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possiblypeachy · 5 years

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tea & schemes. (2)

―; summary: Florence finds exactly what she wants, much to her misfortune.

―; pairing: jacob frye x ofc

―; word count: 3.4k

―; warnings: themes of violence/abuse against women but not all too descriptive. light swearing.

―; A/N: hello all!! i’m back again and sooner that i perhaps thought. as it turns out, i still have mad amounts of inspo for this. i feel like this is lacking compared to my last piece?? so give me some feedback and let me know??

please do say if you’d like to be tagged in future instalments :))

(both the Frye twins fall in love easily and you cannot tell me otherwise or i will physically cry. please bear this in mind.)

―; part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

― ❊ ―

Peter’s home was modest, with a certain clutter that suited a man still grieving the loss of his first wife. The intruding thought that the mess was from frequent scuffles here never seemed to leave the forefront of Florence’s mind. While he closed the door and hung both their coats up, she couldn’t help but inspect it all with a frown.

“Something the matter, Miss Abberline?” Peter gave her a worried glance, then followed her gaze to their surroundings. He moved to stand beside her and she could feel him hesitate before placing a hand on the small of her back. “Apologies for the clutter; it’s been… different without Abigale around.”

“No doubt, Mr Fullmore.” Florence felt almost sorry for the man; sadness can drive people to desperate measures. “If there’s ever anything I can do to help your mind away from the grief, don’t hesitate to ask.” She offered him a small, sad smile, of which he found some comfort in.

“Well, you being here now is a few steps in a good direction, I think.”

Her mother had always taught her to weigh one’s sins before exacting judgement upon them and Florence was certainly beginning to have difficulty following her words now. Peter always had such a sad light in his eyes and only ever seemed to smile when she popped over to his stall to say ‘hello’. She could tell that the last few months had been rough for him by the ever-present purple beneath his eyes and the grey hairs growing at his temple, despite him only being in his mid-twenties.

Though, the other half that revelled in hearing Freddy’s tales of justice also thought of all the men and women that had gone missing recently. Did one man’s woe justify the decimation of the lives of others? Of course not, she thought; those were innocent people taken to goodness knows where without a choice or an opinion on it. Taking away the freedom of a person was a fate worse than death, Florence has always insisted, and this man was wretched for helping in the process.

The grey-area between morals and law had always been too confusing.

Curious eyes flickered to the second floor and the strange scuff marks on the stairs. If he had children, perhaps she’d have let that pass but, as far as he had told her from their pleasant little chats in the afternoons, his wife had passed before they had the chance to try. A sudden uneasiness prickled at her skin, hairs rising on her arms and neck. In an effort to self-comfort, she crossed her arms beneath her chest.

From his tidying, he turned to give her a reassuring smile-- as though he wanted to ensure no second thoughts arose. Florence returned the gesture but asked a simple: “Do you have a room I might freshen up in? All I need is a mirror or--”

“Certainly, Miss Abberline. There’s a spare bedroom on the first left when you go upstairs.”

“Thank you.” She gave a small nod, a few strands of mousy hair drooping onto her forehead. A devilish smile curled at her lips and, as she ascended the stairs, she leant against the bannister as she turned, “Perhaps, Mister Fullmore,” He stared at her intently. Well, by ‘her’ one means the extra skin exposed by her position, “you might give me a tour of your own room when I return?”

Peter was left with the vision of her skin and lips burned to his eyelids, only able to hear the gentle creak of floorboards above him now. How could one woman be so captivating? He allowed himself a shaky sigh as he opened the liquor cabinet, pulling from it a whiskey he’d been saving for the past few months or so. He could, with all his heart, declare that Florence Abberline was a goddess among women. Well, to him at least.

If only he knew.

There was a sense of loss on the upper floor, as though someone else should be walking these halls beside Peter. Certain things had been untouched for a long while; there was enough dust atop that tabletop clock in the corridor that, if disturbed, it would’ve thrown Florence into a sneezing fit.

Her gaze flickered to the door left ajar to her right-- presumably his bedroom. With a glance back down the stairs behind her and the sudden realisation of the sheer speed of her heartbeat, Florence sucked in a breath and crept her way inside.

The left side of the bed had been unmade, while the other looked still-- unmoved. There was a photo frame on the nightstand to the left. Peter beamed in it, his hand hooked around the waist of an almost sickly-looking brunette, wedding veil framing the sharp angles of her face. She looked happy enough though, despite her illness. Consumption is what drained her life, Florence recalled; Peter could barely say the word without a lump appearing in his throat.

That feeling of melancholy rose in her chest again and she frowned. Peter was a good man. It’s a shame things had come to this.

Tearing her eyes away from the image of them both, she began her investigation. Shaking hands fumbled with the doors of his wardrobe only to find nothing inside. She pulled open drawers, scanning over letters from his mother, a photograph of his siblings, correspondence between himself and some tailor in Birmingham. Reading over the last letter, she found nothing more than a confirmation of his order for a few new shirts and… a dress? Eyes narrowed, she glanced to the postscript to find that he had wanted to gift her a dress-- a courting present, no doubt. Her heartstrings tugged again and, with what will to finish this off she had left, she slammed the drawer shut, flinching upon hearing how loud the noise was.

For a few moments, she stayed still, listening, watching the door.

Nothing.

Good.

Florence fell deep into thought. Where would she hide something? Her gaze flitted from area to area, like she was checking things off of a list in her mind.

Wardrobe? Already looked.

Shelves? Too easy to find.

Desk? Nothing but plain paper.

There was movement downstairs. She worried that he could hear her heart thumping in her chest.

Come on, Florence Abberline; you have sleuthing in your blood.

She suppressed a gasp and scrambled towards the bed, falling to her hands and knees. A hand patted about beneath the bed, eyes closed in fear of what else she might find down there.

Dust.

Leather.

Dust--

Wait.

She tugged at the leather and a notebook came sliding into her grasp. Hands shaking, Florence stood up again and let out a strained breath, like she was trying to calm her nerves but was all too aware of the noise it would make. Placing the book on the bed, she desperately tried to untie the knot at the front but a mix of clamminess and adrenaline stopped her from being able to still her fingers and pick at the string.

A draught from behind her rustled the fabric of her dress but, in her panicked stupor, she didn’t move to investigate, still working on trying to pry her way into his notebook.

“Having trouble, are we?”

That alone was enough to make Florence go into a frenzy and she turned, book in hand, to smack her assailant, ready to jump out of the open window.

Open window?

The windows weren’t open when she first came here.

Her swing got weaker and a hand pressed against it, to gain her attention rather than actually stop her ‘weapon’ in its tracks. Florence, having closed her eyes with the theory of ‘if I can’t see them, they’re not real’, finally let her gaze drag from the book to the body in front of her.

Jacob.

She narrowed her eyes.

Jacob.

“You are the Devil, Mister Frye.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He practically pinched the book from her grasp and shuffled around her to place it back on the bed. He bent his left hand back somewhat and a blade rocketed out of his gauntlet, to which Florence, from her position leant over his side, jolted backwards. The blade retracted again, string now cut neatly through, and Jacob opened the notebook, taking a step back to let her rummage through the pages as she saw fit.

“I didn’t whistle.” She mentioned and she could see him shrug beside her, leant against the bedpost.

He gave a half-smile. “I suppose I simply couldn’t wait to be alone with you.”

Florence laughed quietly and shook her head, turning for a second or two to give him a half-chiding look. “I wouldn’t recommend anything on this bed, Mister Frye. Have you seen the stains?” She raised her eyebrows and gestured with her head to the exposed mattress. Jacob chuckled and straightened his posture, moving to peer over her shoulder and at Peter’s writings in the book.

He had written of his usual daily tasks, making it somewhat of a journal. Florence flicked through the pages far too quickly for Jacob to keep up, leaving him only to hope that she knew what she was looking for. He did, however, notice that her lips would purse and the usual warm tones of her eyes seemed to cool and steel when she was concentrating.

After a few moments of darting back and forth in the book, she came to a messy page, filled with scribblings and lists. She scanned over the writings and her expression recoiled in disdain when she found it to be a list of names and locations. The first six had been crossed off-- all names of people who had gone missing in the area recently. The next was a young lady who she’d spoken with briefly in the public library-- Mary-Anne Parrish. According to this book, she was ‘due’ to be delivered to one Harry Spurling by tomorrow afternoon and--

The bedroom door opened and Florence scrambled to close the notebook. She soon realised it was a futile attempt to cover her tracks, however, when she felt Jacob’s arms brush against hers.

Peter looked betrayed and furious. “Miss Abberline, what do you think you’re doing?” She opened her mouth to speak-- a stupid decision in itself-- but Peter interjected with a harsh point to Jacob, “And, who is this? What’s he doing in my bloody house?”

They were both silent for a few moments. Florence noticed that Jacob had shifted his body so that it obscured more of hers. One of his hands came out in a calming gesture. “Mister Fullmore, we were just… making an…” Jacob glanced back to her and she gave him a bewildered look, as if to tell him that he’s on his own, “...enquiry on--”

“Shut up!” Peter bellowed. Jacob felt Florence tense behind him. “Miss Abberline, I trusted you and-- and now you do this?” He gestured wildly to the book behind her. There was a glint in his eyes that told her that he knew. “You… rummage through my things while I wait, like a mutt, downstairs, thinking that you have any kind of liking for me? I am not,” He was red in the face, spitting as he shouted, “some kind of fucking lap dog!” There was a pause. He exhaled deeply, eyes closed. “What did you find in the book?”

Florence pushed in front of Jacob and he gave a worried look. Her hope was that he would calm down if she approached him. “Mister Fullmore-- Peter-- it was not my intention to--”

“What did you find in the fucking book?”

Jacob gritted his teeth and took a step forward. “Don’t you dare speak to her like that.”

Peter’s crazed gaze darted from Florence’s pleading eyes to Jacob, the flame of anger within him only being stroked further. A cursed smile curled his lips and it made her stomach flip with unease. “I didn’t realise that you were a cheap whore, Miss Abberline. If I knew I could buy my way to you, I would've done it earlier.” Her face dropped, brows knitting together, incredulous. “How much does he pay for you?”

A stinging slap came to his cheek and he reeled to the side, a hand coming up to his face. Florence, enraged, pointed at him, body trembling with a newfound source of adrenaline. “You are a scumbag, Peter Fullmore. A dirty, filthy scumbag--”

“Flor--”

Jacob couldn’t shout out a warning before a backhanded slap cracked across her own cheek and Peter’s other hand connected with her throat. She made a choked cry for help, but it was muffled by the noise of one of her hands grabbing onto the wardrobe door to anchor herself. The other wrapped around Peter’s wrist and pushed, though she knew it was of no use. “I can’t have this harlot telling her brother--”

His hand had barely been there for three seconds before Jacob was upon him, grip tugging at the hair on his head, using that leverage to slam Peter’s head into the wardrobe. The taller man recoiled and groaned, going to nurse the crunch he heard in his nose, but was stopped from moving any further by Jacob locking his arms behind him. Peter, in an attempt to get out of the hold, tried to kick back but a blade poked into his back and Jacob, voice hot and angry in his ear, uttered: “I would advise against that, Mister Fullmore.”

Florence, having now blinked the stars away from her vision, stormed forward, a look of disgust that ladies barely wore painted across her expression. Jacob furrowed his brows, confused at what she was planning to do but, upon seeing how she used Peter’s shoulders as leverage to deliver a swift kick to the groin, it all clicked into place.

Jacob himself flinched, face contorted in almost sympathetic pain, as Peter slipped to the floor. He certainly wasn’t going to be standing again for a while after that.

She gave a little, breathless laugh and leered over him, fury still burning in her eyes. “How’s that for a little whore, eh?” Florence then spat at him, the offending ball of saliva landing on his cheek. “You are a wretched man, Peter, and the world will be a better place with you locked away.”

Silence fell over the room, bar her heavy breathing and Peter’s pained groans. Jacob’s hazel gaze flickered from the man on the floor to Florence. A redness had spread across her cheekbone, already showing early signs of bruising, and one of her hands ghosted across her neck. Strands of brown hair had fallen out of its elaborate bun on the crown of her head and now stuck to her forehead or fell along the side of her face. He could tell that she was hurt, despite her expression not.

“Mister Frye, could you go and collect a police officer so we might depart?” Life was finally bleeding back into her eyes but, for the first time, the smile she gave him seemed to be forced.

Jacob opened his mouth as if to speak, glanced down to Peter on the floor, then back to her, before nodding silently and rushing down the stairs.

When he left, Florence opened her mouth and moved her jaw to one side, trying to stretch away the pain in her face. One of her hands poked at the tender flesh there and she winced, casting a look of contempt to the body on the floor. She moved around him to sit on the bed, a tired sigh spilling from her lips.

Her eyes glanced at the picture on the nightstand again. “You know, Peter,” She began, her voice distant and with such a distinct lack of its usual emotion that it made Peter sober up somewhat on the floor, “it’s a pity that things ended up the way they have; life is a ruthless mistress sometimes. Abigale didn’t deserve what happened to her.” Peter made a noise on the floor, sounding almost like remorse, but Florence continued on. “But, those people in your notebook?” Her face crinkled and she shook her head, almost like she was suppressing tears, “They didn’t deserve that either.”

There was noise downstairs and the creak of stairs being ascended. She gave Peter one last look before the police entered the room. “I only hope that you get the help you need to endure, Mister Fullmore.”

A blur of blue barraged through the door, handcuffs already in hand. Two officers were working on restraining and removing Peter, while the other came to stand before her. “Miss Abberline?” She offered a small smile and stood, to which the officer seemed to be put at ease by, “The gentleman who called us has requested that you meet him outside. Is that okay?”

“Yes, of course. If you could…” She trailed off briefly before huffing out a laugh, “If you could get this notebook to Sergeant Abberline and tell him that ‘I told him so’, I would greatly appreciate it.”

With that, she left quite gratefully; had she spent any longer in that forsaken house she might’ve gone insane. The cool, early evening air was refreshing, sharpening her vision and mind. Honey eyes ran along the length of the road, searching for Jacob’s familiar flat cap and wide frame. A wave and a smile from him drew her attention to the other side of the road and, with a quick look to ensure no carriages would mow her down, she hurried across the road, as though she was a moth and Jacob’s smile was the comforting glow of a lamp.

“The lady of the hour! You really did a number on that bastard.” He congratulated as they began to walk along the street, his arm positioned slightly behind her body providing a calming sense of company.

She grinned and it looked closer to genuine than the last he saw of her. “You should thank my sister, Emily, for that one; Freddy would never have taught me a move so debilitating.”

“Well,” he tilted his head to one side, eyebrows tugging upwards, “remind me to stay in your good books.” Florence’s laugh, while small and quiet, had an authenticity to it that made Jacob’s chattering conscience calm down. Despite him feeling better about her mood, however, he still gave a long, hard look at the bruise forming on her cheek, frowning slightly. “How’s the wound?”

She furrowed her brows then, in a moment of realisation, placed her hand against her cheek, wincing against the pressure. “Fine. I’m the youngest of my siblings, Mister Frye; I can take a hit to the face with grace. Besides,” Her expression melded into one of joking pride, “the Abberline family has a robust constitution. If I had allowed a slap from a man like him to fell me, I would be shaming my very own name.”

Jacob chuckled lightly, his gaze filled with something akin to admiration when he glanced back down at Florence, who was still poking at the new blemish on her face. “Would you mind some company on your walk home?”

“Only if it’s good company.” She finally lowered her hand, turning to give him a smile filled with deviltry.

He gave a mock frown. “I guess I should be off then.”

A gentle smack came to his arm and he laughed, meeting her eyes with as much mischief as she had handed to him, “Stay, Mister Frye; you’re better company than most.” The dimple in her cheek appeared when she looked away from him again, gazing at the bunting hung between the street lamps. “More handsome too.”

He couldn’t help but allow the delight he felt in his chest to bloom to his face. His lips tugged upwards and his eyes flitted down to her. “Wait until I tell your brother, Miss Abberline.”

“You can try, Mister Frye.” Florence grinned, pearly whites on show and a jovial light beaming behind the warmth of her eyes. “You’d be the one told to stay away, not me.”

Jacob smiled, allowing his sight to finally drag away from her. There was an unusual clench in his chest and, with a sense of regret in anticipation of his sister’s words in the future, he realised that he’d been gazing at her in a similar way to how Evie had at Greenie. God, he’d barely been in London a week.

Oh, well.

He suspected staying away would be near impossible now.

#assassin's creed #assassin's creed: syndicate #ac: syndicate #jacob frye #jacob frye x oc #jacob frye x reader #frederick abberline #evie frye #florence abberline #writing #dont know about you guys but tbh i just want to write about them smooching already #i love them both

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beatricemillerstory · 5 years

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Chapter One

Beatrice Miller

Chapter One

Tuesday, 2:03 PM

Beatrice Miller stands at her kitchen sink, her back against the counter, and stares at her husband and her two beautiful children laying on the floor in a pool of blood. She feels crazy because this is the image her mind shows her every night. Even if she closes her eyes, she can still see it. So, she just stares at it until it finally goes away. Beatrice turns back around and finishes up the last of the dishes in the sink, turning around again to survey her kitchen for any more of a mess. She wouldn’t want to leave a mess for her husband and children when they get home. She’s always been their caretaker and she knows that she is needed. She loves that she is needed. She soaks in the feeling of safety that she gets when she’s in her kitchen. Beatrice is a beautiful woman. Ageless, like Adeline. Long, wavy, chocolate brown hair draped down the middle of her back and covering just under her mid-sized breasts. She wears a simple black dress, like one you’d wear to a funeral or a cocktail party. She has a cute nose; sparkling blue eyes – deep as the ocean. Her nails are perfectly manicured to match those on her toes. A deep red similar to that of blood. She stands tall at nearly six feet.

She grabs her purse and opens the door, standing in the way for just a moment before closing the door gently behind her.

Tuesday, 2:11 PM

‘There she is. Beatrice Miller.’ Bryce Vallerea says in his head as he watches her leave her house. He hasn’t seen her come out of her house for weeks. The car hasn’t moved. The lawn remains untouched. “Where are you going?” He asks to himself. He watches her slowly make her way to the car, blinded by the bright sunlight above her she covers her face with her forearm and gets in. She closes the door slowly. She backs out of the drive. She stops for a moment on the road. She looks over at Bryce’s house. Bryce quickly walks away from the door. Bryce is an average looking man with the arrogance of a male model. He stands sky high at six-foot-two. A brilliant man. He has night black hair, a magical set of dark brown eyes, and teeth that could light a theatre before curtain call. His skin is the color of caramel and he smells of pine. His hands are soft and clean like that of a man who hasn’t worked a day in his life. Childish in his speech and demeanor yet charming with his grace and mannerisms of a gentleman.

He watches her from behind the drapes as she gets into her car and says aloud, “well, at least she’s gone now.”

Tuesday, 3:30 PM

Beatrice hands cheques to the woman across the counter. She’s been meaning to cash these for some time now. She hasn’t wanted to. It makes this all seem real if she starts to take care of these things. The doctor has ordered her to start running errands again though so she feels that she should. It’s been a long time now so it is time for her to get back to reality and start living her life. This is step one and this is all she can handle right now. “Is there anything else for you today, Mrs. Miller?” The kind but tired teller asks her. She doesn’t really know what to say because saying no is a lie but saying yes means that she would be asking for things that don’t pertain to this teller’s job in any way. So she says nothing. “Mrs. Miller?” The teller asks again. “Are you doing okay?” The bank teller, Abigale Vallerea, formally known as Abigale Smith, is a short but beautiful woman. She is poised and kind, courteous yet genuine. She has half blue half blonde hair, a perfect ombre’, and has a tattoo of a symbol unfamiliar to Beatrice on her neck, just below her ear-lobe. Her eyes are kind, constantly glossy, and the most beautiful shade of Grey that anyone has ever seen – combined with her half-blue hair makes her look like a winter princess. “I’m doing as good as I can right now,” Beatrice finally looks up at her. “I’m taking it day by day. Thanks, Abbey.” “Is there anything I can do for you at all? Woman to woman?” Abbey and Beatrice have known each other a long time. They were childhood friends and then grew apart. They worked at the bank together for quite some time but then Beatrice stopped working about a year ago. They reconnected after Abigale and her husband, Bryce, moved into the house across the way from Beatrice. When Abbey and Bryce moved in, they had no idea that Beatrice and her family lived there. It was a surprisingly pleasant surprise. “Can I borrow your husband?” Beatrice giggles a little at this request. Abbey genuinely laughs back. She knows that it is a good thing to see Beatrice smile so she replies curtly, “How about I bring over a bottle of our finest and you and I can sit over a couple glasses and watch Bryce take care of anything you need done around the house?” She sees Beatrice remove her gaze and try to refuse the offer so instead of letting her, Abbey gently says, “We will be there tonight after work. If you could make a delicious pie again then we can call it even. I dream of those pies.”

Tuesday, 4:41 PM

Beatrice returns to her home with a completed checklist, a small bag of groceries – a new stack of mail – the fixins for pie baking. A bottle of white wine, Chardonnay – Abbey is bringing one, yes, but one is never enough for three people, especially with the way Beatrice and Abbey can finish a bottle of wine. If her neighbors are to arrive after supper, she’d better get to baking that pie. Since baking hundreds, maybe even thousands, of pies in her life, this wouldn’t be hard for her. She set everything out on the kitchen counter after replacing her purse in its normal spot – perched at the edge of the kitchen counter closest to the door. That was when she noticed something out of place. A small yellow daisy, soaking up water from a coffee mug, on the right side of the sink. Someone put that there and it sure wasn’t her. She stares at the little yellow daisy as she stands over top the ingredients to make pie. She stares at it without realizing how long she is fixated on the flower until she looks over and notices the lard had started to melt. But what else could she do but wonder how that flower got there if not her putting it there herself? No one had been in this house for weeks – not even her family. If not her, it had to be someone. Who?

Tuesday, 6:00 PM

Beatrice looks across the way into her neighbor’s kitchen window. She notices the small family just sit down to eat supper which means she has at least another hour before they show up for fresh pie. She has decided to bake a pear and gruyere. It is her specialty. Her secret ingredient is a sugar-coated roasted garlic clove. She chops it up and bakes it into the cheese. She hadn’t eaten anything for supper as she supposed the pie will be enough to maintain her desire for food for the rest of the evening. After all – she doesn’t want to waste the secret bottle of expensive vodka hiding under the kitchen sink by soaking it all up with something as menial as food. She sat, glass in hand – a vodka poured gently over ice-cubes with a wedge of lime floating on top – and watches her neighbors do the dishes. She still can’t believe that a bank teller and an unemployed journalist are able to afford the same home in which Beatrice lives.

They lived in a complex. Each house the same as the next, lining a perfectly manicured and cleverly cleaned street and park. The complex was something Beatrice chose to live in when she and her husband were just about to get married. She’d chosen it because it was close to all amenities and the view from the far side was of the cityscape behind the house. The garden in the center of the complex was so beautiful she figured she would have something to paint for years to come. It also dawned on her that all the people living there were beautiful, new home-owners, that were all young and motivated to make something of themselves. A similar mindset and way-of-life as Beatrice was in. Her husband concurred.

Now, as she sits here on this mildly rainy evening, sniffing the gorgeous smells of baking gruyere, she stares at her neighbors doing after-supper dishes together in their freshly renovated kitchen. Instead of being jealous of anything they have that she doesn’t, she feels pleased and wonders at her neighbor’s happy lives. She then sits up as she notices them turn off the lights to come across the way – she takes the pie out of the oven and places the bottle of chardonnay in the middle of the table surrounded by 3 polished glasses. Chardonnay, as Bryce will notice, will complement the oaky taste and texture of the gruyere.

“Welcome!” Beatrice says excitedly as the two familiar friends walk through the door hand in hand – in each free hand they hold a bottle of wine and a small gift bag, respectfully.

Chapter Two coming soon... JR McWilliam

#beatricemiller #beatricemillerstory #tumblrnovel #tumblr writers #fiction #fiction story #thriller #psychological thriller #mystery

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bestworldstyls · 2 years

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Dark Academia Fashion Trends For Your Summer Wardrobe

Dark Academia Fashion Trends For Your Summer Wardrobe The dark academia fashion trend is resembling American prep staples, making it an accessible and easy style to adopt this summer. The style requires basic wardrobe pieces, and many catwalk looks are based on prep staples from the States. This style has made a strong fashion statement on the Paris and New York runways. Its staples include a pleated mini skirt, oversized sweaters, and tons of tweed. Topping the look with a borrowed blazer makes a classic outfit. Featured stores If you're looking for great dark academia fashion items for your summer wardrobe, consider visiting the featured stores below. These brands offer clothing staples as well as affordable, trendy footwear. Some of these stores also feature clothing sets and accessories for kids. In addition, you can find everything you need to update your wardrobe at SHEIN, another dark academia fashion favorite. Dark academia is a trend that merges elements of dark gothic fashion with a preppy Ivy League aesthetic. According to JenniLee, "Dark Academia is like a mix between a boarding school and a goth enthusiast." The look is simple and sophisticated, with dark colored blazers, tennis skirts, loafers, and trousers. The overall aesthetic is one that's infused with nostalgia. Stitch Fix is another popular store that caters to the Dark Academia aesthetic. Using curated pieces of clothing, the website provides free returns and exchanges. Whether you want to invest in a new pair of sneakers or a stylish frock, Stitch Fix has a selection for you. The site also offers personal styling advice and free shipping. Another great option is JING, a brand that combines style and versatility. This Canadian brand carries a variety of pieces that will keep you looking your best while following the dark academic fashion trend. Its collection includes the Abigale Black Check Skirt, Henrietta Tan Plaid Pants, Dim Grey High Waisted Tweed Shorts, and Jayven Black Pleated Skirt. Products to look for The dark academia trend is all about cozy library-style looks. This style is similar to cottagecore, but it has a more classic European vibe. You'll find muted colors and fewer frills. The main emphasis of the style is the pursuit of knowledge. There are many ways to incorporate dark academia into your wardrobe. If you're looking for a new outfit for summer, you'll want to look for a piece from one of the many dark academia clothing brands. You can try out Etsy for inexpensive but trendy clothing. You can also try Reformation for quality clothing sets. These clothing brands also carry cute jewelry. While many dark academic clothing pieces are made of heavier materials during colder weather, you can still try wearing them in the summer. Faux leather boots are a perfect example. They're mid-length and don't make you feel hot. They're comfortable, too. Plus, they have a ton of pockets. These pieces remind us of Nancy Drew. But that's not all: you can also opt for lighter, breezy outfits with dark tones. Another key style for dark and light academia is a tailored vest. This piece can double as a layering piece or a top. You can pair it with a plaid skirt and loafers. A suiting ensemble is a perfect way to channel the dark academia aesthetic. A good pair of loafers and a structured handbag will complete the look. Styles to emulate To aspire to the dark aesthetic of the Dark Academia subculture, it's necessary to invest in a few key pieces. First, think about your outerwear. Most Dark Academia TV shows and films are set in the colder seasons, so you'll need to layer in order to stay warm and stylish. To achieve the right aesthetic, choose clothing with natural fibers instead of plastic blends or polyester. Natural fibers like cotton and linen absorb moisture well and allow your body to breathe easily. They also make for good choices for the environment. And if you'd rather save a little money, consider buying organic cotton and other clothing items made with it. Another important piece for the Dark Academia aesthetic is tweed. This traditional fabric can be tailored or oversized, but either way, it's an essential part of this aesthetic. To complete the look, pair a tweed blazer with a simple button-down shirt and a turtleneck or cable-knit sweater. If you're feeling adventurous, you can pair the blazer with a pencil skirt or a mid-length skirt to create a look that exudes a scholarly vibe. The next item that you can wear to emulate the dark academia fashion summer is a pleated skirt. Pleated skirts are a great way to add a little edginess to your outfits. For a dressier look, opt for a pleated skirt in a plaid or black color. These skirts also look great paired with tall socks and Mary Janes. Read the full article

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pirate-queen-boy · 3 years

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Beyond the Isles - part 14

find the whole story up to date on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33867757/chapters/84205321

In not too many hours, The Abigale was nearly ready to haul out. It was a massive steam-boat of grey, and gilded with gold. It was larger, and quite possibly more powerful than any other ship on the boiling isles, armed with over two-hundred canons. Crew members consisting of Emperor’s Coven guards ran in and out of the ship, loading it with the last of its needed cargo. Gus’ dad, Perry, was there, reporting on the scene. “Here we have the Emperor’s coven readying the reviled ship, the Abigale, to go out on the first full expedition away from the Boiling Isles. It is rumored that the Emperor himself will be joining the expedition-” he narrated. Along with him, Willow’s dads were there, confronting the Golden Guard about their pursuit. “Please promise us that our daughter will return to us alive!” one of them pleaded. The Golden Guard only looked at him, the torn openings in his helmet revealing how little emotion his face portrayed. “If your daughter returns, she won’t be returning to you.” the other father stepped forth, enraged. “You will not lay a finger on her!” Golden Guard raised his staff to the father’s chin. “We will show as much restraint as we can, but the sea is a dark and dangerous place.” After that, the Golden Guard walked away. As one of Willow’s dads seemed to be on the verge of breaking down, the other comforted him.

Joining the Golden Guard were a few of the Coven Heads who were tasked to join on the Voyage. In front of them all was Darius, who had traded his purple shoulder cape with a long, dark purple overcoat. Following behind him was Raine Whispers, noticeably changed. Their skin, hair, and facial features were obscured by a magical force, making them appear black as a shadow. Their clothes however, were the same, appearing in the same BATS uniform they had before… that time... and their glasses had a white glow to the lenses. The bard coven mark on their wrist was seemingly glowing red as well. They shambled onto the ship like a Zombie. The last coven leader assigned was head of the Healing Coven, but since they were far too busy, they had sent their Protege, Varllow Kateer. And finally, though not Coven Heads, there were elite crew members who have volunteered to join the Voyage. Among them were Kikimora, with her hand dragon beast, and Amity’s parents, Odalia and Alador. “Where is your hat? You should have it with you!” Odalia pushed. Both of them were dressed in Sailor’s garments for the voyage. Odalia donned a black vest, button-down, and knickers, with black dress shoes and white high socks, all topped with a black tricorne. Alador was dressed in a bright purple long coat with the sleeves tucked into a pair of white gloves, white pants tucked into a pair of black boots, and a dark grey headband under his typically seen goggles. “I really don’t want to wear the hat, Odalia.” Alador replied, bleakly. Odalia gave a hissing response, “You’re making us look bad!” she half whispered. She didn’t seem to notice or care that literally no one had their attention drawn to them. Odalia summoned a tiny purple ghost, “Go find Alador’s hat, will you?” the ghost immediately zoomed off. It came back mere seconds later, with a great wide Bicorn, black and decorated with gold markings. Odalia took it, and planted it firmly on Alador’s head. He grumbled, feeling ridiculous.

It was at this moment that Emperor Belos seemingly materialized onto the deck of the Abigale. His attire too, was changed. He was donned in heavy interlocking plates of golden armor, with figments of brown and white cloth, all coming together to resemble the Armor of a Samurai Warrior. Even his mask was replaced by a far more threatening looking horned helmet. “Everyone come aboard, we’re just about ready to sail out!” he announced to all the crew members. Just as the Golden Guard was the first to walk the steps up to the Abigale’s main deck, the Emperor stopped him. “Hold on, I almost forgot.” he beckoned over to a nearby Coven Guard. The Guard obeyed, and stood close to him. The Emperor’s staff glowed, and he grabbed onto the edge of the Coven Guard’s mask. He tore off a metal strip, “now go.” he told the coven guard, who promptly walked away briskly, in fear. The Emperor’s staff continued to glow, as the Golden Guard’s helmet began to shift. The dents un-dented themselves, and the tears re-positioned. The strip of metal in the Emperor’s hand lit up red hot, until it had been liquified. The emperor didn’t seem to be affected by the intense heat of the metal in his hand. The liquid hot metal then began to float over to the Golden Guard’s helmet. “Hold still.” the Emperor said softly. Golden Guard tensed himself in worry of being burned. The melted metal filled the torn spaces of the armor, before cooling down. His helmet was now back to its former state, but now with areas of silver.

#the owl house #the owl house fandom #the owl house fanfiction #pirates #pirate au #fanfic #bisexual

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wandering-shrike · 7 years

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Another Year, Another Visit

It was already dark when she awoke, well past the time when people should be in bed. The chilly air turned her skin into goose bumps as she slipped out from under the blanket, leaving both the toasty bed and her still sleeping companion. Quietly, Abigalle slipped out of her pajamas and into a set of thick, warm clothes, complete with a fleece hat and gloves. On a chair by the door sat the objects she had prepared earlier that day: a wool blanket, a large bottle of cinnamon wine, and an unlit lantern.

After gathering up the items in her arms she cast one more glance at the sleeping figure in bed, smiling softly at them before slipping out the door. A blast of winter air hit her face, bringing tears to her eyes as lit the lantern. The light shone on the cobblestones to light her way she made her way through the dark streets of Stormwind.

The town was generally empty save for the random stumbling drunk and guard posted on the corner. The emptiness allowed Abigalle to make her way uninhibited to the front gates of the city and out into the surrounding forest. Even with the minimal light swinging from the lantern the woman knew the way to her destination, enough so that she could navigate it blindfolded. Her boots crunched in the freshly fallen snow as she turned off the main road and down a less travelled path. This wound through the trees for several minutes before ending at a small gated cemetery.

Grey headstones poked up from the frozen white earth, worn down through the years of exposure to the elements. Most of the older ones had the names faint and nearly indecipherable, but the ones Abigalle headed to we’re still legible. Two matching stones, both crafted into crosses. She stopped in front of them, looking down at the stones.

Here lies Jakob Hartham, an honest man, beloved husband, and caring father.

Here lies Rebecca Hartham, a gentle woman, precious wife, and tender mother.

Setting down the lantern and bottle she unfolded the blanket, laying it out before the two stones. The ground was cold through the blanket but it's thickness kept any melting snow from seeping through. "Hey, Momma and Pops." She spoke to the empty air. A gentle breeze ruffled her hair, the chill bringing tears to her eyes. Drying her eyes she pulled the cork out of the bottle and took a swig. With nothing but the two headstones to keep her company she began to talk.

(I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas and a happy holidays! May this next year bring you and your family happiness through everything that happens ^~^)

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vindicatorz · 7 years

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Fashion/Appearance

Tagged by: @draeni-vindicator-panchira

BOLD what applies to your character

Body long legs / short legs / average legs / slender thighs / thick thighs / muscular thighs / skinny arms / soft arms / muscular arms / toned stomach / flat stomach / flabby stomach / soft stomach / six pack / beer belly / lean frame / muscular frame / voluptuous frame / petite frame / lanky frame / short nails / long nails / manicured nails / dirty nails / flat ass / toned ass / bubble butt / thick ass / small waist / thick waist / narrow hips / average hips / wide hips / big feet / average feet / small feet / soft feet / slender feet / calloused hands / soft hands / big hands / average hands / small hands / long fingers / short fingers / average fingers / broad shouldered / underweight / average weight / overweight

Height shorter than 140 cm / 141 cm-150 cm / 151 cm to 160 cm / 161 cm to 170 cm / 171 cm to 180cm / 181 cm to 190 cm / 191 cm to 2m / taller than 2 m

Skin pale / rosy / olive / dark / tanned / blotchy / smooth / acne / dry / greasy / freckled / scarred / blue

Eyes small / large / average / grey / brown / blue / green / gold / hazel / white / doe - eyed / almond / close - set / wide - set / squinty / monolid / heavy eyelids / upturned / downturned

Hair thin / thick / fine / normal / greasy / dry / soft / shiny / curly / frizzy / wild / unruly / straight / smooth / wavy / floppy / cropped / pixie - cut / shoulder length / back length / waist length / buzz cut / bald / jaw length / mohawk / grey / platinum blonde / white / golden blonde / dirty blonde / blonde / ombre / light brown / mouse brown / chestnut brown / golden brown / chocolate brown / dark brown / jet black / ginger / auburn / dyed red / dyed an unnatural color / thin eyebrows / average eyebrows / thick eyebrows / massive eyebrows

Tattoos/Piercings no tattoos / new tattoo / a few here and there / multiple / full sleeve / thigh tattoo / neck tattoo / chest tattoo / back tattoo / no piercings / ear piercings / nose piercing / lip piercing / tongue piercing / eyebrow piercing / navel piercing / cheek piercing / nipple piercing / genital piercing

Cosmetic eyeliner / light eyeliner / heavy eyeliner / cat eyes / mascara / fake eyelashes / matte lipstick / regular lipstick / lipgloss / red lips / pink lips / dark lips / bronzer / highlighter / eyeshadow / neutral eyeshadow / smoky eyes / colorful eyeshadow / blush / lipliner / light countouring / heavy contouring / powder / matte foundation / shiny foundation / concealer / wears regularly / occasionally wears / never wears

Scent floral / fruity / perfumes / aftershave / cocoa / moisturizer / shampoo / cigarettes / leather / sweat / food / incense / marijuana / cologne / whiskey / wine / fried food / blood / fire / metal / ice / dirt

Clothes jeans / tight pants / over knee socks / tights / leggings / yoga pants / pencil skirt / tight skirt / loose skirt / formfitting dress / cardigans / blouse / button up shirt / band t - shirt / sweatpants / tank top / wifebeater / cutoff t - shirt / designer / high street / online stores / thrift / lingerie / long skirt / miniskirt / maxidress / sundress / tie / tuxedo / cocktail dress / highslit dress/skirt / t - shirt / loose clothing / tight clothing / jean shorts / sweater / sweater vest / khaki pants / suit / hoodie / harem pants / basketball shorts / boxers / briefs / thong / hotpants / hipster pants / bra / sportsbra / crop top / corset / ballerina skirt / leotard / polka dot / stripes / glitter / silk / lace / leather / velvet / chemise / patterns / florals / neon colors / pastels / black / dark colors / linen / fur / faux fur / mail / plate

Shoes sneakers / slip - ons / flats / slippers / sandals / high heels / kitten heels / ankle boots / combat boots(metal) / knee - high / platforms / stripper heels / bare feet / loafers / oxfords / gladiator shoes / boots / hooves

Tagging: @mindspanner, @creekwhisper, @josilverwright, @shadewhisper, @nym-wildseeker, @thefuckingsun, @abigalle

#development memes #prompts #thanks for the tag

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screaming-the-name · 5 years

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Quick notes + horrible formating

James Elkert

Rouge with some bard leanings

Daggers, poisons, blow darts, bow???

Black hair, light tan, brown/amber eyes

Grew up as a merchant

Relationships

Old friends/near sibling with Morgan

Used to be in a relationship

Old friends with Ari

Met Dalma through Ari

Dalma Mekare

Healer/Lead

Relationships

Practically married with Ari

Met James through Ari

Met Morgan through James/Ari

Ari Crane

Lancer

Noble

100% ran away

Relationships

Practically married with Dalma

Old friends with James

Old friends with Morgan

Met Morgan through James

Morgan Lavori

Relationships

Old friends/near sibling with James

Used to be in a relationship

Old friends with Ari

Met Ari through James

NPCs

Carthegates: Lunnil

Abigale Camor

Silver blond, dark-skinned, blue/grey eyes

Younger then James

Arthur

Is magical

Wizard

no instinctual magic

Toth Touchstone

Etrem

Could be completely drained and not even pass out

Merlin

Magic

Sorcerer

Pitim Touchstone

Ort

Will pass out after using 60% of nonexcess

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theliterateape · 5 years

Text

Evil Roots

By Brett Dworski

LIAM OPENED HIS EYES AND JOLTED UPWARD AS IF HE’D BEEN ELECTROCUTED. Bridget, standing beside the king-sized bed, shook him like he was a salad that needed more dressing. Liam winced in pain — Bridget wasn’t helping his shoulder arthritis. He looked at his wife: her grey hair blended with the white concrete wall behind her, and her green nightgown — a massive tank top that covered her naked body — blurred against her pale skin as if he were gazing into a kaleidoscope.

Liam reached to his nightstand for his bifocals. He put them on and glanced at the clock. It was two-thirty in the morning. He faintly saw his reflection behind the numbers on the beaming digital screen: his eyes were baggy — his olive skin appeared more wrinkly than usual — and the white skin tag underneath his grey cowlick protruded. The room was dark, but the glistening white walls provided just enough glow that he could see Bridget. Her eyes were wide and filled with terror.

“Liam, get up,” she said. There was a shrill fear in her voice.

He couldn’t hear her. About a month ago, he started wearing earplugs to bed to eliminate Bridget’s late-night Sex & The City marathons — Liam hates Sarah Jessica Parker. He hates her so much that he always says that “Ferris would’ve been better off screwing Rooney,” whenever Bridget watched her favorite show. The sound of Carrie Bradshaw’s voice alone made Liam want to cut his nuts off.

But not tonight. Tonight, the earplugs had been a success. Liam removed them at once.

“Jesus Christ, Bridget!” Liam snarked. It had been a few weeks since he’d shaved, and he felt the tips of his grey mustache hovering his top lip. “What’s goi—

“Shhh!” Bridget whispered as she placed her hand over Liam’s mouth. “I think there’s someone in the house!”

There it was again — the sound of glass shattering on the hardwood kitchen floor downstairs. The sound that woke Bridget from her dream of dancing with Ricky Martin on Dancing with the Stars. The duo had just finished their routine to Stevie Wonder’s, “Don’t You Worry ‘bout a Thing,” and the crowd was going nuts. The judges awarded them a score of twenty-eight: Tens from Bruno Tonioli and Len Goodman, and an eight from Carrie Anne Inaba — that cunt, Bridget thought.

Liam was wide awake now. He hopped out of bed faster than a landscaper would when the husband of the woman he’s fucking barges home. Liam’s bedhead resembled Albert Einstein, and he would have been naked if it weren’t for his tighty-whities. The hardwood felt like ice on the bottom of his bare feet and his nipples grew erect — Bridget kept the thermostat at sixty-two degrees every night, which Liam hated. He preferred a tepid seventy-one.

But right now, Liam didn’t care if his home felt like a Slavic bathhouse or a freshly chilled morgue. His gaze was fixated on the seven-foot-tall wooden cabinet across the room.

“Call 911,” Liam said.

“Shit. My phone’s in my purse in the kitchen,” Bridget said. I’ll try the house phone.” She snatched the dusty landline from her nightstand and held it up to her ear. “The line’s dead!”

Without responding to his wife, Liam slowly opened the cabinet to diminish any creaking that could attract attention. He threw aside six freshly folded white t-shirts that laid atop a black shoebox. He grabbed the shoebox and threw the lid aside. There it was, all shiny and spiffed, barely a scratch on it: The Colt 1851 Navy Revolver his brother Mason had gifted him for his sixtieth birthday. Liam and Mason were regulars at the Dorchester shooting range during their twenties, but Liam hadn’t shot a gun since. Not even this one — Bridget wouldn’t allow it. Liam kept the loaded revolver stashed in the bedroom cabinet in case of emergencies. He snagged the pistol and crept toward his bedroom door without closing the cabinet. He turned to his wife, but before he could say anything…

Crash!

The sound of more shattered glass sprung to the bedroom. Bridget threw the covers over her torso and wept.

“Stay here. Don’t make a sound,” Liam demanded. He meant business when he pointed his index finger.

Liam opened the bedroom door and slid into the upstairs hallway as Bridget’s sobbing faded into the night. He crept across the hall, tip-toeing on the icy hardwood, terrified that whoever was downstairs would hear the floors creak. His nipples had softened by now, but his feet were still freezing.

Liam didn’t care if his home felt like a Slavic bathhouse or a freshly chilled morgue.

To his left was a twenty-foot wall that friends and family called the “O’Brien timeline.” Photographs of Liam and Bridget and their children — ranging from a teenage Liam working construction in 1968 and Bridget riding the New York subway in 1972 to their son, Jack, graduating from Boston College in 1998 and their daughter, Abigale, starring in a rendition of Fidler on the Roof in 2001 — have been scattered over the white concrete for nearly three decades. The kids were long gone — Jack lives in Cincinnati and Abigale in New York — and their bedrooms, once full of posters and speakers and dirty laundry, were now bare-walled guest rooms the end of the hallway.

Liam held the gun like a trained soldier ready to burst through an insurgent’s front door. He’d never been in a situation like this before, but always envisioned himself looking like Harry Callahan if he ever needed to be. God, he loved Dirty Harry.

Liam approached his son’s former bedroom and quickly glanced inside. He remembered the twelve-by-twelve-foot room as if Jack were still in high school: the Larry Bird and AC/DC posters covering the walls; the blue dresser that held the Sony boom-box that Jack always blasted when Abigale was rehearsing her lines in the room next door; the stack of CDs and DVDs, featuring Back In Black; The Godfather, and a photograph of Jack and Liam after they went bungee jumping during the family trip to Costa Rica in ’94.

Crash! More shattering glass. Clunk! It sounded like the wooden drawers in the kitchen had been jerked open, too. Liam snapped out of his haze and lurked to the stairs, now nearing the end of the massive hallway. The hardwood floors squeaked even louder.

He passed Abigale’s old room and briefly glanced in without stopping, catching shades of the neon pink carpet from the corner of his eye. He remembered his daughter’s olive skin and brown hair — a rarity for Irish Catholics — which came from his genes. He remembered her passion for performance since her middle school role in the Wizard of Oz. He remembered when Abigale told himself and Bridget that she was a lesbian when she was seventeen. And he remembered when she introduced her parents to her girlfriend — now wife — three years later.

Boom!

Something big had hit the floor. It sounded like the seventy-five-pound metal safe Liam kept hidden behind the trashcan underneath the sink. “Who’d ever look there?” he thought when he placed it there two years ago.

Liam snapped out of it, and for real this time. He no longer cared about stealthily approaching his enemy like a ninja. He wanted to catch the sonofabitch in his house.

Liam bolted down the stairs, aware of whoever was in his kitchen would hear his quick, thunderous steps. He raced to the bottom floor and darted past the coat closet and laundry room. He approached the kitchen, where he saw the insurgent from behind. The broad shoulders let Liam know he was dealing with a man, probably bigger than himself. His black turtle neck, black jeans, and black combat boots camouflaged him with the night. He was bent over rummaging through the safe he’d just busted open, Liam assumed.

Liam scanned the kitchen. Glass was shattered everywhere, from the floors to atop the stove to around the dinner table. Every drawer was open, and random papers — likely Bridget’s phone numbers and random bills from over the years — mingled with the broken glass. He aimed the pistol at the invader.

“Turn around, punk!” he demanded.

Now he really felt like Dirty Harry.

The man put his hands in the air and made a one-eighty. His red hair, red beard and ghostly complexion reminded Liam of Ron Howard before he went bald.

“Where is it, Liam?” the man said in a subtle, unsettling tone.

Liam’s face stiffened. He had no idea who this man was or how he knew his name.

“Where’s what?” Liam frustratingly asked. “Who are you?”

“You know what I want, you little shit,” the man said. “Your father stole it from me, and I want it back.”

Liam tightened his grip on the pistol, still squeezing it with both hands.

“Who the fuck are you?!” Liam screamed.

The perp chuckled and grinned like a madman. The smirk reminded Liam of the way Jack Torrence looked when he tried to chop his family to pieces at the Overlook Hotel. Liam noticed the black hole in the man’s mouth: He was missing an incisor.

“You were always my favorite nephew, Liam,” the perp said. “And I want my goddamn tooth.”

Liam’s jaw dropped to the floor. His legs instantly felt like Jell-O beneath him. He felt sick, like he was going to projectile all over the hardwood. Liam did know this man and he knew what he wanted — it hit him in like a punch to the solar plexus. He was Finn O’Brien, Liam’s uncle who died in 1971. He must have been resurrected in another man’s body, because it didn’t even look like Uncle Finn, whose blonde hair and tan complexion resembled a young Robert Redford. Liam knew it was impossible, and even considered that he may be losing his mind, but he couldn’t ignore what the man had just said. It had to be his uncle.

Liam couldn’t speak. Fear had absorbed his body, and he trembled from hand to toe. The memories all came back to him, like when he passed his children’s old bedrooms. The memories of his Uncle Finn and the tragedy that was his life.

He snagged the pliers and jumped on top of Liam, pressing his knees onto his shoulders and pinning him to floor.

Uncle Finn was the older brother of Liam’s father, Oscar. The two were inseparable from their youth until their mother, Liam’s grandmother, died. Finn and Oscar had gotten heated over her will; she’d left her diamond wedding ring for her grandchildren, but she never said who. Finn wanted the ring for his daughter, Sheila, while Oscar wanted it for Liam’s future bride. What started out as a typical back-and-forth surged into each brother claiming they were the favorite child, ending with Oscar scolding his brother by telling him he should have never been born.

That was the last time Finn and Oscar spoke. A year later, Finn was killed in a vicious car wreck. He’d been drinking late, as usual, and was speeding down Wolf Island Road at 2 a.m. He crashed into a stoplight and burst through the windshield shattering his skull and vertebrae on impact. The autopsy suggested Finn somehow survived the initial blow and lay in the grass beyond the stoplight, paralyzed and brain damaged like a vegetable, for nearly an hour before he perished. Uncle Finn suffered to his last breath, likely hoping a passing driver would see him and call for help. None did.

Liam, who was eighteen at the time, remembered two things from that night: the phone ringing and his mother screaming.

The next day, a guilt-ridden Oscar made the hour-long drive from Dorchester to Mattapoisett to check out the scene of the crash. The street was already clean. No blood on the road, no windshield glass, not even a tire mark to show what had happened. A damaged stoplight was the only evidence. Right as Oscar was about to leave, he noticed a white, pea-sized object on the concrete. It was a tooth — roots still intact and specs of blood on the enamel. Oscar took it home and placed it in a jewelry box — the kind most would find a wedding ring in — and kept it sealed away for decades, only showing Liam and Mason right after the accident. When Oscar died forty years later, Liam took the box and placed it in his father’s casket, so the brothers could lie beside each other forever.

Now, forty-four years after his death, Uncle Finn had returned to claim what was his.

“I knew Oscar took it after my accident — that prick just wanted something to remind himself that he’d won,” Uncle Finn said. “But I want it back!”

“Uncle Finn,” Liam stammered, the gun trembling in his hands. “I d…d…don’t have your tooth. I p…p…put it in Pop’s coffin when he passed, so you two would be toge—"

“Shut up, you rat bastard! The last thing I’d want is to lay beside your old man forever. He knew he was better than me from the day he was born. Your grandparents looked at him like he was the second coming of Jesus, and they looked at me like I was a fucking leprechaun.”

“B…but you two were so close!”

“That’s what your dad and everyone else thought. I put on a show to act all bubbly toward your pops, but truth was, I despised him. I hated every ounce of him. And I even tried to kill him — more than once. Did he ever tell you about the time he almost drowned in the Charles River when he was four? That was me — I held him underwater while we were swimming. He would’ve been a goner if your grandparents hadn’t come back from their stroll on the beach right as his torso fell limp. Told them the undercurrent got him and I saved him. Your old man lost so much oxygen while under, he didn’t remember a fuckin’ thing. Or how about when your dad and I were window washers for the city in ’46, and he fell six flights to the ground? Only broke his leg — lucky sonofabitch. He sued the city for providing a faulty harness, but it was fine before I cut one of the straps.”

Liam couldn’t feel his hands — he couldn’t feel anything — and dropped the pistol. He began to cry. He cried like a little boy who��d gotten lost in a supermarket or who cut his knee while riding his bike. He cried for his father, who’d been deceived his entire life by his best friend.

Uncle Finn stepped toward Liam. The glass and paper crunched beneath his muddy combat boots.

“And now I’m here to get what’s mine.”

Crunch!

“I don’t have it, Uncle Finn!” Liam sobbed.

Crunch!

Uncle Finn pulled a pair of pliers from his back pocket — likely the ones Liam kept in the drawer next to the fridge — and now stood inches from his nephew. “Then I’ll take one of yours!”

Uncle Finn raised his hand and plunged the pliers toward Liam’s mouth. Liam reacted fast and slapped Finn’s hand away, sending the pliers to the floor. Liam reached down for the revolver, but his face met Uncle Finn’s thrusting knee instead, which jolted Liam down on his back. He felt a sharp, throbbing pain in his nose: the bridge was dented and crooked. Blood covered the lower half of his face and gushed down his chin. Uncle Finn kicked the revolver to the other side of the kitchen far from Liam’s reach. He snagged the pliers and jumped on top of Liam, pressing his knees onto his shoulders and pinning him to floor.

Liam’s weeping turned into a violent scream for help. He tried calling for Bridget, but he couldn’t. His voice was caught in his throat, as if his vocal cords had been ripped out, and the harder he tried to yell, the quieter he became.

“Daddy’s not here to help you, is he Liam?” Uncle Finn said.

He held the pliers in one hand and stretched Liam’s mouth open with the other. Liam fought back — he flailed like a fish on the floor of a rowboat — and dug his fingertips into Uncle Finn’s face, scratching his cheek. Specs of blood and red beard hair crawled into Liam’s fingernails. Uncle Finn smacked Liam’s hand away and regained control. He pinned his knees into Liam’s chest even harder. He raised his arm.

“For your father!” Uncle Finn said.

Uncle Finn drove the pliers past Liam’s lips, grabbed his top incisor and gave it a couple yanks. It wouldn’t give. He tugged again, this time adding a twist. The tooth snapped from Liam’s gums in one piece, roots and all. Blood sprayed at Uncle Finn like he’d popped a Champagne bottle full of it, and Liam’s flailing became a convulsion. Liam maneuvered his tongue to the gaping hole in his mouth and felt the fleshy tissue dangling. It tasted like metal. Then he passed out. Maybe he was in shock or maybe it was from the pain, but his body deflated the way a balloon does when the air is slowly released from the valve.

His mind drifted to the fall of ’67 when he, his father, Mason and Uncle Finn got tickets to Game 6 of the World Series. The Red Sox blistered the St. Louis Cardinals, scoring four runs in the bottom of the seventh and winning 8–4. Liam and Mason went ballistic when Carl Yastrzemski hopped into the stands after the game to sign autographs.

“Finny, take a picture of me and my boys with Yaz,” Liam remembers his father saying. “And make sure you hold the click down long enough — you fucked it up last time, remember?”

Uncle Finn happily took the picture, but Liam’s memory zeroed in on his uncle’s face the second after the snapshot. Finn glared at Oscar — eyes narrow and biting his bottom lip, like he wanted to pounce him. Like he hated him.

Liam opened his eyes. Uncle Finn was still on top of him, and three more of his teeth had been yanked from the front of his mouth. The seeping blood from his nose and mouth formed a pool on his bare chest, and he felt queasy. Uncle Finn gazed into Liam’s eyes and raised his arm again, ready to jam the tweezers into his nephew for a fourth time.

“Okay, Liam, all set,” Uncle Finn said. “Now, check out with Rosie at the front desk. She’ll take care of you.”

Liam’s eyebrows rose in confusion.

“You okay, Liam?” Uncle Finn asked. Liam shut his eyes again. When he opened them, he realized he wasn’t in his kitchen. He wasn’t even at home. He no longer lay on the hardwood floor, but in a reclining blue chair. A bright light beamed overhead, and Uncle Finn stood over him in a blue gown and a surgical mask. “There you are! Sorry, I know the anesthesia can send you into a haze. But it’s much better than not having it when getting a root canal.”

Liam felt his teeth with his tongue: thirty-two for thirty-two. The softness of his dangling gums had been replaced with his tooth.

“I guess so,” Liam mumbled.

He stood up and shook hands with Dr. Huff. The man’s red hair, red beard and ghostly white skin looked all too familiar.

“Thanks, Doc,” Liam said.

“Don’t mention it, Liam. Call me if you have any problems!”

Liam entered the waiting room. Bridget was reading an issue of Cosmopolitan — one with Sarah Jessica Parker on the cover. She stood up.

“You all right?” she asked. “The hygienist said you dozed off for a sec.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “Just dizzy.”

Bridget held Liam’s hand and kissed the back of his palm. Her eyes fixated on his nails. “Liam, what happened to your fingers?” she asked.

Liam looked at his hand: His fingernails were covered in dried blood and bristly red hairs. He glanced back toward the treatment room. Dr. Huff was staring at him, grinning like a madman — that same kind of hellish grin that sent shivers down Liam’s spine.

Suddenly, Liam’s head exploded. It’s as if a grenade was placed in his skull and the pin dropped out. Bloody pieces of his brain shot to every corner of the room and all over Bridget, whose screams echoed and racketed throughout the entire high-rise building. Liam’s headless body flopped onto the gray carpet and twitched spastically as the nerves played out their final ballet. Bridget’s violent scream turned into a horrific sob, and she lay on top of her dead husband, blanketing herself over his body, covered in his blood.

✶

“LIAM! LIAM! WAKE UP!”

Liam opened his eyes and jolted upward as if he’d been electrocuted. Bridget was shaking him again.

“Liam, you were having a nightmare,” she said.

Liam could barely see, and to make things worse, had slobs of yellow crust at the inside corner of each eye. He put on his bifocals: it was nine-thirty in the morning. He held his hands to his face. His nails were clean. He took a deep breath. He sighed relief.

“Is today Saturday?” he asked.

“Yep, so you better get out of bed — your crown appointment with Dr. Huff is at eleven.

Liam looked straight ahead at the television in front of the bed. Carried Bradshaw was venting to her girlfriends about why her relationship with Aiden didn’t work out.

Liam chuckled.

“On second thought, what’s your sister’s dentist … what’s his name … Doctor Steinfeld up to these days?”

#Chicago Fiction #Fiction #Brett Dworski Fiction #Chicago Short Story #short story

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toughgirlchallenges · 7 years

Text

11 May #3thingstodo #walking #swimming #PhoneFixed

Tough Girl Daily - 11 May #3thingstodo #walking #swimming #PhoneFixed

Great day

Getting my phone fixed!

Super relaxing swimming

Speaking to Abigale from Motivational Monday Podcast

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Have an awesome day!

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Check out this episode!

#tough girl #adventure #challenge #daily update #podcast #like a girl #this girl can #travel #explore #dream big

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arachnidfantastic · 7 years

Photo

A very early comic example inspired by a thoughtpiece I wrote in 2013. It didn’t continue beyond here, but it was a start in figuring out certain characters and attitudes. Excerpt below.

A silent “Tick, tick, tick” pervaded the air of the Courtington Estate conservatory. A rather magnificent grandfather clock beat out a hollow rhythm within a glass-door wooden cage, heavy brass pendulum swinging back and forth and sending shards of light dancing across the paisley pattern walls and warm wooden floor. Said floor, heavily scuffed, was where a rather peculiar woman currently crouched, surrounded by flurries of paper and a rather knowing, heavy-looking set of galactic atlases.

The woman, it should be noted first and foremost, was not wearing a skirt nor a dress, a move considered most scandalous among her societal position. What was furthermore scandalous was the fact that she was wearing pants, generally accounted as men’s clothes, and a creamy cotton blouse, tailored to form. This unconventional ensemble was completed with a red cravat secured fast with a golden pin, which gleamed in the sunlight when she shuffled around. And she did an awful lot of shuffling, because as a spider she did not simply sit in one place for long. There was very little from an outsiders perspective that could be considered ‘conventional’ about Lady Catherine Courtington. Even from an insider’s perspective she would snugly fit into the “Outrageous company” section of high society.

If she ever cared about any of this however, she never showed it. Catherine leaned and rotated a piece of paper, quietly marking it off with a red “X” from a fountain pen she gripped in her second right arm. With her primary arms, she sipped very delicately at a teacup of Earl Grey.

She reached forward and flipped several pages over in an atlas marked “Centaurus”, muttering quietly to herself. “Ah, but no, this is outdated. Years outdated. The Gamma Centauri move at nearly double that speed.” She pressed a kid-gloved finger to her lower lip, clinking her teacup down on a china saucer, “could be a printing error. What a shameful oversight.” She crossed out a figure and corrected it with her red pen, quietly writing ‘For your information’ beneath it in flamboyant cursive. She then moved her attention back to cross-referencing her maps. It seemed, from the state of the mess and the vast number of teacups upon her abandoned desk, that she had been at this for several hours, and with no sign of stopping.

“Thorough as always, aren’t you” a petite woman spoke, pushing open the door.

“Aa-aah! My notes!”

“Really Catherine this could be done far faster with a more efficient and tidy work process.”

“I will work as I like Abigale, because the way I like to work is in fact, a method that has proven highly successful in the past.” Catherine swirled her tea, “Several times over.”

“There is no dealing with you, Catherine.” The woman leant against the doorframe. In terms of looks she and Catherine could have been twins, only Abigale was infinitely more presentable, with long curled locks and a very practical afternoon dress.

“My tea is cold” Catherine muttered, placing the saucer aside frustratedly, “And I’ve found about ten mistakes in this atlas.”

Abigale tiredly sighed, as one might do if exasperated with a small child. “That would be because it’s the 3940 edition, if you hadn’t noticed. You haven’t replaced these since… Why, I don’t think you’ve ever replaced them. They were your father’s.”

Catherine ruminated on this briefly. “Well I can’t very well throw them out then, but the fact of the matter remains. They are not simply outdated, they are blatantly wrong” this was spoken in a way that made it seem as if the atlas had done her a grievous offence. The atlas couldn’t really compete with a space captain’s knowledge of the extra-aether, and sat rather pitifully in the shadow to where Catherine had shoved it. It didn’t offer up a counter-argument.

She let out a second disgusted snort. “I mean, honestly. Half the measurements are clearly off by nearly six parsecs.”

“An unsightly error, I’m sure. Catherine, you are aware that I do, in fact, do a lot of my work from this very room? I’ll have you know tha- Is that one of my finance lists?” she snatched a piece of paper up from the floor, “you’ve drawn a map of Sigurd’s Cradle on it. Catherine.”

The short-haired, handsome woman tried to give her an apologetic grin, but it seemed there would be very little sympathy for her in this quarter. Abigale Stohl was meticulous about papers.

“I can’t get any work done with you in here Catherine, so I must insist that you vacate the area until I’ve at least sorted the bills.” She bustled over and pulled Catherine up by the waist, shuffling her with surprising speed toward the door.

“But Abby, I-“

“Out. Out! And buy yourself a new atlas while you’re at it, you could do with seeing how things are going about central.”

Catherine opened her mouth to insist that she’d hardly be bossed about in her own home, but the door was already closing upon her abdomen, and she decided that the battle had really already been lost.

“Not even a good-bye kiss and the time of day, how do you fancy that.” She shrugged amicably and made her way across to her bedroom in order to straighten up and fetch a coat. “I must have upset her” she sighed resignedly. Catherine was not altogether unaware that Abigale had a rather difficult job to do without her directly mucking around in things. Reliability and diligence were merits that Abigale had in spades, and very well when dealing with the tumultuous finances of wayward nobility. Stohls, thought Catherine, are rather like living calculus machines.

She’d have to get her a peace offering, perhaps a new hat. Catherine knew that Abigale was somewhat partial to head adornments. She nodded at herself in the mirror, fixing up her cravat and combing her hair to its usual place before taking a tricorn off her hat stand and angling it roguishly over her eyes. Satisfied now, she checked her coin-key was where she had left it in her pocket and made her way downstairs.

“Been bustled out of the study, have ye Lady Courtington?” a maid called at her from downstairs. Catherine gave her most charming “What-can-you-do” smile and slid down the bannister.

“Apparently I may have accidentally drawn on some important papers.”

The plump, mousy-haired woman wagged a finger at her. “Ye should know better by now, Abigale ken smell disorganised notes from th’ moon, or further. And don’t slide down the bannisters like that, lord girl ye’ll cause me to pop m’ clogs early with that dangerous carry-on.“

“Alright nanny, alright. I’ve learned my lesson for today.” She raised her hands in amicable submission. Technically this woman had raised her from eggbreak, and viewed Catherine very much like a wayfaring niece. Their banter was less than formal as a result- though Catherine was quite known for speaking rather easily with anyone, high ranked or low. It was her gift.

“Before I become distracted with nuances, has there been any mail?”

“Nay ma’am, although we may be expecting a visitor.”

“May we? How dreadful. I hope at least it’s an interesting visitor” she sniffed, making her way toward the parlour. A rather tired-looking butler straightened up at her approach, an arm across his chest. A beetle, rather than a spider, he had a very noble chin, high, arching eyebrows and was taller than Catherine by at least three heads.

“Jennings”, Catherine addressed, “am I to understand that we’ll have to be dealing with guests this afternoon?”

“Just the one, madam.” Jennings was nothing if not orderly. “A Lord Bryce Teversham to see you. He should be here in ten minutes.”

Catherine quirked an eyebrow, “in as much as a Lord Teversham can be counted to be on time. People these days, really. How long ago did he ring?”

“Just now, madam. He made it seem rather like he ought to be expected.” Jenning’s tone bordered on accusing. Catherine winced. Perhaps she ought to have read through her letters recently.

“Oh very well, I’ll deal with him then” she said, tucking her fringe beneath her hat and settling next to a table. “Would you mind fetching the tea?”

“Not at all madam.” He turned and made his way out, sweeping his tailcoat behind him. Catherine was thankful for Jennings. Not only was he a magnificent butler, but he had the added benefit of a mildly entertaining personality and good aim with a revolver, if worst came to worst. Many of Catherine’s estate servants were practical that way.

“Teversham, Teversham…” Where did she know that name from, again? “Probably some astringed ‘friend’ of fathers. I certainly don’t know any Lord Bryce Tevershams.” She snorted to herself. Talking aloud was a habit Catherine had at one stage attempted to reform, but she always did her thinking better out loud where there was space for thoughts to be thought upon. “Margaret? Margaret, did Father know any Tevershams?” she called out into the hallway.

“Ye mean th’ Lords? Well I suppose ‘e may ‘ave ‘ad one over once or twice Ma’am” the maid called from the stairwell.

“What sort of lot are they?”

There was a short pause. “Big.”

“Ah. Thank you Margaret, that will be all.” Tarantulas. Catherine didn’t often deal with Tarantulas. They tended to be less charming than the company she preferred to keep. Jennings passed back into the parlour with a silver tea set laid out on tray, which he placed upon the table. Catherine would never allow him to actually pour it; tea was a personal affair.

She was in the middle of pouring cream when there came a knock at the door. “Lady Courtington?”

“Yes Jennings?”

“I believe your visitor has just arrived, madam.” He sniffed, and then leant next to Catherine to quietly murmur in her ear. “He had to duck in the doorway. Seemed very harassed about it.”

Catherine snickered behind her hand. “Ah. One of those sorts. Alright, bring him in.”

The man indeed was one of those sorts, as Catherine put it. Huge, as if fit to burst out of his suit, he had a very square jaw and big, muttonchop-styled mandibles. He seems rather red in the face- perhaps he didn’t deal well with having to crouch in order to enter Catherine’s parlour.

“Lord Teversham” Catherine said with a smile and a small, bordering on mocking bow, “How do you do, my good sir?”

Teversham took a handkerchief from his breast-pocket and mopped his brow irritably. “Haven’t you any rooms with a higher ceiling? I feel like a primitive, crouching all over the place.”

“I do apologise, my Lord. Courtingon Manor was not built in mind of those with quite your proportion of… Generous…Ness.” She gestured mildly toward him, “My father was never a big man, and my mother wasn’t much larger. Katipo, you know. Very small.” She paused, “I rather imagine I’d feel dwarfed in your own home. Would you like some tea?”

Lord Teversham shuffled over and crouched down upon a stool in what was akin to a spider’s version of sitting politely. “Thank you, my Lady.” He seemed to struggle with calling Catherine a “Lady”, as he was still in the act of mentally processing her unusual garb. “I trust you received my letter?”

“It’s been a while since I went over it. Would you mind refreshing me on the matters in question?”

Lord Teversham mopped at his brow again, seeming slightly irritated. Jennings poured his tea. “The matter of business is more a matter of money, though I am loathe to bring it up.”

“Oh, so am I.” Smarm was one of her occasionally less charming points.

“Lady Courtington this is a serious matter.”

“Are we not being serious?” she gestured loosely toward nowhere in particular. “Alright, I admit it; I haven’t quite had the time to peruse your letter. I apologize.” She didn’t seem particularly sorry, but it was something.

“Lady Courtington-“

“Actually if we’re going to be talking about money I should really get Abigale in-“

“You won’t require a financial advisor my Lady it is merely a small matter of a debt owed to my family in a generation past.”

Catherine started. “Debt?” Catherine was especially loathe to be in debt to anyone, least of all other nobility. She fell back and distracted herself adjusting her cravat. “My father owed you money? May I ask haven’t I heard of this before now?” Her voice was level, calm.

“Lady Courtington, we’re a big family.” Teversham cleared his throat, “and we felt it was imprudent to come to the daughter so soon after the death of her only remaining parent, of course.”

“Of course. I appreciate that, my Lord.” Catherine was pleased that there was no mention of her mother. Polite company, and all that. “So how much is owed?”

The number he quoted struck her uncharacteristically silent. Her hand wandered up to massage her forehead.

“I b-beg your pardon? But- how? Why?”

“I’m the last person to question about your fathers financial affairs my Lady; I am merely here with the unfortunate but nevertheless important news. A family such as mine, you understand, must collect what it is owed.”

“Of- of course, my Lord. I would expect nothing less.” The affronted hand settled back in place in her lap as she snapped back to composure. “I will need to speak with my financial consultant you understand. I am not readily aware of finances whilst I am running the estate.” Not readily aware translated into I let Abigale take care of everything in this case. “I appreciate your time, Lord Teversham.”

“The pleasure is mine, Ms- Lady Courtington.” Catherine caught the inflection and excused it. He had done a very good job until now, after all. “The issue is not immediate, of course. We will allow a grace period.”

“Very kind, my Lord.”

“With that, my Lady, I believe I shall excuse myself. Forgive the lack of courtesy but I have important matters to attend to elsewhere.” The gargantuan man raised himself up so that his hair nearly touched the ceiling. He held his top hat responsibly in his right hand so as not to knock it into submission.

“Understandable my Lord, allow me to escort you to the door.”

Catherine found herself in a rather listless state as she waved Lord Teversham out. There was a vastly logical part of her that found itself appalled for not having heard of this debt sooner, and a vastly emotional part of her that felt in despair. Her estate found itself in no position to reimburse a lordly family, and hadn’t once in the four years since her father the honourable Lord Timothy Courtington had passed away. The family fortune had been cleft by some dubious and mysterious outer force, and Catherine herself had hence spent the last two solar sweeps trying her greatest to keep a foot in the door of noble society. Her outrageousness of manner, at least, would ensure that she would never be forgotten.

Feeling rather dazed, she made her way back toward the study, and knocked politely at the door. “Abigale?”

“Oh, what is it now Catherine? I’m hardly in the manner to be dealing with any eccentricities at the moment.”

“I can assure you Abigale that for the moment eccentricities are the farthest from my mind.” Her voice betrayed a kind of despondency that Abigale was well used to recognising in the rare moments that Catherine allowed a little sorrow to better her. It appealed to her greater sympathies and she opened the door to allow Catherine in, who was none-too-surprised to find that all her working papers had already been neatly sorted onto shelves, and the room once more was in immaculate state.

“Well now, what’s the matter?” Abigale managed, in a tone that passed for tenderness upon her usual ranks of scepticism and more than a little irritation.

“I fear I have some bad news.” Catherine stopped, sniffing. “What is that smell? Are you wearing some kind of imported scent?”

“It’s called coffee, Catherine. A new beverage, all the rage over toward the Papillion systems” said Abigale, matter-of-factly, “I find it rather helps with my ability to function over the longer hours a great deal better than tea does.”

Catherine did her best to sound wounded under the circumstances. “I’ll have you know that there is nothing better for the functions than a great deal of tea” she remarked, wary of this new substance.

“Well tea may be all very well for people who actually have the time to sleep at night, Catherine, but some of us have a jolly great deal of work to do. Now what was the poor news that you were here to inform me of?”

Catherine told her.

Abigale, ever practical, was surprised for all of about three seconds before she made her way toward her generously sized and well managed filing cabinets. “I don’t believe it. Not for one second, Catherine, surely we are being had.”

“I find it more difficult to doubt. He seemed somewhat genuine, despite the haughty manner. Tarantulas, you know.”

“Yes yes, I know. Ah, here we are, T for Teversham. Your father did have dealings with some Tevershams in the past…” She fingered the pages with one hand and worried her lip with a fang, “But I find no mention of a lord Bryce anywhere. Mind you, these records are a little outdated. “ She paused. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Catherine had settled herself upon a stool, and gazed worriedly in Abigale’s direction. “Oh, what?”

“Well, he wasn’t exactly lying about the debt.” Abigale didn’t look incredibly concerned as Catherine let out a small sigh, “But this seems odd. It’s from almost before your time, Catherine. One could have easily mistaken this for a grant of good favour. Especially considering the now late Lord Teversham was a serving officer in the same regimental as your father.”

“Well, times are changing Abigale. What worries me is what I’m going to do about this.” She massaged her forehead, hat set sadly upon the desk nearest her. “It’s a lot of money that I don’t have right now. The estate doesn’t have it right now. And my latest expedition didn’t draw nearly as much revenue as I’d hoped it would.”

She jumped as Abigale bopped her rather unsympathetically on the head with the stack of files at hand. “Oh, Stop that. You know I can’t stand it when you start worrying over everything like this. I haven’t the time for it.”

When Catherine didn’t immediately fire back a witty retort, she relented. “Oh come now Catherine. You’ll think of something, you always do. It’s only a matter of time.”

“I thank you for your reassurances Abigale.” Catherine stood. “But I still want you to promise me that if worse comes to worst you get out of this sinkhole before it becomes the death of your good name.”

Abigale rolled her eyes at the sentiment. “If I cared for my good name at all I’d have avoided you at all cost, but here I am. You’re trouble, Catherine,” she gently grasped at the other’s hand, “but you care a great deal too.”

She leant forward and delicately kissed her on the cheek, and before she knew it Catherine was once again standing on the other side of the doorway. “Now as much as I’d enjoy spending the evening making you feel better Catherine I may have mentioned that I have a lot of work to finish. I suggest that you call in on Orpha, and then make plans at the docks tomorrow. And do stop feeling sorry for yourself, will you?”

Before Catherine could answer, Abigale had once again secured herself within the study. She forced herself into smiling. “Oh, very well then.” How does she do that?

The prospect of calling in on Orpha did cheer Catherine up some. “She always knows what to suggest to brighten my mood. I really shall need to procure that hat… “ she winced, “After this little situation has been repaired. Margaret? Would you kindly fetch the cellular telephone?” she called down the hall.

“O’ course, ma’am”

The short, mousy maid returned with the ungainly device within minutes. It certainly looked brickish, though really that was due the vast amount of superfluous brass and wood ornamentation. Orpha continually insisted that the device could be optimised, but then, that would have meant losing a sense of style. And we, my ever-so-charming Catherine, must never be caught out of the latest technological style. “Thank you Margaret, that will be all for this evening.”

“I take it ye’ll not be staying with us tonight?”

“I highly doubt it. I’m calling in on Orpha; I suggest you all take the night off, as Abigale looks like she won’t be emerging from the study at any stage tonight either.” Catherine leaned down slightly to talk softly, “though if you wouldn’t mind, do keep an eye on her for me? She’s been working herself to death the last few weeks, I’m worried. And that besides, when she’s like this she’s no fun at all.”

Margaret smiled and pinched Catherine’s cheek in an old maid’s sort of way. “O’ course, dearie. You’re just a wee softie really, aren’t ye?”

“Oh Nanny, you know me too well. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a call to make.” Margaret handed the sizeable device over, and Catherine withdrew to the parlour, dialling a familiar number as she went.

Orpha arrived in an unusual fashion, just as Catherine had come to expect from her dear companion over the last decade. In truth Catherine heard her before she saw her, as she stopped outside the study on the second floor to chat with Abigale first. She only pretended to be bothered by it.

“Now what may I call this contraption, Orpha?”

“Oh, Catherine!!” exclaimed the rather tall orb-weaver, “Hellooooo down there! I was just stopping to chat with Abigale, you know how little I see of her these days.” She grinned. Catherine rolled her eyes with an amused smile. The vehicle she was perched upon had a semi-spherical shape; from beneath Catherine could see four nodes from which a rotating green energy pulsed, which she deduced must be the points of contact with the aether that kept it afloat.

Abigale waved amiably out the window at her, and then bid Orpha a good evening. The contraption lowered smoothly, with a slightly audible hum that Catherine had come to associate with many of Orpha’s latest technological endeavours. It was a comforting sound.

“I call it,” said Orpha, with a show-woman’s flair, “Flannigan’s Minute-Oscillation Aetheographic Transportation Chariot, Mark: the Third.”

“Always favouring the overly-complicate titles, Orpha” said Catherine, struggling to remember the entire name should it come up again in conversation.

“By my logic,” replied Orpha, “if someone isn’t intelligent enough to pronounce the damn thing then they certainly aren’t intelligent enough to be trusted driving one.” She shuffled over; tapping the brass platform with a boot, “Now, get on.”

In typical Orpha fashion, she’d managed to bring with her a device entirely unsuited to the task at hand. Though Catherine was tiny where Orpha was thin and tall, it was still a very close thing for them to both fit upon the floating scooter-platform at once. Catherine ended up with her belly pressed against Orpha’s hip, holding on to a handle with two hands and the others firmly clasped around Orpha’s waist. She gave the impression of a rather well-dressed limpet from a distance, and was aware she probably looked very silly.

“This, “she grumbled light-heartedly, “is going to ruin my reputation of being a suave gentlewoman, if we get witnessed.”

Orpha wound her lower right arm over Catherine’s shoulder. “Well, you could stand upon it, driving with two hands while holding me bridal with your primaries, but given my considerable largeness and your just as considerable shortness the laws of physics decree the event will likely end in disaster.” She adjusted her top hat, “You shall just have to make do with being a barnacle for now my dear, there’s nothing for it.” She paused, struck by a thought, “Unless you wanted to hide ‘neath my skirts like-“

“Alright Orpha, I believe this will do” Catherine said, trying not to consider Orpha’s second option as more than a joke.

“That’s about what I thought, too.” With a cackle and a few cranks, the device lifted off the ground and buzzed off into the distance. Catherine found herself sparing an arm to hold onto her hat, which threatened to fly off in the wind. The contraption wasn’t the most comfortable of things, but Catherine supposed that at least it was fast- which was probably what Orpha had wanted to show off in the first place.

“Oh, do you mind slowing it down a little? I think my cravat is coming undone.”

Orpha just grinned wickedly. “That’s what you get for wearing men’s clothes.”

She didn’t slow a single mile.

By the time the pair had reached Orpha’s research estate the orb-weaver was chatting at a hundred miles an hour. It had become vastly apparent to Catherine, even since their youth, that Orpha’s brain was a complex mechanism that seemingly ran on perpetually, and never slowed for anything. The main difference between the Orpha of her youth and the Orpha of her adult life was that now Orpha also had the will to verbalise and carry out many of the complex theoretical and scientific ideas that she was constantly thinking about. She simply did not stop.

“Oh but if you could only imagine the potential of these discoveries, Catherine! I truly feel as though I may be on the precipice of the modern era, as though one small tip of the scale could hurtle us in entirely new directions!”

“Considering the still growing success of your petroleum research Orpha I’d imagine you’ve tipped those scales already.” Catherine smiled, catching the door as Orpha hurried on inside. Often caught in the throes of her genius, Orpha was in the habit of forgetting common courtesies- changing dresses for appropriate times, for one. Catherine didn’t mind. The evening dresses Orpha most commonly wore tended to show off a pleasing amount of bosom anyway, and one could always open the door for oneself if need be.

“Oh, no! Catherine, I could go- We as an empire could go so much farther! The potential my efficient petroleum consumption research has reaches far beyond what our current technology can keep up with! I simply must take it all further, all of it- INGRUM, INGRUM WHERE ARE YOU?” she suddenly yelled, and from a distant corner behind a large pyramid of research notes scuttled a young spikey-haired lab assistant, looking mildly exhausted. He adjusted his glasses hurriedly.

“Yes Dr. Flannigan? I’m right here, what did you need?”

Orpha swooped toward him, clearly excited, and babbled a large amount about an apparent form of combustion engine she had been thinking about on the return trip- “And make sure you write all this down, will you? I would myself but I need to check on the degradation samples.”

Catherine had made acquaintance with Orpha’s research assistant on occasion, although he often proved to be rather too meek to make adequate conversation with- unless one was well versed in the principles of advanced pyrochemistry. He was only about twenty two, and far less outspoken than his superior, but he was efficient and possessed enough passion for what he was doing- which, Catherine supposed, was what had really drawn Orpha toward him as a young scientific graduate. And who would deny the chance to work alongside the woman whom the Royal Scientific Academy of Arachnidea had most recently awarded a Nobel prize? Orpha’s research into the principles of petroleum efficiency in order to perpetuate long-term space-travel had revolutionized the extra-orbital transport industry. Trips that previously took months could be compressed into mere weeks- it was comparable, some said, to the invention of the extra-aether dirigible back in the early 3600’s.

Ingrum made his way hurriedly back to the corner of research notes he had previously been nestled in, and began scribbling away on a new piece of parchment. Catherine watched in amusement. “Dare I say it Orpha, but I think you might need another assistant. Poor Ingrum seems rather harrowed, and it doesn’t seem as though the place has been organized in- well, years, really.”

Orpha paused mid-stride. “Well it has been a year since I acquired Ingrum and the place is starting to get a little out of sorts, I suppose.” She then continued toward a large bulkhead door, in front of which she donned a pair of goggles, gloves and a white-brown lab coat.

“A little out of sorts? Orpha, it looks like a bomb went off in here. And not too long ago, either.”

“Oh that was just a small incident. We cleaned most of the soot off the ceiling.” She set about heaving the bulkhead aside, “Can you give me a hand with this?” she paused to cackle, “I seem to be one shorter than I remember.”

Catherine scowled as she was struck by a twinge of guilt. “Orpha, you know I don’t like those jokes.”

“Oh, let it go already Cat, you know I’m only kidding.” Catherine didn’t feel very much like being kidded around with over the subject. It was very obvious how one of her coat-sleeves hung limp on the left side, where Orpha was missing one of her arms. And in many ways, Catherine still felt responsible- if she hadn’t encouraged Orpha’s dangerous experiments, then perhaps Or would still possess all of her limbs. Orpha scowled back. “Need I throw you out? I don’t have time for a pity parade; now help me with this door already.”

Catherine did what was sensible and helped Orpha to pull the heavy bulkhead aside. “There. Now, what exactly are you checking on?”

“Oh, I have some oil, iron and silicon degradation cycles I’ve been observing for the last few weeks, I have no doubt you’d find them boring,” Orpha said, as she crept into the sterilized environment. The entire room was painted white, as far as Catherine could see from outside the door, filled with various boxes and tables upon which sample trays were carefully arranged and labelled (Far more tidy than the world outside the chamber)- she supposed it wouldn’t be wise to stride in and contaminate Orpha’s workings. After several years Catherine had learned that looking was far safer than touching when in a scientific laboratory. She leant against the open bulkhead and listened contentedly as Orpha prattled on about rust and weathering and erosion- although she couldn’t follow much of it and as Orpha had predicted it was a rather boring subject- she found herself, as usual, very content to simply hear Orpha’s voice.

“Right!” exclaimed Orpha, making her way back out of the lab and pulling off her gloves, “Can I offer you a coffee?”

Catherine groaned. “Saints above, not you too.”

“Beg your pardon?”

Catherine’s shoulders drooped resignedly. “Abigale has been drinking that as well. I’ve been told it’s a new foreign import. Whatever is wrong with tea? Tea was the finest thing we ever imported.” There came a dramatic sigh. “This planet is going to the dogs.”

‘Have you even tried it?”

“No, and I do not plan to. Tea will be fine, thank you. Earl Grey if you have any.”

“Oh, stubborn as ever. May I invite you to the library? I’m writing another thesis.”

“All’s fine by me- no, wait.”

“What’s wrong?” Orpha asked, puzzled.

“There’s something I need to do first, I’m just trying to remember what it was. “ Catherine tapped a finger against her lip, “No, wait, now I recall.”

She took off her hat and held it as a shield to Ingrum’s wandering eyes as she pulled Orpha down into a kiss, as she’d been yearning to do for the last hour. When she was satisfied the two parted, and Orpha licked her lips. “I was wondering when we would get to that.”

“You’re not an easy woman to catch outside of work, you know.”

“I’m not actually outside of work yet, you may have noticed.”

“We must take exceptions somewhere.” Catherine smirked. Orpha had to concede. They both smiled. “I believe you offered tea?”

Orpha nodded , shy in the way she always was when Catherine kissed her. It was strange how the woman had evolved with age and experience, but the girl still stuck with her in the small beatings of her chest. Catherine adored her for it. She adored her for a great number of things, really.

One of them being that she happened to be absolutely brilliant. Another being that she hadn’t always been aware of the fact. When they were young girls, Catherine had often been the one to encourage Orpha to try out her theories. It had taken her nearly three years of egging her on before Orpha had finally started her on her first practical experiment.

Catherine smiled fondly at the memory as they passed through into the stairway that lead into the upper study of Orpha’s house. Her research facility, which often suffered trauma from her various research on things that went boom, was separate from her home mansion, which Orpha had been lucky enough to be granted by the Royal Science academy for her work. Orpha had not come from a wealthy family- but she had come from one that recognised her potential enough to do all they could to encourage it, and that had been enough. Her family now lived in a rather well-off state in the townhouse Orpha had bought for them after her first invention had become one of the greatest astronautical successes of the decade.

Catherine was so very proud of her.

Catherine awoke from a doze upon Orpha’s library couch in the early hours of the morning, completely confused as to how she managed to fall asleep in the first place. She took in the familiar surroundings with a blink, and then gazed across the room to the comforting cherry wood desk where Orpha herself had, predictably, nodded off face-down amongst a large flurry of astrophysics notes. The sight made her smile. Quietly as she could, she rose from the furniture and made her way over, gently shaking Orpha awake via shoulder.

“Huhwassit?” mumbled the orb weaver, brushing her fringe out of her eyes. “When’d I fall asleep?” she shook her head. “Aetherial combustion theory…”

“It doesn’t seem to have interested you enough to work a twenty-four hour stretch, my dear,” said Catherine, “good morning, by the way.”

“It’s morning?” she seemed somewhat surprised.

“Good morning,” Catherine repeated, before ringing for tea. “You really ought to make more use of your bed; else you’ll end up with terrible neck problems.”

Orpha propped herself up on one elbow, gently sifting her notes together. “You are beginning to sound like Abigale. In a matronly way.” She giggled at the face Catherine made in response.

“Are you accusing me of lacking fun, Ms. Flannigan? Be aware I shall not take such slurs lying down.”

“Lacking fun? I shall suggest no such thing. You are simply getting old.”

“Old!” Catherine spluttered. “Old!!”

“Practically a spinster.”

“You are treading dangerous waters, Ms. Flannigan! Dangerous waters indeed!” Catherine exclaimed, reaching her arms around Orpha and burying her face in her hair. Orpha, for her part, couldn’t cease her giggling now started and thoroughly encouraged. What stopped them instead was a quiet “A-hem!” from the doorway.

“Your tea, madams” an elderly butler announced, as the two women sprang apart in embarrassed chagrin. To be caught canoodling by one of Orpha’s servants wasn’t exactly proper, after all.

Catherine cleared her throat and stood back, allowing the man to place the tea set on Orpha’s paper-strewn desk. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, my Lady. A Ms. Stohl has left you a telegram regarding Lady Aschenbacher in the communication room, should you wish to check it.”

Orpha immediately set to scowling. Catherine saw her mouth the words “Lady Aschenbacher”, eyes halflidded. Orpha couldn’t stand Winnifred, which was a shame, because Catherine was very fond of her.

This is where the excerpt ends. Other things continued developing elsewhere!

#spiders #arthropods #artists on tumblr #catherine #abigale #orpha #bryce

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