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itsomgitsgreenblogging · 5 years ago

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Labor of Love: A Critical Role Shadowgast Fanfic

I don’t have any excuse for this besides have a cute modern with magic bakery shadowgast AU in this trying time with a healthy dose of food description and stressed businessman Essek trying to find love in a modern with magic world. If people would like me to continue this, let me know!

Enjoy!

Read on AO3

Preview:

*“Guten Morgen, welcome to Xhorhaus Bakery. How can I help you?”

Essek’s mouth went dry.

The face that met his was attractive in the very traditional Empire way. In fact, the man looking at him looked as if he had stepped right out of an Empire propaganda film espousing the ye olde Zemnian way of life. There were the deep set blue eyes, the long copper hair pulled out of the way in a bun. He had pale freckled skin and the shadow of a ruddy beard beginning at his jaw. There was a dusting of flour or sugar on his cheek, and he wore a simple white shirt with a blue apron tied at his hips. It wasn’t fair that he had to meet someone so attractive so early in the morning, Essek thought derisively.*

Essek often wondered if he was born cursed, or if his disdain for most living things rubbed off on his environment and made it almost impossible to function. It wasn’t as if he tried to be hateful or annoyed at most things in life, it’s just that most things were so thoroughly irritating that it was desperately hard to function. He wondered if everyone felt this way...or if it was only him.

That was the thought that crossed Essek’s mind as he sat in traffic for ten minutes. His car, a shiny black new model grumbled in discontent as white fumes danced into the cold Rosohna air. His GPS finally pinged to let him know there was a road closure, and in a fit of desperation, Essek swung his car into the left lane and turned off the street and onto the next avenue. Rosohna was a relatively updated city, and having lived there all his life he tended to be able to navigate it well. This, however, would be an annoying detour.

“Hey Hallas, text Leylas Kryn,” Essek asked as he tapped the steering wheel. He jabbed at his radio, turning off Marion Lavorre’s latest single half way through her call for her love to treat her the way she deserved. Good for her.

“What would you like to say?” his phone asked him, lighting up from where it sat cradled on his dashboard.

“Road closed, running late and won’t be able to go by your preferred coffee shop. GPS says I’m 15 minutes out. I’ll try to swing by another place on the way,” Essek said, as clearly and concisely as he could. Hallas managed to read back the message before Essek sent it. Almost immediately his phone pinged in response and the message was read out.

"Alright. Thank you for letting me know, the ambassador is running late anyways so you have some time."

Essek sighed, drumming his fingers with a bit more intensity. He didn’t like this day already and it had barely started.

He plugged his GPS and looked for the closest coffee shop with the best reviews on the way. His GPS pinged with the place, a bakery called the Xhorhaus Bakery. It was a kitschy name, with a bare bones website, but it would just have to do. With few other options, Essek set his sights for the place. Essek pulled in at the quaint bakery, thankful for the empty parking spot in the front. Essek didn't like new things as a rule. New meant unpredictable and unknowable, and Essek prided himself on knowing everything that was going on all at once at all times.

Essek rushed through the door, hand on his phone and tapping it to the parking monitor sensor. He caught a glimpse of frosted glass and pretty dark brick, but barely paid attention until he was in the door.

Essek nearly swallowed his own tongue as his brain screeched to a grinding halt.

It was utterly magic. That was really the only way to describe it. Display cases were bursting with pastel-frosted cupcakes and sugar-glazed fruit tarts. There were rows of sweets...golden dough puffs filled with ricotta and cherries and dusted with confectioners sugar, macarons arranged like beautiful shiny buttons, turnovers fashioned like ship masts, elephant ears, honey-buns shaped like bees, cookies pressed into whimsical shapes. There was a whole section for ice cream, waffles and crepes advertised on the weekends. Mothers and fathers cradled children and laughed as a bright blue tiefling dolled out what looked like free samples, a tall firbolg carrying a tray disappeared into the back as a half-orc came in to slide another tray of cookies into an empty rack. At the sit down section, a halfling and two human women of various sizes both carried trays of different styled cups and kettles to customers. The whole place had an eclectic vibe, like things had been found at consignment stores and sales and brought together to fill the place. Each table was different and the chairs were all different too in a way that looked half-planned and half-thrown together. Like the business had been a half-thought half-dream that had gained a foothold in wakefulness.

Thankfully, Essek was in a line. He absorbed the information that lay before him quickly, as well as skimming the coffee menu that was emblazoned on the board in chalk. There were categories like, Breakfast with Beau, Bakery Favorites, and Cad’s Tea Corner. Bakery Favorites seemed to be the safest choice. The edges of the boards were doodled with flowers and cute animals and...was that a dick? No. Probably not he was just seeing things. Though it wasn’t an exact match to what his boss and her wife usually got, he hoped it would be good enough that she would forgive the difference and the lateness.

He got up to the counter, having practiced his order in his head at least a dozen times. The wait time hadn’t been long, nor was the line. That at least was a benefit over the place he usually stopped to get his boss’s drinks. Their usual place was a trendy cafe with a dizzying variety of brews that was operated by people who looked down at you for not knowing a medium was a grande. Essek tended to feel safe in a place of rigid social roles like that, so it never bothered him. This was a new frontier.

“Guten Morgen, welcome to Xhorhaus Bakery. How can I help you?”

Essek’s mouth went dry.

“One venti matcha latte with almond milk and a single pump of agave, one venti iced caramel macchiato, as light on the ice as possible, and one tall black coffee,” Essek said in a perfectly even and rehearsed tone, working past the fact he felt like he was being punched repeatedly in the face each time he noticed something new about the extremely handsome man. He was wearing a nametag but he just couldn’t focus enough to read it. His hands were large. Really large. Gods above and below, were bakeries always this warm?

“Which blend would you like for the black coffee?”

“What?” Essek asked, startled because for some reason the handsome man was still talking to him.

“For the black coffee,” the man repeated, pointing to the different...canniesters? What did you call those? He didn’t know the word. Coffee-holder would be what he would call it in Undercommon. Essek didn’t like this. He was going off script. This was why he hated new places. “We have three blends. Dark, medium, and light.”

Did it matter? Essek thought, now concerned that it did. He had always just assumed that the different types..obviously were roasted for different times. But it all tasted the same to him.

“Dark,” Essek said, feeling as if this had been happening for an hour. He needed to go lay down. The handsome man began to press the buttons into his register.

“Would you like anything else? We have some samples of our honey-buns,” the man said, motioning to the tray on the counter with bite-sized portions cut out. “They are our highest seller for breakfast items.”

“I’ll take a dozen,” Essek said. Hopefully this too would help ease the fact he was definitely late, plus, the office-girls always loved sweet things. He offered his card to the cashier, who motioned to the coins-only sign. “I’m sorry, sir. Card reader is down unfortunately. Haven’t had a chance yet to renew the enchantment.”

“It’s no problem,” Essek said, fishing out his coin purse and placing the coins into his hand. His skin brushed--hot, no he wasn’t thinking about it.

“Of course,” the man said. “I’ll get that ready for you. I’ll need a name for the coffees though.”

“Essek.”

“Thank you.”

Essek stepped to the side, the place labeled with pick up. Essek stood there, trying to be interested in his phone. Empire News Network was reporting about some sort of sea creature sighting by sailors. He was more interested in the little white-board by the pick up station. Written in beautiful looping cursive was “Send me a Message!”, the name of the messaging and photo app that was popular nowadays. There was a list of names...most likely employees: @nottthebrave, @captntusktooth, @ohnoregard, @caddyshack, @orphanmaker, @littlesapphire, @caleb_widogast, and @frumpkinthefeyking. Above them all was @XhorhausBakery, the emblem with the little cat and the crown next to a tree.

Bad idea, Essek thought, though his own Message was open. This was a bad idea. But which one was the hot cashier? It wouldn’t hurt...just to follow him would it? He needed to figure out which one of them was the hot cashier, but, he didn’t think he could look at the hot cashier for long without his eyes burning.

“Coffees and honey-buns for Essek!”

The cheerful accented voice came from the blue tiefling, who nearly leaned over the counter. She was dressed in a white dress and the blue apron, and wore a pink bandana tied to the top of her head in front of her curled horns. On the front of her apron was pinned the name tag, “Hi I’m Jester!”

“You made the right choice, though I also love the elephant ears, oh and the macarons, but don’t get me started on the cupcakes!” Jester said excitedly, giving him the drinks in the drink holder and the box. The box itself was a simple robin’s egg blue, but it was tied with a pretty pink ribbon. “You should come back for the cupcakes! We enchant them so they give you different sensations as you eat!”

“Are all the sweets here enchanted?” Essek asked, suddenly now very nervous about the box of treats he was holding.

“Yep! We’re a maaaagic bakery,” Jester said, with her fingers wiggling on the word magic. Essek noticed a holy symbol of some sort tied to her wrist.

“What do these do?” Essek asked, holding up the box.

“Oh! Those? The honey changes flavors, and it gives the scent of flowers as you chew! Like a little bee going through a field,” Jester said excitedly. “Right Caleb?”

Essek’s head whipped to the side so fast he probably almost broke something. There was a large hand that raised with a thumb’s up. Hot cashier was Caleb.

“Thank you,” Essek said, and without any further ado he was out of the bakery like hellhounds were at his feet.

Essek managed to get to the meeting within the bounds of polite lateness. The Bright Queen accepted her drink, as did her wife Quana. Essek handed the box of honey-buns off to the receptionists who took them gleefully. He spent the first part of the morning responding to emails and inquiries. He quickly got together the itinerary for her next visit to Assarius for the conference on magic education. He absently pawed at his coffee, taking a quick sip. The coffee was good enough that he paused for a moment, before shaking his head. It was all mental, after all, it was just black coffee. It didn’t stop him from downing it though.

“Essek,” Leylas Kryn said as she left her office. Essek ripped his tome-pad from its charging station and followed her as he usually did. “Thank Luxon, at least you are able to keep appointments. Why are people so incapable of keeping to schedule. You took care of the itinerary?”

“Yes, the schedule was sent out to you and the core ambassadors five minutes ago,” Essek said as he tapped the screen open. “Travel has been booked, your private plane should be ready to go at 8:00. Hotel at the Pillow Trove has been arranged--the Royal Suite, as usual. I also made sure to set restaurant options for you, though I have of course included both my recommendations as well as your travel agent.”

“Tell Orphea that I said no on the model she chose for the Tal’dorei spread. I said I wanted young, fresh, illuminating. She sent tired and dowdy. We want people to be celebrating the Xhorhassian cultural boom, the renaissance of our people might I add, and not rolling their eyes. Also RSVP that party Zethris Olios is holding if you haven’t done so.”

“Already taken care of, ma’am. I told the driver to pick you up at 9:45 sharp, and made sure to request the drink selections for your entourage...in mini-bottles, of course.”

“Wonderful work, Essek as always I know I can count on you,” she said with a nod before looking back at him. “And by the way, that latte you got me today was fantastic. I know Quana greatly enjoyed her drink as well. The girls were raving about those...uh...honey-buns all morning too. Make that your usual stop if you don’t mind. No use going to a coffee shop and a different bakery when you can just get everything at one place.”

Essek nearly tripped over his own feet, but managed to catch himself. After all, he couldn’t scuff his shoes. He had just bought them.

“Of course,” Essek said, trying to write the reminder in his phone...his Message was just staring at him...hot cashier-Caleb taunting him. He had thought it would be one time. He could follow the man on his public Message page and oggle at him because he would never see him ever again. Attraction was so much neater and simpler if the people on the other end of it...well...if they were simply reduced to pictures of them and their cat maneuvering a coffee machine.

It was fine though, Essek snapped at himself. He was an adult. He could deal with looking at an attractive man every morning. If anything, it would be a nice distraction from the daily grind.

“Essek!” Maruo crowed from her office space as they walked by, her goblin ears perked up excitedly. “Those pastries you got were amazing! I was gonna eat the last one, but did you want it?”

"No thank you...I don't particularly like sweets," Essek said, as graciously as possible. Leylas Kryn raised an eyebrow at him. She waved at Maruo who gave her the honey bun instead.

"You don't like sweets?" she asked him, sounding extremely suspicious as they continued to walk. The sound of Leylas Kryn’s heels were enough to get everyone in the hallway to move out of her way. As they walked towards the elevator, the drow woman in it exited with a nod of her head and seemed content to wait for the next one.

"Not really," Essek admitted. He couldn't remember the last pastry he had eaten. Part of the issue was that he didn't get very hungry. That morning he had a breakfast bar...the night before...well he had eaten leftover take out. He didn't remember eating lunch at all yesterday--he probably hadn't. He had been on the phone with the interviewer. Most of the time, he got home and was simply too exhausted to make a substantial effort.

The other part of it was food didn't hold much appeal to him. He thought back to when he was growing...minimally but growing, and he had eaten two huge meals a day. He went out to dinner with these important executives and politicians now and picked at his plate. It took such an effort to get up in the morning and to do the things he needed to do that enjoying food was low on his priorities.

"Eat it," she ordered, shoving the honey bun in his face as they walked out of the elevator and into the main lobby. "You need a little sweetening, Essek."

"Give him a whole box," Quana Kryn chuckled as she saddled up next to Leylas as they walked to the car. She was dressed in a power suit that immaculately matched Leylas’ little black dress and red pumps. It annoyed Essek how perfectly in sync they were, especially considering that Leylas left their house at least an hour before Quana so they didn’t even have time to coordinate. Did having sex regularly do that to a couple? Essek didn’t delve in much further with that line of questioning

"I am perfectly pleasant at all times," Essek said, with a signature smile.

"Of course, but something sweet never hurt anyone," Leylas said with an irritatingly knowing gaze as the driver opened the door for them. “Follow us in your car?”

“Yes, of course, I will meet you there,” Essek said, and then with a pop of the door and the engine, the Kryns were off to take on Rosohna. Essek stood on the curb for a moment, looking at the honey-bun he had in his hand. With all the excitement that a child had when taking a health potion, Essek bit into the pastry.

It was a revelation. Still crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside. A smooth, mellow, and yet fragrant honey and cinnamon swirl sandwiched within layers of buttery, fluffy pastry. There was the scent of spring-time and lazy summer mornings when dew was fresh on the grass and wildflowers and there was that pleasant warmth in the air, and the frosting itself was vanilla and honey and just a dash of sea-salt.

Before he realized it, it was gone from his hand. The magic had dissipated, and left him yearning for more.

Oh no, he thought. This couldn’t end well.

----

With the Kryns at the conference for the week, one would think that Essek may have time to breathe. However, being one of the high-ranking people at the company meant that somehow he got even more mucked down in the day-to-day tasks. He did go to the Xhorhaus Bakery a few more times, but always called in his order ahead. He would catch a glimpse of Caleb, on occasion receive a smile or a welcome, before being handed his order and rushing right out. Essek could pretend it was the assistants' fault...or the marketing department, who were all actually obsessed with the treats he was bringing in on a daily basis. But really, he was the sucker making the point to go in there like some sort of lovestruck teenager to ogle at the cute boy behind the counter.

When he finally arrived on his day off, it was a solid relief. Though, as usual for being a drow, Essek was up early and with little to do. Essek didn’t enjoy cleaning...he did have people who did that after all. He technically had a gym membership...but hated working out more than anything. He ought to visit his den, as any good drow boy did on his day off, but the idea of seeing his family tended to make him nauseous. His eyes caught a stack of books that he hadn’t gotten around to reading--

It was a bad idea...but he was going to do it anyway. He had never been a paragon of wisdom anyways. He dressed as comfortably as he ever let himself dress, after all, life was a performance. If he wasn’t wearing the absolute best, then he was always going to be judged as the absolute worst. And on top of that, Essek was a vain creature who spent a lot of money on deep conditionings for his curls and on his crystal facials (which, honestly, the crystals probably didn’t do anything but they felt expensive and Essek always liked feeling expensive). The one thing he could always control was the way he looked, and he liked looking good.

With his black leather messenger bag slung on his shoulder, his peacoat buttoned, and his boots on, he headed out into the cold morning. In Roshona it was always night, but definitely not temperature controlled. Essek buried his chin more stubbornly in his scarf as he continued to walk through the streets. When he arrived at Xhorhaus Bakery, he felt appropriately wind-tousled and cold. The building itself was warm, and wafted the crippling good scents butter and vanilla to a distracting degree.

It was busy, as Essek had guessed it would be so early in the morning. His shoulder was beginning to ache by the time he reached the front counter. But all of his earthly concerns were wiped away when he met Caleb’s blue eyes. He still wore the white shirt and apron that was the uniform most likely, but that day he was also wearing a button with a cat on his apron. He still looked devastatingly attractive in every possible way and it wasn’t fair because he looked like he had just rolled out of the bed. Essek needed at least an hour in the morning to talk himself into being even vaguely pleasant.

“Oh! Guten Morgen, and welcome back to the Xhorhaus Bakery,” Caleb said, a certain pleasant crinkle to his expression. He was smiling a soft, gentle smile that caught Essek off guard. “What can I get you this morning?”

“What do you recommend for coffee?” Essek asked him, placing his palms on the counter--stretching cold-bitten fingers. He was having heart palpitations, he was pretty sure. He kept trying to look at Caleb and he just couldn’t. It was like looking into the headlights of a car. “I normally just drink black coffee but…”

“I’ll make something for you then,” Caleb offered. “I have a drink in mind. I would also recommend our turnovers today.”

“I’ll have that then,” Essek said, handing over his coins. Caleb took it, opened the ancient looking cash register and handed back the change. Essek slid it into the tip jar.

“Danke. Is that for here or to go?”

“Here, thank you,” Essek said, reslinging the bag and going to find a table.

Essek took a corner table by the window and set about settling in. He balanced his messenger bag on the extra chair before pulling out his books, parchment, and his fountain pen. Essek had always enjoyed spellcraft...he had majored in it in university. Advanced Dunamancy with a minor in Spellcraft Engineering. Gods, if there had been any sort of work besides military for wizardry Essek would have pursued it as a career. But the choice had been military or starving eternal adjunct professor and Essek didn’t find either attractive. Essek had applied for an internship at the government’s Cultural Offices, and had gotten that and through that had managed to work his way up to assistant to Leylas Kryn herself.

It was a well paying job, with fashionable perks like fancy parties. But Essek didn’t love it. He was good at it, but he didn’t enjoy it. Essek didn’t enjoy much in life, so these little treasures he snuck were so much more important.

He was in the middle of reading the second chapter of the Durolvir Lectures on Dunamancy when movement caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He lifted his head from his book just as the blue tiefling named Jester settled down the tray and the coffee. Her tail curled in the air like a cat catching the sight of something interesting to bat at.

“You totally came back! I knew you would!” Jester said, leaning on the table. Her rather impressive muscles on this display and tipping the table slightly in her excitement. Essek scooped up his cup and the saucer to keep it from spilling on his book and on his notes. On the side of the cup it had the image of swans in a springtime scene, a rather quaint and adorable image.

“I’m surprised you remembered me,” Essek noted, taking a sip of his coffee. It had milk, which was a departure from normal from him. It was smooth and creamy and honestly? The best cup of coffee he had ever had in his whole life. He hadn’t realized he had sighed until he saw Jester was still looking at him rather intently.

“Well duh, of course I remember you. You’re hot boi!”

“...hot boy?” Essek repeated somewhat incredulously.

“I know your name, silly, but you are totally hot boy. Every time you’ve come in here you’ve ordered by phone, rushed in, and grabbed it. I was just surprised to see you actually sitting down this time, which you should do more because, like, we would get to hang out.”

“Well, thank you,” Essek said with a more legitimate smile. “Unfortunately, I am not very good company.”

“I don’t believe that for a single minute,” Jester said suspiciously before shrugging playfully. “But it’s okay if you’re shy! Caleb can be shy too. So what do you do? Where are you from? What’s your mother’s name? Are you married?”

“Are you always this curious?”

“Just about our regulars!” Jester chirped. “Ooookay maybe I lied, I’m curious about everyone but especially our regulars.”

“Well...I am not married. My mother’s name is Dierta Theylss, of Den Theylss. I am from here, and I am an assistant.”

“Ooo, do you work for someone really cool?”

“Perhaps,” Essek said, settling down his cup as he felt that he was no longer in danger. “But I would like to keep some air of mystery.”

“You are mysterious, Essek,” Jester said, utterly tickled-pink...or blue...by that. “Alright, well I gotta go get other people their things, I’ll be over here so just holler if you need something!”

“I will,” Essek promised but suddenly jumped as he felt the sensation of something brushing against his leg. He looked below to see a cat, a well-cared for orange tabby circling his legs. Essek was not used to cats...they were a rather foreign phenomenon that had just recently been introduced. Essek timidly reached his fingers out to brush his head and was rewarded with the creature butting its face against him. He yawned, gave him a slow blink, and then puttered off to parts unknown...which was a basket by the window.

Now thoroughly distracted from his reading and with a plate in front of him, he took another crack at this sugar-thing. Essek took a bite from the turnover, and nearly groaned. The outside butter-puff-pastry was crisp, and the sugar nearly shattered. The inside was first caramel-apple and then it was sharp lemon and then again tart-sweet raspberry. He finished it quickly, taking long luxurious sips of his coffee after he did. Essek couldn’t help but wave over one of the servers he hadn’t met yet. It was the halfling woman who was balancing a tray full of plates and cups on her hip. On her shirt was a name tag that said “Veth”.

“What’s up?” Veth asked curiously.

“Do you know what sort of enchantment is being used in the baking process?” Essek asked.

“It’s not an enchantment per say,” Veth said, brushing her apron with her free hand. “Caleb’s not an enchantment wizard, he’s a transmutation wizard.”

“Caleb is the one who developed this spell?” Essek asked. There was a fluttering of excitement in his chest. A wizard. Had someone magically engineered this man somewhere to make him absolutely perfect for Essek’s imagination? He came to this bakery to...well...enjoy his books and catch a few glimpses at the man. Essek hadn’t come there to get his heart stolen right out from his chest.

“I helped him a bit, but yeah,” Veth said, tugging at her braid thoughtfully before she got a glint in her eyes. “If you are interested I’m sure he’d be happy to explain it to you.”

“Oh no, no,” Essek said, waving his hand desperately. Scripted conversations like ordering at the counter were totally fine. Essek enjoyed parameters and unspoken understandings of conduct, in fact, that was where he shined. But actually speaking to Caleb? Essek couldn’t think of anything more panic-inducing than that.

“No, he’ll be absolutely thrilled!” Veth trilled excitedly. “I’ll go scrounge him up for you!”

She darted off before Essek could get in another word edgewise. This left Essek sitting there, his body nearly vibrating with uncontrolled dread. For a moment Essek seriously considered shoving his things into his bag and running out of the bakery. He wasn’t fast enough, however. As he saw Caleb pop out from behind the counter and begin to walk towards his table. He couldn’t risk never being able to come into this establishment ever again, so he just sat there as Caleb walked up to the table. He was taller than Essek had expected...maybe the counter had done something to his perspective besides giving him a barrier that allowed Essek to imagine that Caleb was some sort of perfect dreamt-up figment of Essek’s socially isolated imagination.

“Veth said you had a question for me?” Caleb asked curiously.

“Ah...it wasn’t anything so major...I was just curious about the spell used to change the flavors of the turnovers,” Essek said, taking a sip of his coffee to clear his suddenly clogged throat. He wished he could melt into the floor...to float away...to disappear completely. However Caleb’s open and earnest gaze kept Essek pinned there in the present.

“It’s a modification of Minor Alchemy,” Caleb explained, taking the empty seat across from him.

“Temporary changes the essence of one object into another for a short period of time,” Essek said, his fascination pushing back his embarrassment. “How do you do it on such a large scale then?”

“I cast it on the filling as it’s being made,” Caleb explained, there was a certain twinkle in his eye. “Are you interested in spellcraft, Herr Essek? I see you are certainly reading some heavy texts.”

“Oh,” Essek said, looking down at the books scattered about in front of him. “Wizardry is just a hobby of mind nowadays.”

“I don’t think Advanced Studies on Magic, Time, and Space sounds like a hobby,” Caleb joked, holding up the textbook before settling it down with a reverence that had Essek’s stomach twist. “Though I have to admit, dunamancy has been an area I’ve been extremely interested in since immigrating to Xhorhas.”

“University is still selective...well, racist would be a better term for it...against Empire nationals,” Essek said softly, smoothing the page in front of him. “Unfortunately, it is just a hobby for me nowadays. I used to be a working wizard, but...well, the bills don’t pay themselves. It’s not a very interesting story so I won’t bore you with the details.”

“I have been lucky enough to be able to use what I love every day with the help of my friends,” Caleb said with a knowing look. “I hope you can do that too at some point.”

“Yes...I would like to think so,” Essek said, his fingers curling over the pages of his book. He met Caleb’s gaze and for a moment something passed between them that had Essek tingling all over and--

“Caleb, stop flirting and get back over here!” A gruff female voice called out from over the counter. The human girl in blue glowered over in their direction. Essek watched Caleb’s face turn a delightful shade of pink, unfurling across his skin like the petals of a distant flower. He was so very grateful for the shade of his skin concealing his own embarrassment.

“I hope to see you here again sometime soon, Herr Essek,” Caleb said as he got up.

“Just Essek,” he corrected. “And yes...sometime soon for sure.”

Essek watched Caleb walk off, cradling the warm cup in his hands, and couldn’t help but smile.

#critical role #critical role fanfic #shadowgast #essek theylss #caleb widogast

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shield-sheafson · 4 years ago

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Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Teen Titans (Comics), Teen Titans - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Raven/Tara Markov, past Tara Markov/Slade Wilson, Background Dick Grayson/Koriand'r Characters: Tara Markov, Raven (DCU), Donna Troy, Koriand'r (DCU), Slade Wilson Additional Tags: Fluff and Angst, Romance, Past Underage, Past Abuse, Flirting, Weddings, sexually charged lipstick application, Slade doesn’t show up in the present timeline he’s just in the flashbacks, Flashbacks Summary:

Even normal things feel like they’ve been ruined: it’s been years, but sometimes Tara feels like she’s still with Slade. As everybody prepares for Dick and Kory’s wedding, all kinds of miserable feelings begin bubbling up inside of her even as she tries to have fun. To add to the stress, Raven has been acting awfully cute lately…

—

“So what’s the dress situation here?” Tara asks casually. “Donna had bridesmaid dresses picked out by this time. Are you slacking?” To be perfectly fair, Tara had never worn the ruffly monstrosity Donna had given her. She’d been too busy wandering the streets as an amnesiac.

“Tamaranians usually do not have bridesmaids,” Kory says. She’s carefully weaving together circlets of dried flowers. She has a pile of completed ones in the middle of the dining room table. “Everybody participates, not just a few people. I can not pick out matching dresses for the entire Justice League.”

“Just let Gar take care of it.”

“Do you want Gar dressing you?” Kory asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“…Good call. You seem pretty calm about all this. Donna is going crazy.”

“Donna will relax in time. She seems to think I want an Earth wedding. With the DJ.”

“What do you want?”

“On Tamaran, we sing, we dance, and we burn things. That is all I want; it would be nice to have G'larbac feathers and a torba bowl, but I do not need them to be happy. Oh, and Dick is not allowed to speak.”

“…Nice.”

Kory puts down her flowers. “It is not as if I am not participating in the human traditions myself! He is not allowed to look at me and everybody will throw grain. We will do the bouquet and the garter. I respect humans!”

“It’s– I wasn’t saying you didn’t!” Tara isn’t ready to fight. “…Wait, who said you didn’t?”

“I know that it is selfish to want to bring Tamaran to Earth,” Kory says, looking down at the table. “I try to be respectful of human behavior, even when it makes me a little uncomfortable. I do not kiss on the lips to do greeting and I laugh at the sarcasm. But my wedding is special. Earth is my home now, but Tamaran is where I was born. I went to weddings when I was a little girl, and I played at them with my friends. I want to at least have a little of that here.” She keeps her chin high and proud, but there’s a hurt look in her eyes.

Tara isn’t sure what to say. She’s never been any good at comforting people; if anything, she usually makes things worse. Does Kory even need comfort right now? She just nods her head awkwardly.

“That’s fair,” she says. “I don’t think it’s selfish to miss where you grew up. I mean, it’s not like this is someone else’s wedding, so it’s nobody’s business how you do it, right?”

“But the guests will all be human. Dick’s father will be there.”

“He’s rich, he doesn’t care.”

“What does that have to do with…?”

“Shh. He’s rich.”

“I met him, he seemed to think…”

Tara leans forward and puts a finger on Kory’s lips. “Shh. Wealthy.”

Kory seems to accept.

—

“Fast or slow?” Gar asks, resting his chin on his hands and leaning over the table.

“Both,” Donna says.

“Song decade?”

“Well, Kory wants Tamaranian folk music, and Dick wants pop from the ‘70s, so multiple.”

“How many dances are we going to have? Parents’ dances, bridal party dances, anniversary dances?”

“This is complicated enough without all that stuff,” Vic says.

“Aww, embarrassed?” Tara asks. “Scared of the boogie man?”

“That’s lame,” Gar says. “Even I think that’s lame.”

“Kory’s parents can’t make the voyage,” Donna says. “And Dick’s father is single, so the parents’ dance might be awkward. I’m thinking we can arrange it so that Dick and Kory dance first. I’ll hire a choreographer. Then the brides’ and grooms’ parties can go, and then maybe the couple that’s been together the longest, so I’ll check the guest list and–”

Tara coughs. “That’s stupid,” she says, thinking back to her earlier conversation. “Maybe everyone can just dance.”

“She’s one of my best friends, and I want it to be perfect,” Donna says. “She and Dick have helped me so much all these years, so I want to help them back.”

“Still sounds like too much,” Vic says.

“Come on, it sounds fun!” Gar says. He punches Vic in the shoulder with a clanging noise. “We can teach you if you don’t know how.”

“I know how to dance,” Vic says, but his expression says more. He presses his lips tightly together.

“Okay,” Gar says, standing up. “Prove yourself.”

Tara snorts.

“You too,” Donna says, joining Gar. “If we make Vic do it, we all have to.”

Suddenly, it doesn’t seem as funny. While the idea of Vic being a bad dancer is amazing and wonderful, Tara isn’t able to dance either. She’s been coasting. This is karma.

“I’ll pair off with Vic, so it’s you and Gar,” Donna says, switching on the radio on the counter. It’s Lionel Richie.

“Is this okay?” Gar asks quietly as he takes her hand. “I’m not being weird, right?”

Tara rolls her eyes. “We’re not sixteen anymore. I think you’ve got your teen horniness under control.”

“Right.”

Off to the side, Donna and Vic are swaying awkwardly. He looks terrified.

“Okay, do you remember how to do a box step?” Gar asks, nervously resting his hand on Tara’s back.

“Yeah,” she says, even though she’s not sure what a box step is. She carefully mirrors his feet.

“You don’t remember,” Gar says. “Okay, put your right foot back.”

Which foot is the right foot? Tara makes a wild guess. Gar shakes his head sadly.

“Hey, Raven!” Donna calls. Tara looks over Gar’s shoulder and sees Raven shuffling sleepily into the kitchenette with messy hair and her blanket dragging behind her.

Raven looks up groggily. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“Dancing,” Gar says. “Vic’s low self-esteem is getting in the way of his social skills. Tara, you aren’t supposed–”

“Hey!” Vic interjects. “My self-esteem is fine!”

“Join the party!” Donna says. “I think we need to switch up anyway.”

Raven squints at her, takes the kettle off the stove, and pours some hot water into a mug.

“I’m going with Gar next,” Vic says, letting go of Donna and stepping off to the side. “Tara’s gonna be unpartnered.”

“But I’m right–” Donna begins.

“Unpartnered,” Vic repeats, looking meaningfully at Raven. Raven presses her lips together and looks away.

“This is stupid,” she says. “I’m not playing.” Tara feels a twinge of sympathy. She’s not entirely sure what’s going on, but Raven is embarrassed and Vic’s making it worse.

“Donna knows how to lead, right?” Tara asks. “Because I only know how to… The thing that isn’t leading.”

“I’d better know,” Donna says. “If I don’t know how to lead, then Kory’s going to be in trouble, because we’ve been practicing for weeks.”

Weird. Kory always struck Tara as the type who would lead in a dance. Maybe it’s just because she’s tall.

“Wait,” Raven says. “I’ll try.”

“Man, talk about wishy-washy,” Tara says, but Raven, with unprecedented confidence, steps up to her and grabs her hand.

“You’re wishy-washy,” Raven mumbles, resting her hand on Tara’s back (electricity shoots up her spine).

The music changes– something poppy and banal. Raven swallows and moves carefully, and Tara, somehow impressed by her determination, follows as well as she can.

It feels very different from dancing with Gar– when she was younger, Gar excited a kind of nervousness in her that he doesn’t now (even though it wasn’t really a good feeling, it was a tangible one). Being close to Raven is a whole new experience. From the slender fingers that clutch Tara’s hand to the light sway of Raven’s dark hair to the smell of bitter black tea that lingers over her, Tara is oddly entranced.

Step in one direction, reverse, reverse again. It should be so boring. Tara can feel her heart pounding against the inside of her chest, either faster or slower than it should be. She’s sure her hand is sweating.

“We’re going to turn in a circle now,” Raven says stiffly.

“Taking charge, I see. Yay,” Tara says, bracing herself to either step on Raven’s foot or be stepped on.

“You’re doing a good job!” Donna says. Vic shoots her a look just as Tara loses focus and stomps Raven’s slipper, throwing her off balance. They let go of each other, falling backwards a little.

Raven takes a deep breath and turns around. “Sorry!” she says, scurrying away before anybody else can interrupt.

After a few seconds of silence, Gar offers his opinion. “That was kinda weird.”

“Freaky,” Tara says, still catching her breath.

—

“Fashion, fashion,” Gar chants. He has one arm around Raven’s shoulder and one arm around Tara’s.

“It looks like you have a broken leg and we’re carrying you off the battlefield,” Raven says.

“He will have a broken leg if he doesn’t let go,” Tara says.

Gar lets go. “Can I still dress you up?”

“I’m not sure I could forgive you for doing something like that,” Raven says. “You can dress Tara.”

“Hey!”

The consignment store is a small brick building in a strip mall alongside a drugstore and a Vietnamese restaurant. It’s got a worn exterior and a variety of outdated clothes displayed in its streaky front window.

“Chic!” Announces the light-up sign by the glass door. A bell rings as they open it and the sleepy clerk looks up from her counter.

“Welco– oh!” Her droopy eyes widen when she sees Gar. “You’re one of the Titans, right?”

“Guilty as charged,” Gar says. “Any heroes’ discounts available?”

“No,” Raven says before the clerk can answer. “Let’s look at the books.”

“But you don’t even–”

Raven gently steers him away. Tara follows. She gives the clerk a little wave.

Gar stands around inattentively while Raven looks at something thick with a dusty cover.

“Wanna play the romance novel game?” Tara asks. “You look at the ones on display and you count how many man-nipples you can spot.”

“Cowboy,” Gar says, pointing. “Upper-left corner. Two nipples.”

“Kilt guy, bottom middle. One nipple– maybe one and a half.”

“What are you doing?” Raven asks.

“Nothing wrong,” Tara says. “Let’s go to the hats.”

They’re probably going to get lice, honestly. If they just let anybody try on all these cloches, then chances are somebody covered in bugs has tried them on at some point.

“Hey, Gar,” she says.

“Mm?” He looks up from below the brim of a rhinestone-encrusted cowboy hat.

“Do you get lice, or do you get fleas?”

Just as Raven opens her mouth to deliver a scolding, Gar says, “Both.”

“Let’s go somewhere else,” Raven says, gingerly lifting the hat from Gar’s head.

Tara and Gar feel their way through the menswear section (they pet the faux-fur lining of a large and intimidating coat). Gar’s eyes widen in excitement and he pulls out a shabby pink jacket with patches on the elbows. He ducks down and begins covertly putting it on.

“There are dressing rooms,” Raven says.

“I look like a professor,” Gar says, standing. His wrists poke out for a few inches and its bottom is well above his hips.

“Professor of being a bastard,” Tara says.

“It doesn’t fit,” Raven says. “Also, Tara, stop being awful.” Tara shrugs.

“I think it fits.” Gar stretches his arms, pushing his wrists out further. “I’m gonna buy it.”

“I can’t control you,” Raven says.

“You know, that’s a really healthy way to approach your relationships with others,” Gar says thoughtfully as he takes the jacket off. “Time to dress up Tara!” He slaps a hand on her shoulder.

“I never agreed to this! Ask Kory, she knows!” Tara looks pleadingly at Raven, who just blinks at her like a cat.

They make their death march to the women’s section, Gar in high spirits, Tara in poor spirits, and Raven in some sort of spirits. Tara drags behind, carefully examining every pointless thing she spots.

“Let’s get the Teen Bible,” she says. “I really want that plush dragon. Hey, we should…”

A silly, stupid thing. There’s a pair of high-heeled slippers in the discount shoe bin. The puffy feathers on the upper are clumped and ragged, and the color on the insole is worn down.

Tara stops dragging and walks a little faster.

—

A pair of pink mules with puffy faux feathers on the upper. Tara bought them for ten bucks at the costume store (she’d also kind of wanted a Reagan mask, but she had no excuse). She had an awkward, mincing walk when she tried them on. There was no strap around the back, so they were always on the verge of falling off.

They were another part of her grown-up costume. She practiced walking in them in circles around her room for two hours, and hid them carefully when Gar knocked on her door looking for his rubber lizard. She was determined to come off as mature that night.

“What do you think?” she’d asked, pointing to them proudly.

“You look cheap,” Slade said bluntly.

Her stomach plummeted.

“It suits you,” he said.

She laughed.

—

Gar is in the dressing room. He found a blouse, immediately labeled it as “bisexual” and scampered off. Tara is staring at a pair of overalls, twisting the buttons of the left strap again and again. She wants it to come loose, even though Raven will probably make her take responsibility and buy the whole thing.

“What are you doing?” Raven asks from behind her. Tara jumps.

“I’m ruining these overalls,” Tara says, turning to face her. “I’ve almost got the thread worn down, see?”

“No,” Raven says, taking them from her. “You suddenly got quiet and you’re making that face.”

“What face?”

“I know you, Tara.”

—

“I know you better than anyone. Don’t lie to me.” He cradled her face gently as he said it, but all she could think of was how close his hands were to her neck.

—

“No, you don’t,” Tara says, reaching to take the overalls back. “Stop acting like you can read my mind.”

Raven steps back, clutching them to her chest. “You’re upset,” she says.

“I’m not.” Tara’s voice cracks a little. “And even if I am, aren’t I allowed to be?”

Raven opens her mouth as if to say something, but she closes it again. She looks down at the overalls. The button is hanging down awkwardly. “You’re allowed to be upset,” she says. “But I hate it.”

Tara stretches her face into a sarcastic grin. “All better!” she says.

Raven hands back the overalls without making eye contact.

“Come in and have a look!” Gar calls.

#dc #teen titans #raeterra #me writing #tara markov #raven dc

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howtohero · 4 years ago

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#296 Return of the Starter-Villain

Hello How To Hero Heads! Today we’ve got some exciting news to share with you, we’ve finally hired a new supervillain correspondent: Everyone’s favorite lameo starter-villain, Smuggles. Say hello Smuggles. ||Hello Smuggles.|| Sheesh, this guy. I know, I know you must be shocked that I even allowed this to happen. Many of you will recall that I never signed off on, approved of, or got along with our last supervillain correspondent, Dr. Brainwave (don’t pretend you didn’t love Dr. Brainwave like a son, I seem to recall you being incredibly broken up when he died.) but that was because Dr. Brainwave was like, a credible threat who posed an actual danger to us and who once genetically engineered a giant monster that ate me. But Smuggles isn’t anything like that, he’s like the lowest of low-tier supervillains. ||It’s true, I was once hired to smuggle several objects into America, including a TSA uniform that was my exact size, and I never even once thought to put on the uniform to make the rest of the job easier.|| You may recall how in our original post on starter-villains we mentioned that he was on the rise ever since he teamed up with fellow low-level supervillains, Perry the Pirate and Charlie the Fish-Whisperer to hijack a canoe. But we’re both please and dismayed to say that our prediction was wrong. In the past three years, Smuggles has made absolutely nothing of himself. ||I once accidentally turned myself into a bowl of ice cream on a hot summer’s day.|| That starter-villain team didn’t even last past that first job, Charlie the Fish Whisperer went on, as you know, to become one of the most feared supervillains in the world and we all live in fear of the day Chuck the Fish Whisperer uses his awesome powers to escape the prison dimension the world’s heroes trapped him in. And Perry the Pirate became a lawyer I believe. But Smuggles, man, Smuggles. He’s no threat at all, so I was thrilled to see his application among the many we received following Dr. Brainwave’s untimely demise. So, welcome aboard Smuggles. ||Thanks! I’m excited to share my villainous insider knowledge with your read-|| Yeah yeah, that rocks man. So, anyway, in honor of our new staff member, we’re going to take a look at what happens when your starter-villain returns.

A starter-villain is, of course, the villain you fight on your first night out as a superhero. The costumed jaywalker whose swift defeat you use to springboard your career as a respected crime fighter. They will undoubtedly be the easiest villain to defeat that you come up against. As you become more experienced and proficient in superheroism, you’ll look back at your first fight fondly and laugh about all the ways the fight could have ended even quicker than it already did now that you’ve learned and grown a whole bunch. As time goes on and you fight more and more supervillains, eventually meeting your one true nemesis and a whole slew of other villains that you’ll tango with on a regular basis, you’ll even forget who your starter-villain even was. ||I’ve been a starter-villain to over 30 superheroes, and even though I send each of them a holiday card every year, I’ve only ever gotten one response.|| But, as Smuggles just demonstrated, your starter-villain will never forget you. And soon enough, once they’re ready, they’ll ensure that you never forget them again. ||The one response was from Hatman and he just sent a card saying “New phone, who dis?” Like, it was a postcard, a signed postcard. A signed personalized postcard. It said “Hatty Holidays!” and everything!||

It’s very possible that the starter-villain you defeated was also just starting out their costumed career. A crushing defeat on their first night is sure to sit with them, (supervillains being notoriously obsessive, dramatic, and good at remembering how they got their various scars), and they’re going to stew with that for a good while. Even if it wasn’t their first night of attempted-villainy, a defeat by a rookie superhero is sure to make them a laughing stock in the supervillain community. And you know what that means... ||Years of unanswered holiday cards||... revenge.

Your starter-villain will soon come to see you as their nemesis. Even though you’re perfectly happy with the eternal battle of good versus evil that you’ve already got going on with your actual nemesis. They aren’t going to care that you’re already seeing somebody (off to prison in handcuffs). They’re going to want you for their own. They’re going to spend every waking moment of their life plotting against you. Taking the time to really learn everything there is to know about you. This is just one more reason why it’s so important to to make sure your secret identity is ironclad before you start your superhero career. Because as soon as you defeat your first villain, there’s going to be someone out there working to uncover who you really are. ||Honestly, most superheroes don’t even bother trying to keep their secret identity from me. Many of them have just walked up to me and introduced themselves like “Hi, I’m Joe.” It’s kind of insulting.||

For that reason you’d do well to keep tabs on your starter-villain after you defeat them that first night. Their quest for revenge will start immediately and their scheme is just going to grow more and more protracted and elaborate the longer you let things lie. If you’ve already lost track of your starter-villain and it’s been a few years since you’ve been a superhero, I’d start shoring up your defenses. The longer you go without hearing from them, the worse it’s going to be when they eventually rear their ugly ||that’s just rude|| heads again. So put out some feelers, try to find out what they’re up to. If you can’t track them down through your superhero network of contacts, you can even try reaching out to your nemesis to see if they can help. Depending on how obsessive and vindictive your starter-villain is, your current nemesis might also find themselves in your starter-villain’s crosshairs. If you literally have no idea who your starter-villain is, sorry, you’re just going to have be on high alert all the time.

You may discover that your starter-villain has since turned over a new leaf and is actually now operating as a superhero or working with a superhero-adjacent organization such as the OPG. On the surface that makes sense, I mean, they were barely a supervillain to begin with. So the jump to superheroism is not as extreme as it would be for say Al “Da Boss” Marconi, or Karallaxus destroyer of worlds. But even though it might make sense for a starter-villain to have become a superhero, you must not believe it even for one second. Even if some part of a starter-villain truly wants to be better, you can be sure that an even bigger part of them actually just wants revenge on their starter-hero and joining the superhero community is just one of many increasingly inane steps in their protracted revenge scheme.

The only way to truly dissuade a returned starter-villain from dogging you forever and always is to either die or pretend you did. Otherwise they will track you down and hunt you to the ends of the known universe. ||And don’t forget the multiverse, Chuck the Fish Whisperer may be consigned to another universe, but that doesn’t mean his hatred has diminished one iota.|| Exactly! A starter-villain will stop at nothing until they’ve repaired their reputation in the form of destroying the person or people who tarnished it in the first place.

Defeating your first supervillain is an important milestone in the life of any superhero. Unfortunately, it is also an important milestone in the life of that very supervillain, whose life will become utterly subsumed by their embarrassing defeat at your inexperienced hands. Smuggles here is really the exception that proves the rule. ||Wait what?|| Normally, starter-villains become exponentially more dangerous by the time you next encounter them. So you must never underestimate a villain just because you beat them when you were a little kid wearing garish tights and you happened to be doing parkour near your convenience store right when it was being robbed. So why don’t you all take a moment now to check in on your starter-villain and make sure that you’re still able to beat them!

(All right, that’s a wrap on How To Hero #296. Great job everyone, we’ll see you next week.)

||Um.||

(Oh hey, Smugs. Good work today I guess. In the future we all prefer it when the supervillain correspondent kind of harasses Zach a bit, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re a bit lackluster compared to Dr. Brainwave.)

||Oh well-||

(You know, I didn’t even want to hire you. I was gunning for Snipey McSkullface. That guy has style.)

||In the form of a skull face-tattoo, yes, I’m familiar with him.||

(Anyway, did you need something from me?)

||Er, yes. I was told that this position came with housing?||

(Oh yes definitely it does! You get to move into our super sweet basement! Right this way, follow me.)

||Thank you, it’s tough out there for a costumed smuggler. So I’m kind of in between homes at the moment.||

(Oh yeah? Wearing a distinctive bright costume makes smuggling more difficult? Who would’ve thunk.)

||Sigh.||

(Did you just say “sigh”?)

||So this basement...||

(Oh yeah! Dr. Brainwave used to live there, you know before he exploded, so a lot of his junk is still down there, but don’t worry we did our best to clear out the mutant alligators.)

||What do you mean you did your best?||

(Listen Smugs, at the end of the day mutant alligators will be mutant alligators if you catch my meaning.)

||I’m not sure I do...||

(Ha! Classic Smugs, anyway enjoy your new digs I’ll see you around.)

||Sure... thanks||

||Wow, they really left everything just as it was. All of Dr. Brainwave’s equipment and machinery is still here. This couldn’t have gone better... Now if I just fire up this thing ah, nope, that’s just a feed that shows what everyone else in this building is thinking about. Not what I’m looking for, but I’ll come back for that later maybe... Oh gross, you know what this thing should be burned. Now let’s see, shrink ray, precarious stack of explosives, ah! Here it is! The interdimensional warp gate generator. Excellent. Now, if I just power it up, and set it to the proper frequency. Yes... Yes! Yes it’s working! Oh now they’ll rue the day they disrespected Smuggles. Each of them will pay dearly for how they treated me... now that you’re back old frien-||

Hey, Smuggles? Oh good, Parenthesis Guy got you settled in, just wanted to thank you for your great work today and to check if you needed anythi- What are you doing.

||Oh Zach! Hello! What do you mean?||

Why is there a warp gate open in my basement? What are you doing with that thing?

||Taking my foul revenge on you and everybody else who ever slighted me! The world will crumble before me and my ally!!!||

Listen, if this is about the jokes, I’m sorry about that, but you really don’t want to do this. Trust me, this isn’t going to end well for any of us.

||It certainly won’t end well for you and all of your superhero friends. Ah, there he is. Welcome back, Chuck the Fish Whisperer.||

Oh... this is bad.

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unfolded73 · 5 years ago

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Gifts (1/1) - schitt’s creek ff

Reaction fic to 6x04. Patrick and Jocelyn talk about their relationships to the Roses. Rated G, 1300 words

Other Season 6 reaction fics: 6x01, 6x02

___________________________________

“Hi, Patrick!” a chipper voice at a similar pitch to the bell above the Rose Apothecary door called. Patrick glanced up to see Jocelyn maneuvering into the store backward, pulling Roland Junior’s stroller through the narrow entrance.

“Hey, Jocelyn,” Patrick called absently, focused on putting a fresh roll of receipt paper in the credit card reader. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know. Sleep deprived as always.” She’d swung the stroller around and began glancing at the shelves. “I wanted to get something for Moira. A little congratulations gift to celebrate her movie.”

Smiling, Patrick closed up the card reader and tested that the paper was feeding correctly. “That’s nice of you.”

“Well, she’s so excited. And I think she’s… nervous about it. I thought maybe David could suggest something she’d like.”

“David’s out meeting with a prospective new vendor, but you probably can’t go wrong with wine.” He came out from behind the register and gestured to the containers of moisturizer. “She also likes to steal those whenever she can get away with it.”

Jocelyn picked up one of the jars, examined it, and set it back down. “You saw the Crows trailer, I assume?”

Patrick chuckled. “Mrs. Rose had me watch it four times as soon as we got back from the tailor’s yesterday.”

Jocelyn gasped. “Were you and David picking out wedding tuxes?”

“Well, I was. It probably won’t surprise you to learn that David wouldn’t be caught dead in something you can buy in Elm Glen, so he’s been shopping consignment sites online for a suit from a major designer that he can afford.”

Jocelyn rolled the stroller back and forth, a habitual motion to soothe her son, although Rollie seemed content enough at the moment. “You mean David didn’t try to outfit you in the same kind of high fashion couture?”

Patrick walked over to the wine display and picked up a bottle of Moira’s favorite varietal. “I managed to convince David that it wouldn’t be the best use of our limited wedding budget since I literally couldn’t care less.” He smirked, bringing the wine back over to Jocelyn. “The fact that it leaves more money for his wedding suit might have contributed to me winning that little debate.”

“How’s the rest of the wedding planning going?”

“David could give you a much more detailed answer to that question, to be honest. I’m mostly the numbers guy. But I’d say it’s going reasonably well.” He watched as the baby stretched his hand out futilely for some bottles on a shelf that was fortunately out of his reach. “Of course, it’s early. There’s still time for things to go off the rails.”

Jocelyn was visibly wincing. “Sounds a little bit like David is sidelining you from your own wedding plans. That doesn’t bother you?”

He thought about his answer for a couple of seconds before speaking. “The fairy tale wedding, it’s important to David. After what happened to the Roses a few years ago — look, it’s easy to scoff at, the idea of a super rich family losing all of their money and having to slum it with the rest of us. But no matter how you slice it, it was a traumatic event in his life.”

“In all of their lives,” Jocelyn said.

“The only part that’s truly important to me is that we have all of our friends and family around us when we say our vows. Beyond that, I don’t know how much I really care about the clothes and the food and the… aesthetic of it. But David cares. And I want David to have as much of that fairy tale as I can give him because, after everything that happened to him, I think he deserves it. And because he’s given me… everything.”

“Wow,” Jocelyn said, fanning her face. “I almost forgot about how seductive your eyes can be!” She gave him a wide grin. “David’s a lucky man! Aaaanyway…” Rollie threw a toy on the ground at that moment and started to fret, and Patrick was grateful to have an excuse to focus on something other than Jocelyn calling him seductive. He bent over and picked the colorful teething ring up and started to give it back to Rollie before he thought better of it.

“Okay if he gets this back after it’s been on the floor?” he asked Jocelyn.

“Yeah, it’s fine! The germs are good for him.” Patrick held the ring out for Rollie, who grabbed it and immediately put it in his mouth. “It’s funny, but I’ve been thinking a lot of the same things about Moira,” Jocelyn said.

Patrick tilted his head and squinted at her. “I didn’t realize you and Mrs. Rose were that close.”

She sort of scream-laughed at him. “No, what I mean is, I’ve been thinking about everything she went through, you know. This movie is so important to her. And I really care about her and want her to succeed.”

“It’s…” Patrick wasn’t sure how truthful to be; how under the thrall of Moira Rose, the unreliable narrator, Jocelyn was. “It’s a pretty low budget movie.”

“Oh yeah, I know.” She was nodding emphatically. “But maybe it’ll become a cult film, you know? Beloved because it’s sort of weird. And maybe critics won’t be as hard on it if they see it through that lens.”

He hoped she was right, if for no other reason that he didn’t want to get married while clustered around the closet that Moira Rose refused to emerge from.

“I just want her to get a win, that’s all.” She took the wine bottle from him and gestured with it. “Moira deserves a win.”

“On that we agree,” Patrick said, following Jocelyn over the register to ring up her purchase. “You’re a good friend to her, Jocelyn.”

“Well.” She threw her hands up briefly. “I don’t think she’s had a lot of friends in her life. Like, actual friends who care about her, I mean. I’m sure she had plenty of people hanging around who wanted something from her, back in her old life.”

Patrick thought about David’s so-called friends from the past while he dug around under the counter to find the wine bottle gift bags. “That’s certainly the truth.” He stood back up once he’d found one.

“Do you ever think about where we’d all be if the Roses had never come to Schitt’s Creek?” Jocelyn asked as she paid him for the wine.

He did, actually, and those thoughts never led anywhere good. “I try not to, and not just for selfish reasons. This town really changed them.”

Jocelyn snorted. “You don’t know the half of it; you weren’t here when they first arrived in town.”

“True, but Stevie’s told me stories,” he said with a grin.

She reached over and gave him a pat on the arm before gathering up Moira’s gift. “See you later, Patrick. I can’t wait to watch you and David tie the knot.”

“Have a good one, Jocelyn,” he said, waving goodbye to little Rollie and then going over to help Jocelyn with the door. “Tell Mrs. Rose I hope she enjoys the wine.”

He stood by the front window of Rose Apothecary for a while, looking out at the downtown that had become so familiar to him over the last couple of years. Patrick had discovered who he was here in Schitt’s Creek. He’d met the love of his life here. He and David had built this business together here. Soon, they’d get married here. He stood by the window until a group of women from the senior center came into the store, and he braced himself for their inevitable cheek pinches and inquiries about his upcoming wedding.

“Hi, what can I help you with today?”

#sc s6 #sc spoilers #schitt's creek fic #schitt's creek ff #jocelyn schitt #patrick brewer #my fic

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reveriesforyou · 8 years ago

Text

Her Thrift Shop

Hey babes! This is an entirely innocent, fluffy oneshot about a reader who works in a thrift shop after school that happens to be right by where her crush, Peter Parker, walks home everyday! They have a few minor interactions before Tony Stark forces Peter to confront his feelings for the reader one day in the shop. I hope that you guys like it!

Her Thrift Shop

The thrift store in which she worked was right smack in the middle of where Peter Parker often walked home. She smiled, balancing her chin on top of her hands as she leaned against the sales counter that she manned, fondly reminiscing of her favorite Peter sightings.

The first time that she had spotted him, Peter had been walking home with his best friend, Ned, while she dragged a rack of clothing outside. They had made direct eye contact from two opposite sides of the street and she’d stumbled over the rack’s wheels, while Peter flat out walked into a streetlamp. She’d done her best to politely stifle the giggle aching to bubble out of her throat, but Ned full on cackled at Peter’s expense. Even from across the street, the girl could tell that Peter was strawberry red. Shoving his palms into his pockets, he paced ahead while Ned was still bent over laughing.

The second time, Peter was walking home with his head bent down, bobbing his head along to the music that coursed through his headphones. She noticed him from inside the shop, peeking her head out from behind the mannequin that she was attempting to wrestle into a figure-hugging dress. She sighed, pausing her frantic movements to walk as Peter peacefully walked by.

He just looked so damn cute all the time. His hair was unruly from the gusts of wind that filtered throughout the city, and his blue sweater looked soft and warm, and she was ready to bet her entire existence that he smelled of clean laundry. She noticed that Peter’s jeans were rolled at the bottom, and her heart ached. There was hardly anything she wouldn’t give to be with him. At this point, she’d settle for a nod of a hello, or a wave, anything that allowed her bask in Peter’s acknowledgement of her existence.

“That’s a cute boy,” her much older co-worker commented loudly from behind her. “Do you know him?” She questioned, wiggling her brows up and down and smirking at her.

The girl’s coworker happened to be her only coworker. The woman owned the tiny consignment store and only had enough money to employ one other salesperson, which happened to be her. The woman was in her early 60s but flirted as if she was still a teen. She was sharp, and witty and never allowed the store’s uniquely vintage merchandise to go for less than it was worth. Utter and complete warmth resided in her eyes, and she was happy to help people create the perfect outfit. Goodness, as well as happiness, radiated from her being. The girl smiled, knowing that her friend was the kind of adult that she’d like to eventually grow into herself. However, she refused to inherit the woman’s brashness in these sorts of situations.

A ferocious blush overcame her features and she quickly averted her gaze and went back to forcing the tiny dress down the hips of the mannequin. “No, he just goes to my school. We haven’t even said two words to one another.”

“Oh, that’s peculiar because he’s got major heart eyes for you right now,” the woman commented, nudging her younger companion’s arm. “Look, say hello!” She began to wave at Peter, much to the girl’s dismay. “Hi sweetie!” The lady called out to Peter’s bashful form across the street.

“No! Oh my gosh, he’s going to think I’m such a weirdo!” The girl cried out, burying her face in the dress.

“Honey, the only reason that he’d think you’re a weirdo is because you aren’t waving back.” The woman shook her head, “he’s absolutely precious, don’t fuck it up! For goodness sake, wave!” She commanded and finally, the girl did, unable to meet Peter’s eyes. The girl did, however, take note that Peter was waving hello back to her.

Her third and final favorite Peter sighting was when she was rushing to park her car, hurriedly taking the first spot available on the side of the street opposite to where the thrift shop sat. As the girl hastily clambered from her vehicle, she’d been so quick to slam her door shut that she had nearly wrecked her hand in the process.

Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut and the girl could feel tears welling up, but someone caught her hand before she could inflict any harm to herself.

“Did it get you?” Peter’s worried, brown eyes peered down at her. “I- I tried to stop it, but it was just so close.” He stammered, cupping his hands together to examine her for damage that he didn’t prevent.

“Peter,” the girl started, coherent words were coming very hard for her at this point in time, “I didn’t even see you. How’d you get here so fast?” Peter was bright red and the girl could tell, judging by the heat she felt all over, that she was too. She mentally chided herself for being so careless. The girl just couldn’t believe that the first conversation that she had with the guy of her dreams would be taking place right after she foolishly almost broke her own wrist.

Peter shook his head as a mumble escaped his lips, “was close to you, but not in a creepy way, I just happened to be walking home and I saw you, and you were there, and your car-” he rambled, still holding her hand.

She cut him off, “thank you, Peter. I’d be in a whole world of hurt without you.”

Peter’s blush only intensified due to the sincerity dripping from her words, he couldn’t even bring his head up to meet her gaze. “Course, least I can do for the pr-, you.” He cut himself off as fast as he could before she realized that he was going to inform her that she was the prettiest girl in their entire high school. Truth be told, Peter had made up his mind that she was positively the prettiest girl to ever exist.

She gestured to the thrift shop, “come in sometime, we’ll hook you up with some neat, vintage apparel!” She cringed inwardly, cursing herself for speaking like an advertisement in front of Peter.

“Yeah! Yeah, totally, definitely, yeah!” Peter said, awkwardly letting her hand go, “I’ll just, yeah! You know, schools have dances, and whatnot. I’ll see you sometime.” He shrugged his shoulders as they each turned to go their separate ways.

“See you soon?” She questioned as Peter smiled and waved, worming his other hand into the pockets of his hoodie, “And Peter? Seriously, thank you again for saving me from my own lateness,” she laughed.

Peter beamed at her, holding eye contact as he backed away from her, a genuine smile sweeping across his features, “It was my pleasure!”

He watched as she ran across the middle of the street and yanked open the thrift store’s door. She turned and waved to him one last time and Peter did the best he could to not skip the rest of the way home. She had literally just told him to come back and see her. He was going to do everything in his power to create some sort of reason for their paths to cross again.

The girl was forced to exit her daydreams when the front door’s bell pinged, alerting the young girl that customers were entering the little shop. She smiled, opening her mouth to begin welcoming them inside, but when she turned, she took note of who her patrons were and froze, her eyes wide open. Standing the thrift store’s doorway stood a grinning Tony Stark and an evermore timid Peter Parker.

“Peter?” She stuttered out, confusion lacing itself into her tone. Mr. Tony Stark had a nearly endless supply of cash, and she was aware that he’d gotten Peter some expensive items before, so wonder coursed through her body as she tried to figure out why it was that they stood in her tiny, vintage consignment shop.

“See,” Tony said, nudging Peter’s chest with his elbow, “she does too know you.” Peter turned around and she could hear him utter a soft, but powerful, string of curse words as Tony ambled up to her counter. “Hello there, we’re here looking for an outfit for the upcoming school dance, got any ideas?”

Her brows knitted together, “But Mr. Stark, our next school dance is months away?” She fiddled with her necklace, snaring her lower lip between her teeth.

“Ah yes, well, this was all just a clever ploy to get Peter through the door so he could actually talk to you instead of talking everyone he comes into contact’s ear off about you.” A soft gasp fell past her lips as Tony continued, “I’m just going to leave him here. Do what you wish with him, I’m sure that he won’t mind.”

As Tony turned on his heel and neared the door, Peter looked as though he was exasperatingly attempting to communicate something to him, which Tony blatantly ignored, mumbling a, “you’ll thank me later,” as he allowed the door to slam behind him.

After a few moments, Peter turned to her, redder than she’d ever seen him and said, “you know Mr. Stark, he likes his grand entrances and exits both.” Peter did his best to laugh off the bucket of embarrassment that he was currently drowning in, and he made a show of locating the men’s section and sifting through racks of clothes.

From her safe space behind the counter, she knew that she could either do her job and try to actually get somewhere with Peter, or, she could remain behind the glass and rot with the regret of not even trying with him for the rest of her life. Plunking up every ounce of courage that she could muster up, she decided on the first.

Making her way over to where Peter’s body was obscured by articles of clothing, she called out, “is there a specific era that I can help you locate, sir?” She asked, a small smile teasing the corner of her lips.

“I- I, uhm, sure,” Peter stuttered out, his nerves taking control of his body. “Could you help me find something that’ll make me look like Marty McFly?”

She laughed and before she could stop herself, she grabbed Peter’s hand and began guiding him through the endless abyss of clothing to the 80s section. He did his best to ignore the way her hips slightly swayed in her velvet miniskirt, and ignore how floral and sweet she smelled, but Peter couldn’t help but follow her puppy eyes.

“So, here we are at the-” the girl started, but Peter quickly cut her off.

“Do you wanna maybe, shit, I interrupted you,” he dropped his eyes and shifted slightly away from her, “I know that the next dance is a while away, but when it finally gets here, would you want to possibly, maybe, go with me?” He scratched the back of his head and scuffed his sneakers against the floor.

She gasped, her heart rising into her throat, “yes! Yes, yeah, totally! Peter, I’d love to go to the dance with you, but until then, do you maybe want to go to the new art exhibit right around the corner? I get off in an hour or so, if you don’t mind waiting, or if you do, you can come back, or you know, something.”

Peter perked up immediately and began nodding his head wildly, “I’ll wait for you, if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course,” she smiled, moving in closer to Peter, the adrenaline of asking her crush out on a date fueling her to be even more daring. “But only if,” she leaned up onto her tiptoes, her mouth not even a few centimeters away from his, “I can dress you like Johnny Castle from ‘Dirty Dancing’ instead on Marty McFly.”

Peter slipped a delicate arm around her waist and breathed, “if you move a little bit closer, you can dress me however you want.”

Doing as Peter had suggested, she eliminated the space between them, giggling into the first of their many kisses inside of her thrift store.

#peter parker imagine #peter parker fluff #peter parker oneshot #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker #peter parker smut #tom holland imagine #tom holland fluff #tom holland oneshot #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland #tom holland smut #spider man homecoming #spiderman #spiderman imagine #Spider-Man fluff #spider-man smut

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swanisms · 8 years ago

Text

when you last left me my blood was in a jar | (1/1)

and you kept it on your mantlepiece

She must be doing something wrong that her son thinks the best way to go about proving his fairytale identity is to steal a sword. She must be doing something wrong to indulge this.

Given everything that Storybrooke and this storybook has thrown her way, it must be wrong that Killian being Captain Hook isn’t the worst option.

notes: love it when i’m just scrolling my dash, minding my own business, and a silly prompt shows up and my brain fires in the completely wrong direction where “MY KID SHOPLIFTED FROM YOUR STORE AND I MARCHED HER BACK HERE TO APOLOGIZE TO YOU AU” becomes nearly 6k of a s1 cursed hook au. anyways, glad that i apparently still know how to put words on a page in something resembling a story, hope you enjoy!

also on ao3

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice the sword?”

“It’s not a sword,” Henry grumbles. There’s no masking the disappointment of a ten year old child, and Henry’s mastered the pout. Emma’s not falling for it today. There’s letting him join her for a cup of hot cocoa at the diner when he’s already late for getting...to Regina. But letting him pocket a -

“What is it then?” Emma asks.

Henry simply says, “A replica of Excalibur.”

“The Knights of the Round Table that hard up for money? Franchising a magic sword?”

Henry shakes his head, in that way he does where he sees her sarcasm as something to power through rather than acknowledge. He’s remarkably good at that, too, because when he replies, “No. Emma, you were supposed to read the book,” she actually feels guilty.

“Yeah...yeah, I did. Refresh me though?”

Henry sees her for a liar, liar pants on fire, but he’s mature enough not to say it and Emma’s immature enough to near smile when she looks up at the telephone wire above them.

“You know Arthur pulled the sword from the stone, right?” Emma nods. She saw the movie. “Everyone knows that...but after he pulled out Excalibur, he realized that he couldn’t use it.” He hushes her next question with a look, so Emma decides to simply listen. “It wasn’t that it was too heavy or that he was a bad swordsman. It just didn’t work for him. Sure, it made everyone believe that Camelot would finally become great again, but it wasn’t magic. It didn’t feel like anything but a normal sword in his hands. He know for certain that this sword had superpowers, and he couldn’t understand why it felt so powerless. He was obsessed with trying to find a way to unlock its power. So, he barely paid attention to being a king and ruling a kingdom, and Guinevere...she was lonely.”

Emma bites at her lip. Infidelity isn’t exactly PG, and she wonders what else she didn’t read in this book. What else her kid is way too knowledgeable of. It isn’t like she wants to be the one to talk to him about the birds and the bees – in all likelihood, that will never be an option and she doesn’t even know if she wants it to be one, not really sure of anything anymore. Still, she doesn’t think its best that he learn about sex through a book of fairytales. If Harlequin writers can’t get it right when erotica is their freaking job, she shudders at how this book might tell it.

Henry elbows her, and once he has her attention, he continues, “And Lancelot, he loved his friends. Arthur was his best friend, and Guinevere was his favourite person in the entire world. He wanted to help them, and when Guinevere used this magic gauntlet to find Arthur’s heart’s desire, she and Lancelot set out to find it and bring it back to him.”

“Oh.”

She really wasn’t expecting that, but fairytales, right. Lonely people trying to reconnect with their significant others rather than find someone else is the dream.

“They thought it’d be fast, but the journey took them across the whole of Camelot. They spent weeks travelling from town to town. They got to know all these people. They saw the way they lived. Some people struggled and others did pretty well, and they were like ‘When we get home, we’re totally going to do all these things to make it better.’ It took them forever really, and suddenly it was Guinevere’s birthday. Arthur promised her that when he became king, the whole of Camelot would be covered in Middlemist flowers to celebrate it. When she didn’t see any, she told Lancelot it was a silly promise that children make, but he said, that it doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be kept, and he took her through the woods until they came upon a field full of them. It was beautiful, and that’s when Guinevere realized why Excalibur wasn’t working for Arthur. Excalibur couldn’t make Camelot a true kingdom. It isn’t a magic sword that just fixes everything. It’s magical because it’s a promise to work together to make things better. Arthur didn’t keep that promise because he was too obsessed with finding its magic.”

Quickly, Henry added, “And of course she and Lancelot kissed, but they said that was it, and both went home to Arthur to tell him this. About Excalibur, not the kiss.”

Emma finally interjects, amused by Henry’s obvious discomfort, “I take it that didn’t work.”

“No, Arthur was so angry that they just left, and he wouldn’t listen to them. He didn’t believe that they’d done this for him. He just thought that they were trying to undermine him. He yelled at Lancelot for being in love with Guinevere and he tried to kill his best friend! And he tried to control Guinevere with magic! He was so crazy. They stopped him, but when everyone found out, they were heartbroken. They thought that Merlin was a liar and that Camelot would always be terrible, but with Lancelot’s help, Guinevere gathered them and told them what she’d learned about Excalibur. She lifted the sword to try and make them see and when she did, its shape changed and it became this sword that she could actually use without breaking her arm. She unlocked its magic, and she saved Camelot.”

Emma nods, “So Guinevere’s the one true king? But then shouldn’t she have been the one supposed to pull the sword from the stone?”

“No!” Henry denies vehemently - Don’t you get it? - Emma very much doesn’t so she lets him explain, “Merlin said Arthur would pull the sword from the stone and become king, but he never said he would stay king. He never said that he’d be a good king.”

Emma gets it now, and she says so.

“Arthur sucks.”

“He’s the worst,” Henry agrees.

“Worse than the Evil Queen?” Emma asks - and not because there’s that petty part of her that wants to hear Henry disparage Regina, but because there’s that big part of her that, despite everything she’s seen, wants to believe that Regina isn’t this person and that she didn’t consign her son to this. She wants to believe that Regina was better before, she can be better, and Emma was right to send him away to have a family she could never give him.

She never wanted him to be as broken as her.

Henry frowns deeply, looking down at the replica sword.

“No.”

Her heart breaks, but that’s normal. Disney got it wrong, leaving Arthur and marrying Lancelot was the best decision Guinevere ever made, Excalibur looks like a needle, and with every story he reads from that book, all Henry does is prove that fairytales are bullshit. Here he is, trying to convince her that all these stories are true, but who wants to believe that these characters lives are just as awful as theirs? That their happy endings could be taken away just like that; one moment you’re dreaming of that happily ever after with your one true love and the next -

You’re letting your son go because that kind of love was never meant for you to have.

Henry prods Emma out of her thoughts, elbowing her as he says, “So, I have to give it back?”

And he drives her into other thoughts that are just as comforting. She looks down at him and his barely hidden smile. No thief should ever look so happy about having to return to the scene of the crime. Emma doesn’t want her suspicions confirmed, but she has no choice.

“Give it back to who exactly?”

Emma doesn’t need to be good at seeing through people to see that Henry was looking forward to this reveal.

“Captain Hook.”

Emma groans, and snatching the weapon out of Henry’s hand - truly, the little backstabber dragging her back to the man she’s made it explicitly clear that she’s only too happy to avoid. Forever. Like trapped in Neverland forever.

“Mr. Jones,” Emma emphasizes as Henry leads the way to his shop, “is not someone you should be stealing from.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to steal from anyone,” Henry points out.

Emma scrunches up in annoyance, and says firmly, “Some people are more forgiving. He doesn’t seem like the type.”

“He likes me,” Henry says, and sneakily, even though her kid is not sneaky, he adds, “He likes you.”

“He does not,” Emma says. “He likes messing with me.”

“I think he just wants to be your friend,” Henry says.

The innocence of youth, to not see the redness in her face as anything other than annoyance. Killian Jones does not want to be her friend. He wants the benefits of friendship. In both those terms. Getting in good with the Sheriff is only common sense with criminal elements, and getting in good with her? He’s made it quite clear that it would benefit the both of them.

She really would like to deny that last point, but it’s been a frustrating few months and running around from one insane predicament to the next does a lot, but not nearly enough.

And really, those little moments that she’s been trying to avoid do way too much. She casts her eyes to her son’s determined pace towards Killian’s shop, the little backstabber -

“Let’s just get his sword back to him.”

Henry turns back to her with a big grin.

“Sure!”

Killian’s shop comes up all too fast, and okay, maybe fast is a good thing. Fast means getting this over with. Still, she sighs watching Henry wrench open the door so hard that it makes the entrance bell chime loud enough that there’s no way Killian wouldn’t hear it.

Following Henry inside, she catches sight of Killian immediately as he steps out from a dark corner of the shop. His eyes find hers, and he lights up, no other way to put it - except maybe that he does that ‘I’m dark and dangerous and I really want to be your friend’ swagger towards her.

She’s glad Henry steps between them, if only because it steals his interested gaze, and Emma doesn’t have to pointedly stare at his neck to keep him from using her line of sight against her. Also because she doesn’t want to have to fight herself to stare at his neck when his collarbones are in view.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he directs at Henry, but his eyes flicker up to Emma at the last bit.

Subtlety isn’t a skill of ten year old boys or thirty year old men. Who’d’ve thought?

“Henry decided to pull the sword from the stone,” she says, lifting the replica in sight. “We both decided that it was a good idea to put it back.”

Killian nods, kneeling to Henry’s height to say, “Swordsmanship is an art that one doesn’t just pick up in day. You don’t start with the blade. That, lad, is an excellent way to lose a hand.”

Emma closes her eyes, tilting her head to the sky in a silent plea to the ceiling to fall in. Not on any of them, but just enough that they can call Leroy in here to make sure that she won’t have to endure this longer than necessary.

“Is that how you lost yours?” Henry asks excitedly.

Killian grins. “You’re a clever lad.” He lifts his gaze to Emma as he says, “You truly take after your mother.”

Henry turns to look at her as well, grinning in that way that makes Emma believe, and says simply, surely, absolutely certainly, “I know.”

“But,” he adds, drawing out the word, “I have to go meet my -” He furrows his brow, scrunching his face in thought before finishing, “Other mom now.” He pouts guiltily. “I’m already in trouble. I shouldn’t be late.”

Running over to Emma, he briefly wraps her in a tight hug and says, “We’ll continue the operation tomorrow. You can tell me all about what you find.”

It takes Emma a beat, enough time for Henry to swing open the door and run out the shop, for her to realize what he’s referring to.

He wants her to prove that Killian is Captain Hook.

Oh boy, she’s going to have to disappoint. She turns to follow him out, but Killian calls out to her, “I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

He offers his hand and for a brief, insane moment, Emma thinks that he’s referring to her. She has all the words of protest at the tip of her tongue when he nods towards her hand and she realizes she’s still holding the sword.

“Right,” she says, hoping beyond hope that the quaver in her voice is all in her head and not being catalogued in his list of ‘Reactions Emma Swan Has Had to Me That Imply She Actually Does Like Me.’

Swiftly, she places the sword hilt-side up in his hand. Her fingers brush his palm for a fraction of a second, but she looks at him at that exact moment and doesn’t miss the quirk of a smile, the passing of heat in that light touch - the flare of heat in her belly, that traitor.

Ignoring her body being an asshole, she says, “Thanks for, you know,” She shrugs at his bewildered response, “Not pressing charges against my kid.”

“I know how corruption runs rampant in law enforcement. I doubt anything would come of it,” Killian teases.

It well and truly misses the mark. Having spent time working with both the NYPD and BPD, and her brief encounters with other police forces when she’s caught her jumpers across state lines, Emma knows how true that is.

Killian notices her stiffen; he doesn’t miss much. Emma hates it, especially when his expression softens, apologetic in his understanding of her.

“I would never do such a thing. I’m not a cruel man,” he says quietly.

Emma catches how it’s something like a lie, something like he doesn’t believe his own words even though he wants to.

She knows that feeling.

Thankfully, she doesn’t have to acknowledge it when he adds, “And I would never fault him for wanting to indulge in a little piracy.”

Emma shakes her head, a small disbelieving smile taking her lips at his smirk, and can’t resist replying, “It is thievery.”

“Pirates and thieves, one and the same.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but we are standing on land, and don’t hit me with any sea of molten lava deep beneath the surface. It’s thievery.”

“I’m not certain why you’re insisting on labelling your son a criminal,” Killian says with a too amused grin.

She steps towards him, and he turns, taking the sword towards the counter, so she follows him because a turned back does not mean he’s won this.

“You’re the one calling him a pirate,” Emma says.

Whispers “fuck,” because she’s whining. Jesus, she’s whining and she’s letting this get too far. Maybe he has won.

“Fuck.”

Sword placed on the counter, Killian turns to face her again and she rocks back on her heels unsteadily, followed him much closer than she meant to.

“Actually, he’s the one calling me one.”

Emma frowns, argument gone as she’s reminded of Henry’s intention in bringing her here: to discover the truth for herself. Killian’s truth.

She looks past him, gaze tracking over his shop - and that, it sticks, ill-fitting in her head. This shop doesn’t feel like his. The thought is stupid, really, but it feels like he’s tried to fit himself into the space of someone else. Someone that he doesn’t particularly like, given the state of the shop.

She noticed that first time she came here, demanding to know why he had Kathryn and David’s windmill in his shop, and he’d shrugged like it wasn’t anything important. He’d just picked it up. It was there, and then he let it go. Something so important was nothing more than a thing passing through his life when it had - when she’d had to swallow down the thought that it had ruined her friend’s life when David had only been a part of it for a minute, or Once Upon a Time, somewhere far removed from the reality that Mary Margaret had gotten herself infatuated with a married man. She’d fallen down a road that Emma knew all too well, and it was her fault. Because she’d convinced her to entertain Henry’s story, pressed to believe only for show and Mary Margaret believed.

“You are a pawnbroker. Other people’s things are kind of your inventory,” Emma says.

He shrugs.

“These aren’t my trophies.”

Whose are they?

Emma stills the question on her tongue, and steps away from him to get a good look of the shop. She follows this counter around to the next, and even though his steps don’t follow hers, she feels him right behind her - his gaze almost as heated as the thought of pressing her body to his. A thought she has had a lot. Is having right now, apparently, because he’s looking at her and eye-fucking is kind of a thing he’s good at.

But –

She forges past that to focus on the shelves of objects as ridiculously mundane as an old record player and a Walkman with a Spice Girls sticker on the front, and as strange as wands in protective glass cases, a pack of tarot cards ink in colours that don’t seem real, and a genie’s lamp pulled straight out of Aladdin.

Then there’s the hand in the jar.

‘What the fuck?’ isn’t her first thought because there’s a goddamn hand in the jar, but because it’s Killian’s. Why the ever-loving fuck that is her first thought she can’t even fathom a reason for, besides that she’s read too many pages in that storybook.

She stiffens at the press of his hand to her shoulder, as he steps up behind her, beside her, and finally turning slightly to have both her and the hand in his view.

With a lifeless smile, Killian says, “The previous owner had quite the sense of humor. He left that for me as a -” He pauses, stretching out his handless arm so that she gets it when he says, “Parting gift.”

She sighs. “More hand jokes? Really?”

He can’t help himself from self-deprecating, from pointing it out before anyone else does, of turning his loss into a threat to anyone trying to use it against him because he’ll use it first.

Killian smiles and shrugs, and this smile is the same as before. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but it sinks beneath his skin, where she can’t see – probably the same place she keeps hers, in the hollows of her heart.

She shouldn’t at all.

Maybe she really should.

Emma reaches for him. Her touch makes Killian pause, right before that moment where he curtains himself, and it’s with a clarity that she sees the haunting in his eyes, a darkness she really shouldn’t let herself touch, but she did, she is, and -

She swallows as he waits, frozen in that expression. Gods, she has no idea what he’s waiting for, like he’s been waiting forever. For her to pull away. For her to pull him with her.

“Light!” she blurts.

Killian’s expression shifts, and she shouldn’t sigh in relief for the bemused look, but it’s easier to handle than everything she just saw.

Searching for a way to not sound completely stupid, she says, “This place could really do with some more light if you want to attract any customers.”

She nods, satisfied as much as she can be. She is right. This place is way too dark. It feels a bit like a lair. Or a prison. Both, maybe.

His eyebrow lifts, his face deepening its confusion, and she sighs because this is something he doesn’t get. He understands enough to catch her at her weakest –

“You don’t want to abandon him the way you were abandoned.” Meeting the steel in her gaze with one of his own. “So, don’t.” –

He knows how to throw her back on her feet.

Killian understands enough to have her running. She really has been avoiding him since them, and doing a spectacular job of it, too, but now she’s stepping into him, close enough that he’s pressed against her as she looks for something to prove her point because this idiot can understand too many things but not how to light a shop, apparently.

She finds it. A fake flower that looks real, and not like something preserved to fit into a portrait to hang on a wall. It looks like it’s just been picked. Beautiful white petals curling towards its bright green stem.

Flowers are pretty, but beyond that, they’re just flowers. It’s not something she gets hyped for, but there’s a rush in her voice that can’t be explained by anything she’s felt before as she says, finger pointing at it through the glass, “That would totally sell.”

He settles in behind her, looking over her shoulder at the flower beneath her finger. Her breaths go unsteady as he murmurs, breath warm and making her shiver, “Are you looking to buy?”

She shakes her head swiftly, pushing out of their embrace.

Somehow it doesn’t feel like that motion has broken them apart at all.

“No. I’m not.”

Emma turns to face him, about to repeat herself when he offers a smile that’s been nothing like the others he’s given her today. No pure flirtation, no teasing or amusement, no masking, just a smile of genuine happiness.

Genuinely happy.

“Then it shall be a gift.”

She lifts her hands, self-defense second nature, and she hates that she has to defend herself against bringing out a smile - because smiles like that can only lead to trouble. The fluttering in her stomach has nothing to do with frustration, and she hates that she can even acknowledge that.

“No, nope,” she says.

“For the business advice,” he offers, his smile a little more recognizable, but no less difficult to handle. Killian understands her (and not normal business practices, of course, makes sense.) She won’t take anything that first smile offers, but this she can take.

Logical, really.

But not really at all because an installation of lights isn’t exactly a stroke of genius, and it’s not like he’s cared to do this before and there’s no particular reason why he should care now.

(No reason she should be the one to make him care.)

Killian moves behind the counter, pulls out a key from a pocket that she didn’t even know he had. His clothes are ridiculous. Either it’s the leather jacket with the inner pockets deep enough to hold a large (full and gladly shared) flask, or these skinny jeans that don’t look like they could hold anything at all without her seeing the outline of them in his pockets, and yet she missed that.

Granted, she hasn’t let her eyes drift beneath his torso up until this point, and granted that she’s of enough sense of self to let them linger.

“Here you go, love,” he says. Even as he does, he doesn’t expect her to walk over, coming out behind the counter to offer the flower to her himself.

Emma opens her palm for it, and his touch is gentle as he presses it into her grasp. Red’s flooding her cheeks, but more so, her chest feels like she’s doused herself in Vicks, and without the smell to distract, all she feels is the path of heat beneath her skin, leading to places she doesn’t want warmed.

She doesn’t want to feel anything at all, but she shifts the flower into the other hand so she can drag her fingers over it, and gasps in surprise.

“It’s real,” she says.

“Of course it is,” he replies, smile amused.

“What? How?”

“Magic,” he offers.

She doesn’t like the way he says it. Like it’s true. Like it’s a truth he hates, and yet, Killian looks at her like he doesn’t hate it that much at all.

Emma should’ve left when Henry did, for all this encounter has done to her head. Messed with it. He likes messing with her. He likes her.

Flight kicks in, and she says, “Thanks. I have to -”

“Go,” he finishes.

She nods and turns away, her gaze catching on the shelves of objects and there they settle again on that jarred hand. The flower is so soft beneath her fingers. Cold, though. Too cold.

Emma bites her lip, pausing yet again.

“Some more advice?”

Killian lifts a brow in amusement. “Should I paint the walls? Hang some new shelves?”

“The hand should go, too.”

He stiffens again, clearly searching her face from some sort of understanding. She doesn’t think she’s confused him this much since their first meeting, when, after stumbling into her (or she’d stumbled into him, realizing all she’d had in her car by way of clothes were two tank tops and a pair of jeans and stomped away in frustration) he’d murmured, “Are you real, lass?”

She’d jumped at the question, hackles raising. “Of course I’m real. Are you drunk?” was her swift response to the light smell of alcohol cloaking him, and he’d confirmed her assessment with a deep nod, “Aye, I am. And you are,” his gaze roving over her in wonder, “Quite real.”

It’s weird because she feels like Killian should understand the way her hand inches up to her neck, fingers brushing the chain. It’s been there for so long, but she hasn’t given it conscious thought in so long. Yet, it’s been on her mind too much lately. That necklace Neal gave her feels as painful as the day she put it on, and it isn’t because she sees Henry and thinks of him, although she does because he looks like him and has that same mischief that Emma loved, and still loves.

But it hurts, how she’s holding onto this reminder of everything that told her she couldn’t do this, she couldn’t have this, and she should never want to - when she’s so scared of how things will turn out with Henry now that she’s in his life, and she can acknowledge that he’s in her heart, her love for him the softest thing that’s ever found its home there.

It hurts because she’s more scared of holding onto this reminder of every reason why she can’t when she suspects that she’s actually starting to believe that she can.

But Killian can’t know that, all the intimate details of her rocky past and all the thoughts floating in her head and the feelings in her heart, when she’s been making sure that he can’t.

It isn’t like Emma knows him either - no matter that there are pages in Henry’s book detailing how Captain Hook lost his hand and his love, and how his revenge led him to Neverland and not that Neverland created it. She doesn’t know Killian Jones beyond a story her son believes, and these moments they’ve had, sharing a flask at the docks, a quipped remark here and there, and flirting every time they meet, whether he’s walking out the doors of the Mayor’s office, or while he’s in heated conversation with Dr. Whale, or after he’s finished antagonizing David on Main Street. Plus, he bears a fondness for the Sheriff’s Office that she bears with zero grace.

She doesn’t know him; he doesn’t know her, but she understands.

“You should get rid of it,” she says, and offers a raised eyebrow of her own and a scoffed question, “What does Captain Hook need with another hand anyway?”

“Yes...Aye.”

He quiets, and his gaze follows the trail her hand leaves when she pulls it away from the necklace weighing at her neck and cups her hands over the flower. Her hands are warm, but it doesn’t feel like it’s wilting in the slightest. It’s cold against her fingers, just short of the bite of winter, the air after a fresh fall of snow.

Killian follows the lift of her ducked head, the press of her lips. Emma finds them dry, and licks out at them, and he follows that motion, too. He follows her movements with a focus she doesn’t know how to match.

But she’s watching him, too, so maybe that’s the same given the circumstances, when she should’ve walked out the door the moment she came in.

She should have…

Killian’s confusion slowly gives way to a wonder unlike the one before.

“Why does Hook need a hand indeed?”

Any other time, she’d expect him to smirk, offer himself to her just so she could deny him. The familiar game. But right now, she isn’t playing at that. She isn’t playing at all. Maybe there’s something to the wonder – the revelation in his eyes because she’s never felt barer than she does right now.

Someone knocks at the door of his shop, and it startles. Confusing. Why would anyone need to knock?

“Mr. Jones, I…”

She whips around to face the newcomer, a portly man she’s seen before when he’s definitely been up to no good by the way he stutters, “Sheriff Swan! You’re…”

Emma saves him his breath because it sounds like he needs it.

“Leaving.”

She shifts back to Killian, but whatever she saw moments before is completely gone. He looks more shadowed now than he did when he’d stepped out of the dark corner of his shop.

“Thanks again and just remember –” Remember what? This? Everything this conversation has been? What has it been?

“Add more lights?”

She doesn’t mean the question, except that she has too many.

“Shall do, Sheriff,” he replies.

There’s nothing more to say to that so she steps past the man and out into the sunny day. The door shuts behind her, and she frowns at it.

But there’s nothing more to do except go about what she’s been doing. Train her focus back to - she groans as she pulls her phone out her pocket, a struggled motion to keep the flower uncrushed while checking the screen.

She’s late to being on call.

The flower first goes on top of her desk, but it doesn’t feel safe - she’s worrying about the safety of a flower, what the fuck. It goes into her desk, but that feels wrong, and she starts to rationalize these irrationalities. It’ll get crushed in her pocket. She can’t just put it anywhere where it can get crushed, lost, stolen. That last one occurs to her after she looks at old case files and catches a report of a break in at the flower shop.

The best option becomes her dashboard, in the empty box of her new phone charger, bought at a price only reasonable in a small town with no other competition, and no other options. Amazon apparently does not deliver to Storybrooke, Maine.

It’s the curse, Henry would say.

It is a curse, definitely.

A few days pass with the flower in her car, and (irrationally) she checks every time she gets in, expecting disaster. It’s always as perfectly preserved as before. Just as alive.

It’s either goddamn magic or just the coolest trick anyone’s ever pulled off.

She’s leaning towards (the former, really, but she hates that, it’s completely insane so she tells herself it’s) the latter.

Emma doesn’t mention it. Not that it’s something worth mentioning, or something she should mention, but just...yeah is all she can say. She doesn’t understand it really at all. It’s just a feeling that keeps it a secret, protected within her twice-stolen car.

Inevitably, today Henry pops open the dash to access a pen and yells, “Where did you get that?”

Emma rubs at her ears, his yell more akin to a pitch that she won’t mention to him, to protect his pride.

“Calm down, kid. It’s just -” She looks at the flower as he lifts it delicately from the box, marveling at it. Swallowing around that feeling she can’t voice, she says, “Killian gave it to me because I gave him some advice.”

“Whoa,” Henry says, wide eyes on her. “He gave you that?”

His expression tightens, fierce thought in his eyes. His brain is working to the max. Not always a good sign. Never a sign her day is going to remain nice and quiet.

“Yeah. What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Emma, didn’t you read the whole book?” Henry accuses.

Embarrassed and guilty as charged (again), Emma says, “I read the important stories!”

“All of them are important,” Henry insists. Holding the flower up to her, he says, “Especially this one. The Dark One Rumplestiltskin tricked a woman into trading it to him to save her son. It’s protects you from all dark magic and it brings good luck. Of course, he wanted it to protect him from the Bog Witch’s curse - though it didn’t work for him because he is dark magic so he just kept it so no one could use it against him but…” Henry’s voice softens as he searches for an answer to his offered question. “Why would Captain Hook have that?”

A previous owner sounds like a good reason – if she’s to believe that…the feeling of pawnshop not belonging to him wasn’t an incorrect one.

Henry stares at the flower. Each word slow and measured, he says, “I think there’s some stories missing from the book.”

His gaze turns to her, so serious, an expression far too old for him to have. It’s the look of everything changing and having to face something you never thought possible.

Henry has been preaching the impossible since she met him. Nothing should be too impossible for him.

At a whisper, he says, “I think Captain Hook is the Dark One.”

Emma scoffs.

“Really?” she says.

She looks at the flower in his hand, and unthinkingly opens her palm for him to hand it to her.

“Seriously?” she reiterates.

She runs her fingers over the flower, over the ice cold petals in her hand.

‘Seriously?’ is what she asks, but it’s the answer as well. Seriously.

Emma really fucked up.

Emma really picked a shit time to start to believe.

#cs ff #cs au #captain swan #xoxo gossip amber;;#xoxo; f #oh hey its been ten years and ofc i dont come with wip updates #this is a oneshot i stg #im not even gonna give it a verse tag bc its a oneshot #it is definitely 100%#black eyes was really written for this au

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pbandjesse · 6 years ago

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I can't believe that I was in New Jersey with James yesterday. It feels like it was a week ago. I'm laying in another hotel room but by myself this time. I'm exhausted. And while it's only 9 here it is midnight back home. And I've been awake since 4:30 this morning. So I'm really going to try to go to sleep soon.

I went to bed at like 8:30 last night. Or at least soon after 8:30. I was certain this morning was going to be terrible. But going to bed so early actually help me out and when my alarm went off I felt fine. I got up and got dressed. I texted James. I fed sweet pea and made sure all the dishes were put away. I took the recycling out. And then James was there. I said goodbye to Sweet Pea. And we headed to the airport.

James and not going to bed at all. He had gone straight from our trip to home to eat and then right to work. They had some Ghost Hunters on board constellation. And they interviewed him with my ghost story from sting I saw on the birth stack. So that's pretty cool. But he was kind of exhausted. He felt okay enough Drive but I really don't like when people drive when they're tired. But I was still very grateful and thankful for him taking me to the airport so early in the morning.

We got there about 5:30. In line for TSA was surprisingly long. But I made it through. I had to get patted down because my jumper had a knot on the side of it that's at the machine off. But then I texted James that we were all good and he went home to go to sleep.

I looked out that the McDonald's is right across from my gate. So I got breakfast and tried not to get a nervous stomach. I had until 6:45 when we were boring. I ran to the bathroom and wash my hands and tried to mentally prepare myself for a 6-hour flight. It's the longest flight I've ever taken. So I was a little bit nervous. And like the TSA is fine and the actual flying is fine. The worst part of felt air travel to me is the few minutes between first boarding and waiting to get in your seat. For some reason that makes me so stressed out. I just want to be in lazy and sitting down with my headphones in and not thinking about anything.

But I got on the plane and my seat was great. Right over the wing-like I like. It's still see the ground but if I didn't want to see the girl I didn't have to go. I had to endure this. The girl next to me was incredibly fidgety but then when they close the door there was an open seat near her family so she moved. So I had an open seat next to me. The ideal way to fly.

And it was a really good fight. It took us a little bit over half an hour to actually get off the ground. But we make great time. I texted everyone that I love them just in case. And then kind of half those. I have snack. Arrested. I don't think I ever actually fell asleep. I started multiple different podcasts. I couldn't focus on one so it was hard. Actually don't even remember what I ended up listening to. Oh it was a lifetime podcast because it was 4 hours long and I thought that would be my best bet. But I was barely listening.

I played a game on my phone for a lot of the time and look at the window when I could. The sun was on my side of most the entire time so it was reflecting off the wing pretty badly. But I got to see mountains in the desert. It was just really cool.

I was really happy to not be in the plane anymore though. Home time it was 2 pm. In California it was 11 a.m. Well actually it was about 10:45 when we landed and my driver who was scheduled for an app all of a sudden was coming a half an hour early. Because my plane landed 15 minutes early. It was very confusing. Especially because wall we landed we didn't get off the plane for almost 15 minutes. So then I was very stressed out. And that went to me ending up leaving at the wrong terminal. And then my poor driver had to try to find me. He was a really sweet guy though. You're younger than me. We talked for the entire 40 minute drive from Los Angeles to Thousand Oaks. He's a nice guy. And it was nice being able to talk to someone for that long about paranormal stuff and other nonsense.

I was really happy to be a busy Hotel though I was starving and gross. Find that long was hard. My flight back is not that bad. I got to stop over with an hour break in the middle. But I checked in and they were very apologetic because they were all out of king size beds and so they had to give me to Queens. I'm one person. Why do I need to Queens. But that's fine. Maybe I'll sleep in that bed tomorrow. Get use out of both of them.

Once again packed I headed out again. I caught a car and I headed up to a local barbecue place. It was like $3.50 left. I have never ever experienced a car ride that cheap. And it would be the only lift I took today. Because I decided to walk everywhere.

I ate so much food. I got a burger and fries and salad and bread. And I saved some of the bread. Hey I didn't eat everything. But I felt much better. And then I left there and walked over to the Antique store. I picked up barbecue place because it was in the same shopping center as the antique store I went to the last time I was here in 2017. And it was just as good. I ended up getting a stone bracelet that is locally found courts. But mostly had a good time just kind of taking pictures of my clock Furby I brought, Otto, and looking around. It was nice.

I went to a couple other shops in that shopping center. Including the other antique store. And then I decided to walk. For a really long time. Almost 2 miles. I was specifically looking for an antique store thing. It turned out to be more of a consignment shop when I finally did find it. But before that I found some really cool shops and adorable Bakery. Where I bought the prettiest little cheesecake. Which I saved until about an hour ago. I was shocked that it survived my backpack all day. But it was still really really good.

I found a tiny Goodwill bookstore and I got a milkshake. I enjoy being outside. I saw a cactus . Just growing on the side of the road. And the weather was beautiful. And I'm just having a great time. I was tired but walking was nice. Ended up finding these like Spiral shells and the dirt. So I can collect a bunch of those as I was walking. And then listen to the Adventure Zone podcast and enjoy the weather. Because it was beautiful outside. I'm a little sad that I'm going to be missing 7 in of snow in Baltimore tomorrow. But they did preemptively close the schools so I'm not missing as much work as originally thought. And I am a little sad that I'm alone out here. Like I like my own company don't get me wrong. But I miss James. Or Jess. This trip would have been nice to have with someone else. But it's okay. I'm still having a really nice time.

I started my truck back to the hotel. I stopped at this little Park where they change the kind of cement runoff River into a more natural environment. And I sat and watched the nature for a while. I saw a little bunny. But then I was starting to get cold. In my headphones were dying. I plug those in for a while in my backpack and walked around. Just enjoyed looking at the mountains and feeling the Sun.

I got about a half mile away from the hotel and I had to take a break. I sat down on the side of the road. It was a safe spot. And I just kind of played on my phone for a few minutes. This usually brought or not my normal travel shoes. I accidentally sent those back home to my parents house and so I kind of had to make a game-day decision and we're untested she is. And I got a little blister on my heel and on the side of my foot. So I'm a little frustrated about that. But it's okay.

I made it back to the hotel in one piece. Tired and sore. But one piece. I cleaned up and just kind of laid down for a while. I didn't actually fall asleep but it was nice being horizontal. Eventually I got up and went down to the bar to grab a fork for my cheesecake. I was going to get a soda too but I decided I really should not have any caffeine. And I should just get some sleep. But it took I really nice bath. I do the face mask. And now I'm just in bed. I think I'm going to do some yoga try to stretch it out a little bit. And then I'm going to try to get some sleep.

Tomorrow is the big day. My plan is to wake up early and have breakfast at the restaurant here at the hotel. Then I would like to go up to the closest state park. And walk around a bit. Then at 11 I have to head up to the campus to do the talk thing that I'm here for. That's until about 1 and then I'm going to take a car and go to the art museum. I was originally going to do that today but then I remembered the reason I had set the schedule to do the art museum tomorrow is because it's closed on Tuesdays. That's fine. I had a great day with what I ended up doing.

I'm excited to see the art museum and then there's a Goodwill up there as well. And just kind of them all. So I'm going to just kind of wander around and enjoy myself. I may be having dinner with someone from vibrant lives so that would be cool. But that's really my whole plan for tomorrow. Just kind of enjoy the nice weather before I go back to very cold Baltimore. I'm praying now I think I'm just going to get some stretching in and then some sleep.

I hope you're all having a great night. I know this post is later than normal because of the time difference. But I hope you're all well. Sleep well everyone be safe.

#ootd #babe #selfie #furby #roadtrip #good day #tuesday

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wendyimmiller · 5 years ago

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Gardening When You Really Don’t Wanna

The most dreaded thing I’ve ever had to face was to be dragged along while my mom took my sisters shopping. Any time this happened, it was beyond awful. A purgatory of boredom and sadness that could last anywhere from endless to eternal.

Picture it this way: I’m an otherwise happy, well-adjusted 5-8 year old boy, but I’m being held hostage in a cavern of clothes racks at some store for the 6th or 7th hour and my arm is being held straight up above my head. All the blood it ever contained has drained from it hours ago, my wrist is gripped white-knuckled tight by an unbelievably strong, terrifyingly frustrated, and appallingly unsympathetic mother, and she is yanking my arm right and left to emphasize each and every syllable–my whole body violently following each yank–from some variation of a sentence that starts with “Mister, you had…” and ends with …”something to cry about.”

Any expedition to go buy clothes was like this. Totally unendurable. But the worst of the worst death marches were treks for Easter outfits. Worse than that? Shoes. Easter outfits? I want to cry right now just thinking about it. What absolute zero is to physics about describes the absolute misery caused by Easter shopping. But, somehow, shopping for shoes was even worse.

There is no telling the amount of pain that went into making this photograph possible.

If I remember right, the main issue with shoes was that one of my sisters had skinny little feet and, for her, there were always several choices of adorably cute shoes. Amazing how much time could leave the universe while deciding exactly which pair, but at the end of the day she went home with nice shoes. On the other hand, my other sister had wide feet and needed “corrective” shoes. This was the double whammy of terrible luck for her and me. The best she ever found were shoes that nuns wouldn’t even wear. Me? A fate that consigned me to dangle from one arm in store after store after store as my mother led us all–wild in sorrow–in an ever widening migration of despair, shoe store to shoe store in what we all knew was a vain pursuit of a cute pair of wide “corrective” shoes.

The sound of this misery–moaning, whining, complaining, crying, and my mother’s hissing, cursing attempts to make it stop–steadily built to a crescendo of unhappiness that–thinking about it–NASA should have recorded and then perpetually beamed into space so as to deter hostile aliens from having any interest in our planet.

Anyway, this is how I spent somewhere around a quarter of my childhood.

And this same level of misery about describes a quarter of my gardening chores. That’s right. Gardening ain’t all wine and roses. You see, I’m not in it for the motions. I don’t garden because I like to push a mower around the yard in a certain pattern. I never have a hankering to go turn a compost heap, or haul brush to the woods, or spread 15-20 yards of mulch. I don’t like trying to figure out why my well-pump isn’t working, and it’s been a very long time since I found anything compelling about digging a hole.

Those activities are merely a means to an end, and the end is a beautiful garden with all the benefits therein: a backyard oasis, a refuge for wildlife, and a safe place to enjoy the sweetest kind of peace on Earth. Bonus credits for a contented wife, adulation from strangers during garden tours, and for a green vegetative kind of privacy that allows open, carefree peeing in the middle of the backyard at any time on any given day during the growing season.

Indeed. All this, not pulling weeds, is why I garden.

And yet even as we speak, here in football season, I have sacks and sacks of bulbs to plant before the ground freezes. It’s been a hard year, I’m kind of gardened out, and no matter how much I try to focus any ESP powers I’ve got, those bulbs just are not going to plant themselves. This, all because I heard Brent Heath speak back in May, got all excited, and placed a big order.

So I will do what I’ve always done: make excuses, put the task off, and try not to think about it too much. And I will do these things for week after week. In certain times when I’m feeling the urgency more greatly, I’ll quietly wish for an injury or a breakdown that will serve as an adequate excuse for failing to get them planted. Eventually however, the day will inevitably come when there’s no room for even one more second of procrastination.

And there I’ll be, on my knees, cold, slimy soil chilling me to my bones, a bitter wind rasping at my face, trying not to smell the dog crap that got on my jeans because it was camouflaged in the leaves, and suffering strange, phantom jerking motions in my right arm. Inside, on TV, The Ohio State Buckeyes are defeating Michigan again. There’s guacamole on the counter. Beer in the fridge. But I’m not inside. I’m outside, and cursing the hell out of that smooth talking Brent Heath.

Another time it’ll be summer. 100 degrees out. And I’ll be cutting down a skanky old crabapple and every single twisty, pokey, gnarly, and ugly branch will have made up its mind to fight me every step of the way. Whatever I want, they’ll want the opposite. They’ll gouge at my eyes. They’ll gash my skin. Nasty, itchy stuff will fall down the back of my shirt. I’ll be sweating, bleeding, and pissed off. There will be no easy angle to position for any single cut. Brush will tangle underfoot. Each of a hundred logs will not stack without a brute force battle of wills, and not one piece of brush will go into the truck and stay there until I’ve discovered–by endless repetition only–the mystical combination of cuss words that will unlock the system. And it’ll suck.

A crabapple displaying full on winter interest in the middle of summer.

Or, it’s mid spring in Ohio and like a complete freakin’ idiot I again jumped the gun and planted out a bunch of tender stuff. I get home from work after dark, it’s 35F and raining, and they’re calling for a hard frost. And, like a damned soul in a Renaissance painting, I’ll inconsolably drag myself outside, and for the next fours hours I will–in fits and starts–construct the world’s twelfth largest shanty town in the backyard from whatever little bits of scrap wood, chunks of rock and rubble, some string, tape, old sheets, blankets, and filthy leftover plastic sheeting I can find in a panicked effort to save a bunch of annuals, tropicals, vegetables, and some expensive fern that Tony Avent said was hardy to Zone 7b, (at least) from a cold, lonely, continental, Z6a, untimely death.

Fun times.

Here’s what follows that: You drag yourself back inside, take a forever long hot shower, down a few shots, and, sitting there as surly as sin, you think really dark and dirty thoughts. Other people aren’t doing this shit. Other people live in condos. They have their thermostats set at “Giant-Ass Carbon Footprint.” So warm they’ve been forced to strip down to teddies and speedos. They’ve over-eaten a fabulous dinner and drank a bottle of wine they don’t even know enough to appreciate. Yep, you were having a cold, wet piece of plastic that smelled mind-blowingly bad whipping back and forth across your face as you, both hands engaged, tried to tack it down over a row of tomato plants, and those condo people were living a bacchanalian existence. And you loathe them.

And, yet, you garden on.

Honestly, I’m mystified. Where does the fortitude come from that gets gardeners outside to suffer through odious tasks under miserable circumstances simply because they need to be done? I don’t know. Really don’t. But I’ve done it. Over and over and over again. And my gardening friends have all done it too. I don’t know, reminds me of something that parents used to toss off at you with a smirk: “Hey, it builds character.” Maybe gardeners have that.

But, I will say this. Winter is long and it dies hard. It rears its ugly head again and again before it’s finally defeated, and there ain’t no better tonic for that than the almost tearful joy a garden full of blooming bulbs brings. They fill the heart, God bless them, combating cold and gray with color and fragrance.

And then comes summer. Hot and humid. Sometimes you just want to run from the house to the car, from the car to the office, and then back again. A/C to A/C. An inside, artificial existence devoid of anything that stokes our human nature. But under a shade tree you’ve tended for years, you can enjoy a tall drink and the hordes of butterflies, bees, and hummingbirds that come to visit that Lantana you saved. And then can pick some of your own tomatoes right from the vine and bring them in for the BLTs you’ll have for supper.

Some other time you’ll find yourself looking at the empty space where a scabby, rusty crabapple once lived, and you will take huge and vicious satisfaction in knowing that it was living its hideous existence and then you sawed it down. It was ugly and now it’s not. It’s gone. And you’re totally responsible. And, yet, you live as a free man. You feel no guilt. Nope. You feel joy. It poked your eyes. It raked your skin. It hurt your back. But all that’s over now. You’ve got a drink, and you’re smiling almost fiendishly as you enjoy the lovely aromas of ribs roasting in its smoldering wood.

You just try not to think too much about the stump you chose not to grub out. Nor that day sometime in the future when you’ll roll in a 400-pound, balled and burlaped, plant du jour that some speaker at some conference got you all excited about. Yeah. Sure enough. That day will come, and it will be woeful. But that’s just how it is. That’s how it’s meant to be. To have this, you gotta do that. And you’d have it no other way.

Gardening When You Really Don’t Wanna originally appeared on GardenRant on September 25, 2019.

from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2019/09/gardening-when-you-really-dont-wanna.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

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turfandlawncare · 5 years ago

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Gardening When You Really Don’t Wanna

Picture it this way: I’m an otherwise happy, well-adjusted 6-8 year old boy, but I’m being held hostage in a cavern of clothes racks at some store for the 6th or 7th hour and my arm is being held straight up above my head. All the blood it ever contained has drained from it hours ago, my wrist is gripped white-knuckled tight by an unbelievably strong, terrifyingly frustrated, and appallingly unsympathetic mother, and she is yanking my arm right and left to emphasize each and every syllable–my whole body violently following each yank–as she repeats some variation of a sentence that starts with “Mister, you had…” and ends with …”something to cry about.”

Any expedition to go buy clothes was like this. Totally unendurable. But the worst of the worst death marches were treks for Easter outfits and shoes. Easter outfits? I want to cry right now just thinking about it. What absolute zero is to physics about describes the absolute misery caused by Easter shopping. But shopping for shoes was even worse.

There is no telling the amount of pain that went into making this photograph possible.

If I remember right, the main issue with shoes was that one of my sisters had skinny little feet and, for her, there were always several choices of adorably cute shoes. Amazing how much time could leave the universe deciding which pair. Ridiculous. But so much worse was this. My other sister had wide feet and needed “corrective” shoes. This was the double whammy that consigned me to dangle from one arm in store after store after store as my mother led us all–wild in sorrow–in an ever widening migration of despair, shoe store to shoe store in what we all knew was a vain pursuit of a cute pair of wide “corrective” shoes.

The sound of this misery–moaning, whining, complaining, crying, and my mother’s hissing, cursing attempts to make it stop–steadily built to a crescendo of unhappiness that NASA should have recorded and then perpetually beamed into space so as to deter hostile aliens from ever having any interest in our planet.

Anyway, this is how I spent somewhere around a quarter of my childhood.

Yes. All this, not pulling weeds, is why I garden.

And yet even as we speak I have sacks and sacks of bulbs to plant before the ground freezes. And it’s football season. It’s been a hard year, I’m kind of gardened out, and no matter how much I try to focus any ESP powers I’ve got, those bulbs just are not going to plant themselves. This, all because I heard Brent Heath speak back in May, got all excited, and placed a big order.

A crabapple displaying full on winter interest in the middle of summer.

Fun times.

And, yet, you garden on.

Gardening When You Really Don’t Wanna originally appeared on GardenRant on September 25, 2019.

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seniorbrief · 6 years ago

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24 Stories About the Touching Kindness of Strangers That’ll Make You Tear Up

The Man at the Market

When the supermarket clerk tallied up my groceries, I was $12 over what I had on me. I began to remove items from the bags, when another shopper handed me a $20 bill. “Please don’t put yourself out,” I told him. “Let me tell you a story,” he said. “My mother is in the hospital with cancer. I visit her every day and bring her flowers. I went this morning, and she got mad at me for spending my money on more flowers. She demanded that I do something else with that money. So, here, please accept this. It is my mother’s flowers.” – Leslie Wagner, Peel, Arkansas. Here are 30 more acts of kindness you can do in two minutes or less!

Jim and the Job

My neighbor, Jim, had trouble deciding if he wanted to retire from the construction field, until he ran into a younger man he’d worked with previously. The young man had a wife and three children and was finding it difficult to make ends meet, since he hadn’t worked in some time. The next morning, Jim went to the union office and submitted his retirement paperwork. As for his replacement, he gave them the name of the young man. That was six years ago, and that young husband and father has been employed ever since. – Miranda MacLean, Brutus, Michigan. Make sure you know the powerful health benefits of being nicer to yourself.

A Family’s Food Angel

While going through a divorce, my mother fretted over her new worries: no income, the same bills, and no way to afford groceries. It was around this time that she started finding boxes of food outside our door every morning. This went on for months, until she was able to land a job. We never did find out who it was who left the groceries for us, but they truly saved our lives. – Jamie Boleyn, Emmett, Idaho. These 12 heartwarming stories will restore your faith in humanity.

Color Me Amazed

I forgot about the rules on liquids in carry-on luggage, so when I hit security at the airport, I had to give up all my painting supplies. When I returned a week later, an attendant was at the baggage area with my paints. Not only had he kept them for me, but he’d looked up my return date and time in order to meet me. – Marilyn Kinsella, Canmore, Canada

Yasu + Junko for Reader’s Digest

Seven Miles For Me

Leaving a store, I returned to my car only to find that I’d locked my keys and cell phone inside. A teenager riding his bike saw me kick a tire and say a few choice words. “What’s wrong?” he asked. I explained my situation. “But even if I could call my wife,” I said, “she can’t bring me her car key, since this is our only car.” He handed me his cell phone. “Call your wife and tell her I’m coming to get her key.” “That’s seven miles round trip.” “Don’t worry about it.” An hour later, he returned with the key. I offered him some money, but he refused. “Let’s just say I needed the exercise,” he said. Then, like a cowboy in the movies, he rode off into the sunset. – Clarence W. Stephens, Nicholasville, Kentucky. Next, take a look at these incredible photos of heartwarming moments.

The Little Lift

One evening, I left a restaurant just ahead of a woman assisting her elderly mom. I approached the curb and paused to see if my arthritic knees could climb it. To my right appeared an arm to assist. It was that of the elderly mom. My heart was so touched. – Donna Moerie, Goldsboro, North Carolina

Bounty For a Navy Wife

I was balancing caring for a toddler and working a full-time job, all while my Navy husband was on extended duty overseas. One evening, the doorbell rang. It was my neighbor, a retired chief petty officer, holding a breadboard loaded with a freshly cooked chicken and vegetable stew. “I’ve noticed you’re getting a little skinny,” he said. It was the best meal I’d had in months. – Patricia Fordney, Corvallis, Oregon. Here are 10 life-changing acts of kindness you can do right now.

My Granddaughter’s Dress

I saw a dress in a consignment shop that I knew my granddaughter would love. But money was tight, so I asked the store owner if she could hold it for me. “May I buy the dress for you?” asked another customer. “Thank you, but I can’t accept such a gracious gift,” I said. Then she told me why it was so important for her to help me. She’d been homeless for three years, she said, and had it not been for the kindness of strangers, she would not have been able to survive. “I’m no longer homeless, and my situation has improved,” she said. “I promised myself that I would repay the kindness so many had shown me.” She paid for the dress, and the only payment she would accept in return was a heartfelt hug. – Stacy Lee, Columbia, Maryland

Yasu + Junko for Reader’s Digest

White Shoulders

A woman at our yard sale wore a perfume that smelled heavenly and familiar. “What are you wearing?” I asked. “White Shoulders,” she said. Suddenly, I was bowled over by a flood of memories. White Shoulders was the one gift I could count on at Christmas from my late mother. We chatted awhile, and she bought some things and left. A few hours later, she returned holding a new bottle of White Shoulders. I don’t recall which one of us started crying first. – Media Stooksbury, Powell, Tennessee. Try these effortless ways to be nicer to people.

Breaking Bread

Last December, before work, I stopped at a deli and ordered an everything bagel with cream cheese. It was toasty warm, and I couldn’t wait to dig in. But as I left the store, I noticed an older indigent gentleman sitting at the bus stop. Knowing it would probably be his only warm meal of the day, I gave him the bagel. But all was not lost for me. Another customer from the deli offered me half of her bagel. I was so delighted because I realized that in one way or another, we are all looked after. – Liliana Figueroa, Phoenix, Arizona

“I Can Still Help”

As I walked through the parking lot, all I could think about was the dire diagnosis I had handed my patient Jimmy: pancreatic cancer. Just then, I noticed an elderly gentleman handing tools to someone working under his stalled car. That someone was Jimmy. “Jimmy, what are you doing?” I yelled out. Jimmy dusted off his pants. “My cancer didn’t tell me not to help others, Doc,” he said, before waving at the old man to start the car. The engine roared to life. The old man thanked Jimmy and drove off. Then Jimmy got into his car and took off as well. Take-home message: Kindness has no limits and no restrictions. –Mohammed Basha, Gainesville, Florida. Start giving these 10 little compliments to people every day.

Top Note

When my husband died unexpectedly, a coworker took me under her wing. Every week for an entire year, she would send me a card saying “Just Thinking of You” or “Hang in There.” She saved my life. – Jerilynn Collette, Burnsville, Minnesota

He Kept an Eye on Me

Driving home in a blizzard, I noticed a vehicle trailing close behind me. Suddenly, my tire blew! I pulled off the road, and so did the other car. A man jumped out from behind the wheel and without hesitation changed the flat. “I was going to get off two miles back,” he said. “But I didn’t think that tire looked good.” –Marilyn Attebery, Spokane Valley, Washington. Being kind to strangers is great, but don’t forget these ways to be nicer to yourself.

My Commander’s Call

It was one of my first missions on a gunship during the Vietnam War. I was scanning for enemy fire when I spotted a bright object that looked as if it were coming straight at us. “Missile! Missile!” I shouted into my interphone. The pilot jerked the airplane as hard as he could, dumping guys from one side of the craft to the next. Well, turns out the “missile” was a flare we had just dropped. Suffice it to say, the guys weren’t pleased. Back at the base, my commander put an arm around my shoulder. “Sergeant Hunter,” he said, “you keep calling them like you see them. Better safe than sorry.” That kind act gave me the confidence to be one of the top gunners in my squadron. – Douglas Hunter, Fort Walton Beach, Florida

21 Apples From Max

When my grandson Max told his mother, Andrea, to donate any check she would give him for his 21st birthday, Andrea got an idea. She handed Max’s brother Charlie a video camera. Then she took out 21 $10 bills from the bank and bought 21 apples at the supermarket. When they spotted a homeless man, Andrea told him, “Today is my son Max’s 21st birthday, and he asked me to give a gift to someone to help him celebrate.” She handed the man a $10 bill and an apple. The man smiled into the camera and announced, “Happy birthday, Max!” Soon, they passed out their booty to men and women waiting in line at a soup kitchen. In a unified chorus, they wished Max, “Happy birthday!” At a pizza parlor, Andrea left $50 and told the owners to feed the hungry. “Happy birthday, Max!” they shouted. With one last $10 bill and apple, they stopped at Andrea’s sister’s office. Unable to contain her laughter or her tears, she bellowed into the camera, “Happy birthday, Max!” –Dr. Donald Stoltz, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Don’t miss these 21 acts of kindness that changed these people’s lives.

How Did She Know?

I was driving cross-country to start a new job. What began as a fun adventure turned into a nightmare when I realized I had run through most of my money and still had a ways to go. I pulled over and let the tears flow. That’s when I noticed the unopened farewell card my neighbor had shoved in my hand as I left. I pulled the card out of the envelope, and $100 dropped out—just enough to get me through the remainder of my trip. Later, I asked my neighbor why she had enclosed the money. She said, “I had a feeling it would help.” – Nadine Chandler, Winthrop, Massachusetts Yasu + Junko for Reader’s DigestPhotograph by Yasu+Junko; Prop Stylist: Sarah Guido-Laakso for Halley Resources

Raised Right

Children were playing at the recreation area of an IKEA store when my five-year-old granddaughter motioned for a small boy to stop. She knelt down before him and retied his flopping shoelaces—she had only just learned to tie her own. No words were spoken, but after she finished, both smiled shyly, then turned to race off in different directions. – Sheela Mayes, Olla, Louisiana. Take a look at these 8 acts of kindness that turned into good karma.

Blanket Statement

When I was seven, my family drove to the Grand Canyon. At one point, my favorite blanket flew out the window and was gone. I was devastated. Soon after, we stopped at a service station. Moping, I found a bench and was about to eat my sandwich when a biker gang pulled into the station. “Is that your blue Ford?” a huge, frightening man with a gray-and-black beard asked. Mom nodded reticently. The man pulled my blanket from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. He then returned to his motorcycle. I repaid him the only way I knew how: I ran up to him and gave him my sandwich. Zena Hamilton, United Kingdom

Just Driving Through

When my friend and I were injured in a car accident, a family from out of state stopped to help. Seeing we were hurt, they drove us to the hospital and stayed there until we were released. They then took us home, got us food, and made sure we were settled in. Amazingly, they interrupted their vacation to help us. –Cindy Earls, Ada, Oklahoma. Check out this story of how this generous man let a stranger borrow his car.

Butterflies of Support

I was four months pregnant with our first child when our baby’s heart stopped beating. I was devastated. As the days went on, I was nervous about returning to work. I’m a middle school teacher and didn’t know how I could face kids. This past May, after four weeks of recovering, I walked into my empty classroom and turned on the lights. Glued to the wall were a hundred colored paper butterflies, each with a handwritten message on it from current and past students. All of them had encouraging messages: “Keep moving forward,” “Don’t give up on God,” and “Know that we love you.” It was exactly what I needed. Jennifer Garcia-Esquivel, San Benito, Texas

Twice as Nice

Two firefighters were waiting in line at a fast-food restaurant when the siren sounded on their fire truck parked outside. As they turned to leave, a couple who had just received their order handed their food to the firefighters. The couple then got back in line to reorder. Doubling down on their selfless act, the manager refused to take their money. –JoAnn Sanderson, Brandon, Florida. This is the nicest place in America! Hint: It’s a restaurant in Tennessee.

Designated Driver

I’d pulled over onto the side of a New Mexico road and was suffering a panic attack when a minivan full of kids pulled over. A woman got out and asked if I was OK. “No,” I said. Then I laid out what had happened: I was delivering books for a publishing company. My next stop was way, way up this long and winding and, to me, very treacherous road. I couldn’t do it. “I’ll deliver the books for you,” she said. She was a local, and the roads were nothing for her. I took her up on the offer and never forgot the simple kindness of a stranger. – Doreen Frick, Ord, Nebraska

A Christmas Story

In January 2006, a fire destroyed a family’s home. In that fire were all the belongings of a six-year-old boy, including his Christmas presents. A classmate from his school who had a birthday around then asked her parents if she could give all her gifts to the boy. That act of kindness will forever warm my heart because the boy is my grandson. – Donna Kachnowski, Lebanon, Connecticut

She Gave Me Direction

As I left a party, I got on the wrong freeway and was immediately lost. I pulled over to the shoulder and called my roadside-assistance provider. She tried to connect me to the California Highway Patrol, but that call never went through. Hearing the panic in my voice, she came up with a plan B: “You’re near this office,” she said. “I’m about to go off shift. Stay put, and I’ll find you.” Ten minutes later, she rolled up. She guided me not only to the right freeway but all the way to the correct freeway exit. And then, with a wave goodbye, she drove back into the night. – Michelle Arnold, Santee, California. Next, check out these 50 random acts of kindness that don’t cost a cent!

Original Source -> 24 Stories About the Touching Kindness of Strangers That’ll Make You Tear Up

source https://www.seniorbrief.com/24-stories-about-the-touching-kindness-of-strangers-thatll-make-you-tear-up/

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livelikebrent · 7 years ago

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Stop 8: Portland, Oregon

"Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out." - John Wooden

Solid quote, right? After planning a trip to Seattle I wanted to hit Portland while I was out there. I had the time. I didn’t take much time off the year and a half prior. If I did, it was usually last minute to get to the hospital because something had happened with Brent. I’m not complaining by any means. I didn’t take vacations, only weekend trips with Brent to Ocean City Maryland, or back home (both of ours). Time is something you’ll never get back. It’s something that should be spent wisely but not cautiously. When making my plans to be in Seattle with my brother and friends, Josh and Hannah, no one signed up to come on my Portland trip. I was actually pretty keen on the idea of having some time to myself, in a city I knew nothing about and spending 5 days with no where to be and no one to truly answer to. I mean, traveling alone was something I had become pretty used to when Brent became sick. I’d travel for hours by train, subway, car, by foot etc. to see him in New York City, Northern New Jersey, back home in Wilkes-Barre or during the weekdays in between visits. I’ve always been a rather independent person...so it had never intimidated me.

My brother and I shared an Uber to the airport before the sun even showed up on Tuesday morning. He made his way to departing flights as I went to rent a car. I hopped into a black economy class car. I actually did look into splurging on a Mercedes or something I probably won’t ever own myself. But it turns out even renting one for only a few hours would cost close to the amount of money I’d been spending on Airbnbs for the week. But as I made my way south, I had an outstanding purple and magenta sunrise along with a Seattle throw back hip hop radio station. Aside from the sky everything was green, the sky had begun to drizzle, I stopped at a Starbucks (shocking, I know), ordered a coffee and plugged Cannon Beach into my GPS. I couldn’t tell you how I knew about Haystack Rock at Cannon Beach. I figured everyone knew it existed and that was one of Oregon’s iconic spots. Turns out, not so much. It was an easy drive as I drove along the coast and I passed through a half dozen small coastal towns. One of those towns was Astoria, Oregon, which brought me to my first official stop: Rogue’s Ales Astoria Public House. The establishment wasn’t even open yet but as I drove across a one way wooden boardwalk out to the bar which is the old Bumble Bee Tuna Cannery, I cracked my windows and listened to seals barking.

I walked inside, the bar tender in a Tommy Bahama button down told me to take a seat anywhere and asked if I was alone. I sat myself at the bar and as I stared up at the board of what was on tap, he poured me some beer to try. I ended up with a sour and a cup of clam chowder. It was most definitely a soup type of day. The bartender asked me where I was traveling from. I explained I was on a trip from Philly and had just made my way down from Seattle. We chatted for a bit about road trips, the Pacific Northwest and whatnot. I grabbed a shirt to buy for my Dad and as I was closing out my tab, I asked the bartender about a sticker. I told him I had noticed that it was a relatively clean looking and a sticker would look out of place. He pulled over a wooden Rogue napkin/condiment holder that already had a “Be nice you’re in Oregon.” sticker on it...he said, “You can put it right here.” I told him about Brent and why I was there. He told me about a buddy of his that was in surgery that very moment to have a cancerous mass removed. I shook his hand, told him I wished the best for his buddy and continued my way down to Canon Beach.

I think it’s kind of silly to describe a rock as majestic. But there is really no other way to explain it. First of all, it’s a massive rock on a beach surrounded by other rather large rocks. As I drove through the small town and wound up the road I saw Haystack rock on my right just beyond some homes on the hill. I pulled my rental over grinning from ear to ear and hopped out. I snapped some photos from up above. Then I tried to figure out where I could ditch my car so I could walk on the beach. I found a nearby lot and walked along the water in my vans, jacket and hat to try and stay a bit warm from the breeze and lack of morning sunshine. It was awesome. I wanted to stay on the beach all day to just take in the sights and sounds. I need to plan a trip to travel back for warmer weather and book a little beach bungalow cottage off of the main road so I could soak it all in for a bit longer.

Recognize this beach? The Goonies was filmed here. *Insert truffle shuffle move here* After my long walk on the beach I had a friend suggest a place for a bite and a brew right on the main street by Haystack Rock called Cannon Beach Hardware & Public House. The answer is YES. It is exactly what it sounds like. As I sat in an old airplane seat eating an ahi tuna salad and sipping on a hard cider, a man was buying Gorilla Glue and some screws. It’s a hardware store with a bar on one end. It was one of the most interesting places I have ever been and I would highly recommend it.

I continued to Portland winding through towering Douglas Firs and I couldn’t get over how green everything was. If I wasn’t surrounded by some sort of pine it was a tree absolutely covered in moss. It started misting on my drive and a fog hung out at the top of the trees. It was just all so lush and so refreshing to see. I couldn't tell you why but I simply couldn’t get enough of it. If I didn’t have to return the rental car, I would’ve spent hours just driving around. I wouldn’t be surprise if I swung through Ferngully at one point.

I finally checked into my Airbnb which was ADORABLE and located in the Hawthorne neighborhood of the city. You can view the entire place here! I decided not to stay in the heart of downtown Portland because I figured staying in a different neighborhood would force me to check out different areas. But the place I stayed in was everything I needed and nothing more. It was a one bedroom basement apartment right off of one of Portland’s main drags. It turned out that one of my college buds lived a couple blocks away with his girlfriend. So I could easily meet up with him later in the week after work.

What did I do in Portland? I walked. Then walked. Walked and walked. Why? Because I had a pair of Vans and all the time in the world. I’d rather see a city I’ve never been to before on foot anyway. Day one I walked downtown to hit up Voodoo Donut. The weather ruled...again, I do realize I lucked out with weather on the trip. One of the many things I did not know about Portland is that they have several (a total of 12) bridges. Crazy. As I spotted a bridge to cross I stumbled upon a place called Urbanite. I unexpectedly spent close to an hour in there walking up and down the aisles checking out the eclectic consignment booths filled with home decor, art work, furniture and odds and ends. Had I not only traveled with a carry on for this entire trip, I probably would’ve made several purchases...I even considered shipping stuff back to Philadelphia. Also, can we take note of the extremely creepy coat rack in the photo below that took 1.5 deer to make?

As I walked across the Burnside Bridge, one of Portland’s main arteries, I came across Portland’s infamous White Stag Sign.

Right over the bridge was the doughnut shop. Right outside of the shop were a couple of homeless people who knew EXACTLY what they were doing. They stood outside of the all cash establishment nabbing pretty much tourists all day long. So nobody could go to the easy go to line of, “Sorry, I only have my card on me.” Also, I will say they were pretty aggressive. I didn’t expect to be harassed trying to simply buy a bacon covered doughnut. Along with said doughnut, I purchased a couple of post cards to mail out. Again, I’m not sure why I love postcards so much. Sometimes I just write a quick note to people and others I’m trying to squeeze in as many words as humanly possible in my message. Side note: Feel free to send me some on your trips! I got my doughnut, post cards and found a spot to sit outside as I continued to listen to tourists heckled by Portland’s finest.

After my mid-morning snack I went to a couple of shops including Adler and Co, Stumptown Coffee, Union Way, Powell’s, Made Here PDX and Porch Light. Shout out to Haley for all of the recommendations! I linked the last three because they were amazing. Powell’s is the world’s largest independent bookstore. It’s like you’re in a completely different world in there. While I spent some time browsing, reading and wandering around, I heard multiple parties lost over the loud speaker. They have sections of the book store marked in colors...so they had to ask the lost humans to report to the purple section or orange section of the store.

Made Here had a TON of products that were made locally in Portland. They had everything from candy, jewelry, leather goods, art to beauty products. I kept seeing salted black licorice everywhere. My mom is one of those people that loves black licorice and yes, black jelly beans...but I think a lot of moms do come to think of it. Needless to say, I bought it for her. Still haven’t heard how they are...I suppose the jury is still out on that one.

Porch Light. GAH. I spent SO much time in there. I didn’t want to leave but I was terrified of buying almost EVERYTHING. Disclaimer: Their website doesn’t have half the stuff they have in store. But I did end up treating myself to a pretty little ring to remember the trip and such a wonderfully dreamy establishment.

After I was done with shopping and browsing there was a Deschutes location: the Deschutes Public House. The brew pub’s 26 taps featured Deschutes beer plus a selection of seasonal and experimental beers developed and brewed on site exclusively for the Portland pub. I had a sour, fried cauliflower and made my way back to my apartment. I ended most afternoons on the cozy, green velour couch with Nextflix, a cup of green tea and a nap. But that evening my college bud, Sean, hit me up for a drink. I met him at The Nest which is a local’s bar off the main drag and not terribly far from where I was staying. It was a dive bar with board games, video games and ping pong. We grabbed a seat outside on the patio, caught up and then Sean showed me around the neighborhood. We ended up at Quarter World Arcade. It was basically Philly’s Barcarde but on steroids and it was awesome. We probably spent a decent amount in quarters and I introduced Sean to my favorite arcade game, Tapper. Tapper is game where you are the bartender serving up Budwisers to dozens of thirsty patrons. It makes me so anxious playing but it’s so much fun..

Thursday was a day I spent in the Hawthorne section of Portland. I walked to a place called Pine State Biscuits. If you know me, I’ll have a biscuit with every meal if possible. So I walked a bit to earn my biscuit brunch and ordered The Money Ball which was biscuits and gravy topped with an over easy egg and a tall glass of sweet tea. I sat there and took my time...it was absolutely delish. I thought about asking to put a Live Like Brent sticker up since I had yet to place one up in Portland. But it was a cleaner/sleeker type of establishment in ambiance. So I figured it wasn’t the right spot.

After the concrete settled in my stomach, I continued to walk. I came across a smaller Powell’s location and tons of small businesses. Portland is extremely supportive of entrepreneurs which was really neat. I fell in love with a shop called Tender Loving Empire. Similar to Porch Light, but more within my budget, I did not want to leave and I wanted everything.

Friday was another day of walking. I walked 5 miles across the city to see the International Rose Test Garden and the Japanese Garden. Mind you, it was mid-March so it wasn’t exactly peek season for the roses. Honestly, they were all chopped down with the exception of a few. But I bet it is stunning in the summer time. Also, I really don’t know if that’s a rose pictured below. But it was pretty and there was an entire wall of them.

I got zen in the Japanese Garden and walked around. It was conveniently located immediately behind the Rose Garden. It was pretty interesting. There were interesting trees, greenery and moss everywhere and Koi fish in some of the ponds. There was a house in the garden with a back patio that has the best view of Mt. Hood in all of Portland. But guess what?! It was a drizzling, grey and overcast day...so there wasn’t too much of a view.

As it started to rain, I took another suggestion out of Haley’s guide to Portland email she had sent to me and went to Great Notion Brewery for a beer and a bite to eat. The brewery was awesome and definitely a place I would hang out regularly if I had lived there. It had a lumber jack theme and vibe going on and is known for fruity and sour beers...I had a Blueberry Muffin beer, a tart ale, which was pretty legit. I tried making conversation with the bartender and asking her for other suggestions in the area. Every interaction was brief. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation. So I guess then I wasn’t in the mood to over tip. Afterwards, I decided to leave the area and I made my way down to Mississippi Ave. to window shop and for another drink before heading back to the apartment.

I spent most nights at my Airbnb relaxing with a cup of tea watching Netflix. Some of you probably just read that last sentence and said, “Uh, what.” and then you probably thought, “Why would you do that on a trip when you could do it at home?” Well, it’s not something I do at home all that often. On the week days between my weekends traveling to and from New York to Brent, I would come home from work, throw on my pajamas, maybe make dinner and watch episode after episode after episode of The Office, Shameless, The Office again and whatever other sitcom I may have gotten into. My focus Monday through Friday was to work and just get through the week so I could hurry up to the next weekend to see Brent. But after Brent had passed I couldn’t do it. When he was alive (and home) we were always on the go, even when he was home and sick in his recliner, I’d be at the grocery store for him, picking up prescriptions, cooking food for him that he could easily reheat, so on and so on. Even after he had passed, the amount of phone calls, texts and Facebook messages to make plans never stopped. When they did finally slow down I would find myself after a second episode of Chopped twiddling my thumbs. I would stand up and need to do something. Sitting still became almost impossible. I felt useless. I felt like there had to be something better I could be doing with my time. So the fact that I had an entire 5 days to be alone in Portland, reflect and veg out...was exactly what I needed once again.

One night, I decided to find a movie from my mental list “Movies I should’ve seen at one point in my life but never did” and chose “Into The Wild.” For those of you who do not know the premise. It’s a 2007 film directed and produced by Sean Penn starring Emile Hirsh based off of the book about the travels of Christopher McCandless across North America and his experiences in the Alaskan wilderness in the early 1990s. McCandless graduates college, doesn’t want anything from his well to do family, destroys everything he owns and donates every last penny to charity. He wanted to live off of nothing but the Earth itself and disappear into the wild. He did fairly well for himself...during his travels, he meets a group of gypsies, make friends and along the way and works a couple of odd and end jobs to get him to his ultimate destination. He loved being on his own, earning every meal on his own and taking in the beauty of nature. He does make it to Alaska but being an amateur and not properly trained on this type of survival, his supplies begins to run out. As he decided to maybe make a return to civilization. When he packed up his home he had created in an abandoned bus and retraced his steps. He encountered the river he once crossed but didn’t account for the snow to thaw during the winter causing the water to rise a great deal. He retreated back to his bus to figure out how to continue and he goes into the wild to find something to eat. McCandless mistakenly eats a plant that ultimately killed him. When he realized he mistakenly ate a poisonous plant, he wrote one last thing in his journal: "Happiness only real when shared.”

At this point in the movie I’m ready to burst out in tears as I tell the television in front of me, “HE’S SO RIGHT.” As I sat there on the couch, curled up under a lavender blanket I was tired of taking selfies, I wanted somebody to share dishes with as I could never finish a plate of food by myself, it was nice to not be on anyone else’s schedule but it would be nice to share and experience Portland with somebody alongside of me. I had been blessed to have so many friends join me on my many stops for the Live Like Brent Tour. I was excited to have plenty of downtime by myself to explore and experience a new city. But what I had found is the same thing (in a much less dramatic way) as Chris McCandless. It’s great and wonderful to be happy with yourself, to be independent but what is life if you don’t have somebody to share it’s experiences with?

I shared my final day in Portland with Sean, and his girlfriend, J’ena. They took me to the Colombia River Gorge which itself was gorge - There was still a morning mist and fog hanging heavy in the sky. We stopped at the Vista House which is a free museum at Crown Point and also serves as a memorial to Oregon pioneers and as a comfort station for travelers on the Historic Columbia River Highway. We climbed to the stop of the house and we were able to get quite the view.

As we made our way along the Colombia River Highway we made a couple of stops along the way to hike and see several stunning waterfalls. During the car ride I learned more about J’ena. She’s kind of a big deal. She kinda was a very sought after NEW character at Disney. She Kinda was in the circus. Her family was kinda like gypsies. Again, she’s kinda big deal and I’m so happy for her and Sean.

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After we walked the final trail and saw the final waterfall. We made our way back to Rose City for a bite to eat. This is where I had THE BEST dish of my entire trip. We went to a place called Bye and Bye, a hip southern inspired vegan bar. When my best bud, Ang, went to Portland to visit Haley she wouldn’t stop talking about this place and the bowl she ate. And now I can’t stop thinking about this place and the bowl I ate! I had the Eastern Bowl which included nutritional yeast breaded tofu, broccoli, and brown rice with a spicy ginger peanut sauce, topped with sesame seeds. That spicy ginger peanut sauce was seriously the most flavorful thing ever. I couldn’t finish it but didn’t mind because it was something I was definitely ready to take back with me for a late snack. But we hung out for a bit more. We chatted about work, books we’ve recently read and other things. I expressed concern that I had yet to place a Live Like Brent sticker in Portland. I started to think that perhaps it was an omen. Brent thought about moving to Portland when we first started dating. Now here I was in the same city and couldn’t find the right spot...and I wasn’t being picky by any means. Sean then asked me, “Wait, wasn’t Brent into the Dead and like Phish?” Turns out there was a Grateful Dead bar in the neighborhood I was staying in and Sean told me to go visit it. It was called Fire on the Mountain.

I grabbed an Uber as the rain started to really come down. I got to Fire on the Mountain and it smelled like buffalo sauce. The two owners opened it because they felt that Portland needed a solid wing joint. I walked in and found an empty stool at the bar. I asked a guy sucking down beer and wings if it was open. I sat there, ordered an IPA Sean had suggested and an order of deep fried Oreo’s. Honestly, I wasn’t all that hungry from my delish bowl. But they did sound pretty good. As I sat there, it was the perfect place to put a sticker up for Brent. It was a funky spot with cool stickers all around, I spotted an A-Basin sticker in the kitchen on the door of their cooler. Side note: A-Basin was a mountain I snowboarded for Brent on the Colorado trip and it was one of his favorite spots to shred. Another notable sticker said, “Support Your Local Shake Down Street.” So I snagged a bartender’s ear for a moment and explained why I was in Portland and more importantly why I was at Fire on the Mountain on my last day of the trip. His response was kind and he was sorry for my loss, thanked me for sharing my story and told me that he would be honored to put the sticker behind the bar.

The guy next to me was just about done sucking down his chicken wings and said, “Boy do those Oreo’s smell good.” I IMMEDIATELY offered some as again, there was no way I could eat all of it. His name was Clay and he told me he was sorry to hear about Brent. We sat there and ordered a couple rounds of beers. He was drinking Rainier Beer which is comparable to a PBR I suppose. He grew up in Utah but moved around a bit for work, Portland was where he had landed and loved it. He double checked that I hit all of the spots that any visitor should. The one thing I did not do was eat from a food truck. There were PLENTY of opportunities, but it just simply never happened. After a while I decided to call it a day and ended my last night in Portland on the cozy green couch, under the lavender blanket, a cup of green tea, Netflix and the remainder of my Eastern Bowl.

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hottytoddynews · 7 years ago

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Donna Howard likes to say she quit her old job only to make half the money and work twice as hard. But she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Howard is the executive director of Holding Hands, a consignment shop she opened on West Oxford Loop in January of 2013. But it’s not just any old consignment shop: She opened Holding Hands specifically to create jobs for people with mental illnesses.

Although the store has been in business for a little under five years, Howard’s journey began long ago.

“When my daughter was 14, she told me she was hearing The New Kids on the Block sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to her through the air conditioner,” Howard said. “And she had some [other] problems, but I think that was the thing that really knocked me over.”

Holding Hands opened for business in January of 2013.

They saw doctors for a year before Howard’s daughter, Cassie, received a diagnosis: chronic paranoid schizophrenia.

Although medication helped, becoming an adult still brought about unusual challenges for Cassie. For many years, problems with fellow employees made it difficult for her to hold down a job.

“She’s almost 40 now, but she still acts like a teenager because she became sick at such an early age,” Howard said. “It’s hard to understand why people act like that when they’re supposed to be grown.”

According to Howard, Cassie would complain every day about her grocery store job. She begged her mother to let her quit. Around that same time, Howard and her sister-in-law went shopping in Nashville. They visited a thrift shop whose owner had started the business in order to employ his autistic daughter and others with disabilities. Howard left the store with an idea.

“We walked out,” Howard said, “and my sister-in-law looked at me and said, ‘You’re going to do this, aren’t you?’ And I said, ‘Yep.’”

But first she did what she does every morning to start her day, what she does in times of need and times of gratitude: She prayed. She prayed and prayed and consulted her financial advisor, and at first the idea for Holding Hands didn’t seem feasible. But then, as Howard describes it, it all just fell into place.

Howard quit her job as director of radiology in Booneville, where she’d been working for eight years, and set out to open a business where Cassie could work in peace. Holding Hands was born.

“We employ people with mental illness because they’re the most underserved population,” Howard said. “Not everybody can work with them, and not everybody understands them. You know, if you look normal, then you should act normal. That’s how most people think. And that’s not the case.”

Today, in addition to her employees, Howard has two “support staff,” she calls them, who help her run the business.

But there are still challenges. Howard admits that sometimes, her employees don’t work as fast as she’d like. She has to take a deep breath and tell herself that it’s okay.

In fact, it’s better than okay: This work is more fulfilling to Howard than anything she’s ever done.

“Seeing the people that work here being so comfortable and content and doing so well, that’s what’s rewarding for me,” Howard said. “And Cassie never complains about coming to work, even though she has to come to work with her mother every day — that’s what she says —it’s not so bad. And that’s what makes it all worthwhile. It’s just been such a pleasure.”

It’s a pleasure to the families of Howard’s employees and to her customers as well.

Lafayette County Justice Court Judge Mickey Avent first visited the shop while hunting for antiques. After hearing about its mission, he became a regular customer and friend of Howard’s. Avent soon decided he wanted to get involved and has recently become a Holding Hands board member.

“I believed it was an opportunity to help an organization that helps people learn the skills necessary to better themselves, to hold employment and to teach them responsibility,” Avent said.

He said Holding Hands is an asset to Lafayette County and Oxford.

“It gives people with disabilities a place to go and learn a job skill and feel like a contributing member of society,” Avent said.

To Howard, Lafayette County and the city of Oxford are the assets.

“I couldn’t have done it without them,” she said. “I don’t know what I expected when I did this. I don’t think ahead. I think, ‘God’s got it tomorrow, and he’ll have it the next day, and it’ll all work out.’ And it has. He has been amazing. He has provided all the way, but the people of Oxford . . . I don’t think I could ask any more of them.”

According to Howard, the giving is always perfectly timed. Once, the store received nine truckloads of items from the home of a hoarder who had died. Another time, 93 apartment buildings were being demolished and Howard got a phone call asking if she wanted the appliances — all of them.

“The one thing I have to say is that God has been in this from day one,” Howard said. “There have been times when we were low on furniture and stuff, and I’ll start praying, and then we’re covered up, and they’ll say, ‘Please stop praying for furniture! We’ve got too much!’”

But Howard continues to pray anyway. She gives thanks because she is able to keep her daughter close. She gives thanks because she sees Holding Hands benefitting Cassie and so many others.

Her only wish is that there were more hours in the day.

“I would love to open stores all over the United States to help people if I could,” she said.

This article originally ran on HottyToddy.com in April 2016. Anna McCollum, the writer, was a senior print journalism major at The Meek School of Journalism and New Media at the time.

Follow HottyToddy.com on Instagram, Twitter and Snapchat @hottytoddynews. Like its Facebook page: If You Love Oxford and Ole Miss…

The post The Power of Prayer Fuels Success of Holding Hands Resale Shop appeared first on HottyToddy.com.

#hottytoddy #olemiss #oxfordms #oxford ms #mississippi #university of mississippi #the grove

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leilapiazza · 7 years ago

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How do I choose what to wear on any given day? Well, I start with the weather. Rain means no suede, cold means no open shoes. Variable weather means a sweater or jacket I can easily take off and on throughout the day. For instance, I’d be more likely to choose a cardigan over a crew neck sweater on a sunny/rainy/cloudy day. (If you live in Portland, Oregon, you know what I mean.)

Next, I consider the day’s plans. If I’m thinking about a walk to the grocery store, I’ll want to wear walkable shoes. If I’m going to spend most of the day sitting, I can indulge in high heels. On a day when I’ll be cleaning up or organizing things, I’ll choose pants, but days with little to no physical work are great for wearing a pretty skirt.

Those are the basics. After that, it’s just a matter of what I’m in the mood for. Also, I have to say, I do tend to look around for something I haven’t worn in a while. With a total of 16 tops between my two capsules, I only wear each one every two weeks or so.

Some people use a system to rotate through their clothes. A popular method is to turn the hanger backwards when you hang up what you just wore. That’s also a good way to figure out if there’s something in your wardrobe that you think you should wear, but actually don’t. I don’t really bother with this system. I have a TERRIBLE memory, but for some reason, I never have a hard time with my wardrobe. A quick glance through my closet will usually elicit a, “hmm. I haven’t worn that lately.”

Today, I’m featuring the same sweater and pants in all three pictures. In each case, I added different shoes, accessories, and toppers to create three different looks, appropriate for different days.

Forever 21 Sweaters (similar) : LOVE 21 Striped Ribbed Knit Striped Chenille Cargo Pants: Express mid rise belted cargo (very similar) Dex Skinny Cargo (also similar)

The sweater was purchased at Forever 21 in Vancouver B.C., on vacation with my daughter Maddy. Yep, that’s right. We went all the way to Vancouver B.C. and ended up shopping at Forever 21! What can I say. They got the goods.

The cargo pants are from H&M and they are my big score from this year’s fall shopping. I absolutely LOVE these pants. I got the “Wow! Those pants look great on you!” comment from a fellow shopper in the dressing room – always a good sign. They wash well, and they’re super comfortable! I needed to let go of my last pair of cargo pants this summer because they were faded, and they got too big for me (that is NOT a complaint!). I was afraid I wouldn’t find a better pair, but I did! It just goes to show, we shouldn’t be afraid to let go of things…

In this first outfit, I went casual. It reflects what I would wear if I were staying home, maybe doing a little work around the house, and probably planning on taking a walk or two.

I’m not wearing any jewelry. I wouldn’t if I was going to clean the kitchen, do some yard work, or basically anything that might have me getting my hands dirty, or bending over (necklaces are not great for tasks that involve bending).

Those are legit, vintage Vans, by the way. Pretty darn happy about them! I bought them for $8 at a thrift store in Newport about 10 years ago.

You may also notice I’m using them to do a little more low key pattern mixing. I’ve made no secret of the fact that pattern mixing doesn’t feel natural to me. But I’m breaking out of my old ruts and trying something new.

My Instagram/Tumblr/Facebook feeds have some other pattern mixing experiments. Baby steps, people. Baby steps. The choices below are not as fly as mine, but whatcha gonna do?

Vans: Old Skool Platform Sneaker Classic Slip-on

In this case, I’ve dressed the outfit up with a black blazer, mixed stone necklace, and burgundy suede booties. I bought this blazer from Forever 21 a year ago on Black Friday. The booties are from DSW. I’ve owned them for three years and they still look brand new! There’s a zipper up the back, which is a really cute detail. The necklace was my mother-in-law’s, and just like my mom’s necklace, seen here, it’s one of my favorites because I loved my mother-in-law a lot!

This is what I would throw on in the middle of the day if the outfit above needed to transition to lunch with a friend. This is also what I might wear for various errands. A bootie with a nice blocky heel really elevates an outfit, but is still comfortable enough for running around town.

Blazer: Forever 21 Cuff Sleeve Blazer (exact) Booties: Charlotte Russe (with cute buckle detail) Crown Vintage (lower heel, deep color) Necklace: DKNY- jewel tones DKNY-smokey tones Robert Lee Morris – gorgeous (all similar)

So, you know right off the bat, this is one of my favorite outfits. Of course, you can tell because I’m wearing my leopard print shoes! If you didn’t read about my love of leopard print already, you can do so here. You can also check out some great leopard print shoes in a previous post, featuring current options at DSW and Nordstrom Rack, here.

This gorgeous leather jacket was a hand-me-down from my darling friend, April. I think the white contrast stitching really takes this up a notch.

Hand-me-down tip: Go to the consignment shop with your friend. You never know what you might end up with if the store takes a pass. Leila for the win!

The leopard print shoes are just lovely, don’t you think? I finally broke down and bought the Franco Sarto’s I was craving. I justified the purchase on the basis of their lower, more comfortable heel.

They didn’t make it in the mail yet. It’s fun to have something to look forward to. You can see them here. You should look at them even if you don’t want to buy them. They’re perfect.

This is also an outfit I could run errands in. (I like to look spiffy!) It would also look great going out to dinner. None of the jacket choices here are very similar (how could they be – it’s so unique). But they’re stylish!

Jacket: Via Spiga Kut from Kloth Cole Haan Shoes: Franco Sarto Head Over Heels (very similar!) Diane Von Furstenberg (how can you go wrong?)

How do YOU choose? Do you choose? You can leave a comment at the bottom of the page. Signing in is optional. I want you to feel totally comfortable! I used to agonize over these things, but capsule wardrobing has made getting dressed in the morning easy, breezy, and fun!

Remember, no matter what; do your thing! Everybody gets to be whoever they are. Your clothes are just one way to express your fabulousness. So get out there, don’t apologize, and take no prisoners. All’s fair in love and fashion!

Me, rocking Iris Apfel glasses. Iris Apfel, my fashion hero.

Check out this great interview, IRIS APFEL: “YOU CAN’T LEARN STYLE” at online interview magazine The Talks (photo credit), interview by Emma Robertson.

A note to readers: There are affiliate links in this post. If you click on these links or make purchases, I will be paid a small commission. I only promote or recommend what I sincerely adore. Thank you for reading!

How do I choose what to wear? How do I choose what to wear on any given day? Well, I start with the weather.

#cargo pants #DSW #Forever 21 #H&M #leopard print #pattern mixing #what to wear

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goldeagleprice · 7 years ago

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How many 1929 sheets did Col. Green have?

Col. Edward Howland Robinson Green, collector extraordinaire. (Library of Congress photo)

By Peter Huntoon

As I write this on Saturday, Aug. 1, lot 67 in the Stack’s Bowers Auction at the American Numismatic Association Auction, Session 1, labeled as U. S. Coins Part 1, consisting of 575 lots is about to go under the hammer. From my perspective as a paper money researcher/writer, lot 67 is the most important item in the entire sale.

Lot 67 is a carbon copy of Frederic C.C. Boyd’s 1937 appraisal of Col. Edward Howland Robinson Green’s vast numismatic collection. Green was the son of Hetty Green—the witch of Wall Street—the richest woman in America in her day.

Boyd’s inventory tallies 51,018 coins, medals and tokens that we really don’t care about.

Of supreme interest to us though is the total of $839,688.92 in face in U.S. currency. Of that, $198,256 worth was considered uncollectible.

This left 62,434 notes with a face value of $641,432.92 to which Boyd attached a total premium value of $21,433.26. The premium works out to a little over 3.3 percent above face.

Boyd’s inventory states that the undesirable $198,256 was “delivered to the Redemption Department of United States Treasury, Washington, D.C., and destroyed.”

The redeemed notes are just cause for you to gnash your teeth. In reality, the bulk of it consisted of high denomination notes of which the colonel was particularly fond. He thoroughly enjoyed flashing $10,000 notes around in his younger days.

Gold notes large and small of all denominations were included, because, of course, by then they were supposed to be turned in as per President Roosevelt’s April 5, 1933 Executive Order 6102 requiring everyone to relinquish their gold, gold bullion and gold certificates. The gold notes totaled $33,370.

And then there were severely damaged formerly very collectible type notes spanning the federal issues that had been stored in acetate holders. The acid from the plastic had eaten them up and made them as brittle as paper-thin glass. Sigh.

Extraordinary Arizona note from a sheet that owed its survival to Col. Green. When George Blake offered to buy for Col. Green their No. 1 sheets at a modest premium, his offer sounded like found money to many bankers from around the country during the Depression.

Boyd’s inventory consists of 442 pages of 14 x 18-inch ledger pages. Obviously, for the most part, it is not a line-item listing of 113,452 items. But there is a gold mine of insight contained therein, particularly for currency aficionados.

We get to glimpse the scope of the colonel’s Series of 1929 serial No. 1 National Bank Note sheet holding, and what a glimpse it is. Green’s hoard of 1929 sheets was the source for most of the No. 1 sheets and notes that grace your collections.

How do you inventory 113,452 numismatic items? Boyd faced a gargantuan task. The material was stored in trunks in the colonel’s vault in the basement of his Round Hill Estate in South Dartmouth, Conn., overlooking Buzzards Bay.

On Oct. 25, 1936, the small objects that the colonel collected—he also collected stamps on a vast scale, jewels by the pound, and other things—were transferred from South Dartmouth to The First National Bank of Boston. The move involved eight armored cars, 16 private guards and seven state policemen.

What Boyd did was simply list the contents by trunk in the order in which they were opened. The 1929 sheets came from trunks 4, 6, 15, 17, 18, 21, 26 and 41. He provided counts of them by denomination along with their face value.

Their appraised numismatic value was figured at face. After all, it was 1937 and the things were still in circulation. Hey, at least he did not have them shunted directly to the redemption agency with the other $198,256.

This inventory was F.C.C. Boyd’s copy, which was last sold in the 2004 Stack’s-Kolbe Sale of John J. Ford, Jr.’s reference library, Part I, lot 518, where it brought $42,550. The Green Estate copy was sold in Kolbe & Fanning’s 2012 New York Book Auction, lot 287, for $40,250. Those yields in my opinion represent a lot of money for a non-itemized listing.

I didn’t learn about the inventory coming up in the Stack’s Bowers sale until a couple of days ago. I hadn’t planned on going to the show. But I had to get the information. Plan A was to drive or fly up to Denver to see the volume, but I was quickly disabused of that idea because when I got on line I saw that the thing was going to be hammered down tonight and I simply couldn’t get there beforehand.

I desperately came up with plan B. This was the make-a-big-pain-in-the-neck-out-of-myself option. I frantically emailed my friend Dave Bowers yesterday and asked if he could somehow arrange for me to get the data on the 1929 note. I knew he was busier than a one-armed paper hanger at the moment getting ready for the show and the auction, and the last thing he needed was a request like this.

Entrance to the vault in the basement of Col. Green’s Round Hill mansion, which contained most of his numismatic treasures including the 1929 sheets. (Photo from Bedell (2003, p. 34).)

Well, the fact is, I immediately got a gracious reply for which I am greatly indebted, and he fobbed my request off on two unwitting associates who were on the ground with the lot; specifically, John Pack, executive director for consignments, and Christine Karstedt, executive vice president, both with Stack’s Bowers Galleries.

Good grief, did I feel like a heel. But within a short time both fired back images from the inventory using their cell phones that allowed me to hone in on the red meat. Before I noticed I was disturbing an executive vice president, I emailed Christine that I needed pages 439, 440 and 441. I got a late-evening reply that she would send them today, and she did.

Then I got an email from David Fanning of Kolbe & Fanning Numismatic Booksellers, who were offering the lot in association with Stack’s Bowers asking how he could help. What thoroughly decent folks.

When it comes to something important like getting these data before they go under the waves in another recluse’s book collection, one has to have a backup plan. In this case, my plan C was to call Gerome Walton in Colorado Springs, Colo., last evening. He’s the Nebraska National Bank Note specialist who co-instructs the ANA summer National Bank Note short course with me. What I like about Gerome is that he is the type of guy who also can get very fired up about information like this.

Once I told him about lot 67, he immediately dropped what he was doing today and made plans to get to Denver with camera in hand to record the critical data. So, we are backed up.

I’ll tell you how hard core Walton is when it comes to pedigree information. He even has Amon Carter’s driver’s license in his collection to go with the Nebraska nationals that came from Amon’s collection.

All of these people’s sole compensation for being so generous is that they know I’m going to get this information out for you to read. All of us recognize that this is big news.

So just what do we have?

We have totals—the big picture—information that never has been published before.

Green had 3,293 full sheets of six notes and another 15 part-sheets of from two to five subjects, all serial No. 1.

The full sheets break down by denomination as follows:

$5 946 $28,380 $10 1,233 $73,980 $20 1,087 $130,440 $50 16 $4,800 $100 11 $6,600

3,293 $244,200

This is 1929-1935 money folks, when a dollar was worth something.

Entrance to Col. Green’s mansion at Round Hill, South Dartmouth, Mass., complete with a Hupmobile parked in front. (Photo by my uncle John Klemann, Jr. Sept. 23, 1931.)

Look at these data this way. The typical banker sold two to three sheets to George Blake, who was serving as intermediary in assembling this hoard. That means that there was something like 1,100 to 1,650 different banks represented in Green’s holding.

Think about those numbers. There were 6,996 banks that issued Series of 1929 notes. Green got sheets from something like 15 to 25 percent of all of them. If this doesn’t blow your mind, I give up on you.

No, we don’t have breakdowns by state. Too bad. However, you can deduce a bit of that picture by logging onto the National Currency Foundation census website and seeing what is out there. Just set the search for 1929 sheets, then do it again for No. 1 1929 notes. Green’s holding is where most of what you will find came from. If you are real parochial, add the name of your state to your search.

Also make no mistake about it. Many if not most of Green’s sheets were redeemed. William Philpott (1970) tells their fate. Material in the square brackets was added by me.

“After Green died and his estate was administered, there was little interest among collectors in these sheets. A few of us borrowed money and bought (at 15% above face) as many sheets as we could afford. A few months later the large remainder of this sheet hoard was [deposited as cash at the Chase National Bank in New York in 1948 and] turned in to the Federal Reserve Bank, New York. [The cashier at the New York Fed] segregated the sheets, according to the twelve districts [instead of sending them to the Treasury for redemption]. Each of the other 11 banks received a list of sheets from banks in the respective districts, offering the sheets at face for the eleven banks to distribute, ‘as a public relation act,’ sheets to the national banks of issue.”

Some of the cashiers in the other Federal Reserve Banks took the New York Fed up on the opportunity and offered the sheets back to their original issuers. Then some of those bankers bought them back at face. But the orphans were redeemed with the Treasury in 1949 or so.

Philpott went on to explain what happened to the sheets earmarked for the Dallas Federal Reserve Bank. Recall that Philpott was the secretary of the Texas Bankers Association.

“When the Dallas bank received a list of the 11th District sheets available, and the New York bank’s suggestions of a ‘good will’ gesture, this letter was referred to me, saying I could have any or all of the Texas No. 1 sheets at face value. If I did not want them, the Dallas bank would write New York to dispose of the notes elsewhere, as there was no interest in Texas.

“Again, I heaved a sigh, signed another large note or two at my bank and rescued another score or so of uncut Texas sheets, all No. 1. I learned later that the remainder of sheets from the 11th District were eventually sent to the Treasury for redemption.”

A convoy of Brink’s armored cars with police escort moved the small, high value objects from Col. Green’s Round Hill mansion to The First National Bank of Boston on Oct. 25, 1936. (Photo from Seng and Gilmore (1959, p. 64).)

When you do your search for sheets or No. 1 notes from your state and you find few listings, you’ll have evidence that the cashier of the Federal Reserve District bank in your district probably didn’t want to be bothered with handling the sheets.

The letters from the conscientious cashiers went out to the national bankers in 1948. The colonel died June 8, 1936. The sheets had sat around in his estate for a dozen years, just long enough to be viewed as curious out-of-print money to those who decided to spring for them. This lapse of time was just long enough to save many of the sheets.

I’m polishing this up on Aug. 3, and Gerome has just called to tell me that Boyd’s inventory sold for $30,550 this time around.

Sources of information and dynamite Reading

Bedell, Barbara Fortin, 2003, Colonel Edward Howland Robinson Green and the World He Created at Round Hill: published privately, 150 p.

Huntoon, Peter, and Bedell, Barbara Fortin, Jan-Feb 2009, Colonel Edward H. R. Green, collector extraordinaire, and the story of the number 1 Series of 1929 sheets: Paper Money, v. 48, p. 34-56.

Lewis, Arthur H., 1963, The Day They Shook the Plum Tree: Buccaneer Books, Cutchogue, N.Y., 247 p.

Numismatist, July 1936, Deaths, Col. E. H. R. Green: The Numismatist, p. 542-543.

Numismatist, December 1936, Colonel Green’s collection transported to Boston: The Numismatist, p. 1005-1006.

Philpott, William A., Nov. 10, 1970, Why No. 1 sheets, Series 1929, are not too rare: Numismatic News, p. 14, 27.

Seng, R.A., and J.V. Gilmour, 1959, Brink’s, the Money Movers: R. R. Donnelley and Sons, 128 p.

Slack, Charles, 2005, The Genius and Madness of American’s First Female Tycoon: Harper Collins Publishers, New York, N.Y., 258 p.

Sparkes, Boyden, and Moore, Samuel Taylor, 1935, The Witch of Wall Street, Hetty Green: Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc., New York, N.Y., 338 p.

This article was originally printed in Bank Note Reporter. >> Subscribe today.

More Collecting Resources

• The Standard Catalog of United States Paper Money is the only annual guide that provides complete coverage of U.S. currency with today’s market prices.

• When it comes to specialized world paper money issues, nothing can top the Standard Catalog of World Paper Money, Specialized Issues .

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