landmarks, and other interesting historical bits flashed by as he turned the page. Eugene's father was a historian, and his ill-tempered yet fetching mother was a teacher, so it didn't surprise him that Eugene would also be interested in history.

He landed on a picture of the Hippodrome with a crowd lined up to the doors. He scoffed but decided to read the text.

January 7th, 1918, the paragraph read. Lauren Anderson sat in seat fourteen, row A, in the Hippodrome, reading The Book—

Lauren dropped The Book. It landed with a thump that was dull to his ears. He clenched his chest to keep his heart from galloping out of his ribcage. He counted backwards from ten in his head until his heart slow down.

He ignored the strange looks he got as his shaky hands picked The Book back up. He turned back to the page.

Lauren dropped The Book and nearly had a conniption. People looked at him funny. He didn't notice.

An image of himself reading The Book appeared underneath the text. In the image, he looked as though he was on the verge of vomiting. The image was clearer and more realistic than any picture taken with a camera.

He snapped The Book shut and tried to control his breathing. Was this some kind of past/present future telling device? What was that little brat Eugene doing with a book like this? How did he get a book like this?

Lauren twisted the ring on his finger. In all fairness, Eugene wasn't the only one with a magical item. However, his little rain machine wasn't quite as impressive.

A grin spread across Lauren's face as formulated a plan to use this to his advantage. Returning The Book hadn't crossed his mind.

[jadorelesradis]

Rules: Answer these questions, and tag 20 amazing followers that you would like to get to know better. I was tagged by @captainclint <3

Name: Morgane

Nickname: none, as far as I’m concerned

Zodiac sign: Aquarius

Hogwarts house: Ravenclaw 

Height: 5′, like a tall hobbit

Orientation: ace

Ethnicity: Me dad’s Scottish and Mum’s from the Centre of France, so Whitey McWhite

Favourite fruit: kiwis

Favourite season: autumn

Favourite book series: I’m gonna go with American Gods by Neil Gaiman, since the characters appear in more than one book.

Favourite fictional characters: there’s too many to count tbh Luna Lovegood, Leia Organa, Lyanna Mormont, to name just a few beginning with the letter L.

Favourite flower: daffodils, poppies and thistles.

Favourite scents: My bed, which I guess is my own smell. The Dove shower gel. The smell of anything baking.

Favourite colour: purple, especially when really dark and verging on wine. Red, most shades. Bright yellow. Orange.

Favourite animal: My cat and octopusses.

Favourite artist/band: Milk Coffee and Sugar, Pink Floyd

Coffee, tea, or hot cocoa?: Hot chocolate

Average sleep hours: not counting all the times I wake up through the night, a good 8 to 10 hours (from 10PM to 8AM).

Number of blankets you sleep with: ready for this? I have a regular duvet, a fleece blanket, a sleeping bag, and an old timey édredon (could not find a satisfying translation for this) which is like a massive pillow (1m x 1m) stuffed with feathers. I’ll not even tell you about my pillows, but let’s just say I’m making good use of my double bed my myself.

Dream trip: I just want to go back to New Zealand, see Fiordland and NOT hike for days on end.

Last thing Googled: Whiskey Jack and Apple Johnny (I’m reading American Gods again, so I was doing research)

Blog created: October 2010. Wowee, I hadn’t realised I was this old.

How many blogs do I follow: 276

Number of followers: 333. What a nice number. I wonder how many of you are bots.

What do I usually post about: lots of random stuff, Spyro the Dragon is involved too (That’s also a good description of my life).

Do you get asks regularly: Nope, but my best friend and I send each other posts all the time via messaging.

What is your aesthetic: me, in my spyro the dragon kigurumi, doing sudoku.

I don’t want to tag people because I find it intrusive and I don’t want people to feel obliged to do it, but yeah, if you’re reading this do it and tag me so I can stalk you !