#Below the Surface|Bones and Beth

[brooklynislandgirl]

★

Little Every Day Blessings || Accepting

I like you // I love you // You’re one of my best friends // You’re like family // You are family // I dislike you // I hate you // I’d kill you if I got the chance // I want you to like me // I’m intimidated by you // I would adopt you // I’d date you // I’d sleep with you // I’d marry you // I’m worried about you // You confuse me // You’re annoying // I pity you // I respect you // I trust you // I feel protective of you // I’d invite you with me to parties // I’d lend you my money // I’d borrow your money // You’re a handsome man // I’m suspicious of you // I’m hiding something from you // You’re funny // You’re boring // I’m upset with you // You’re compassionate // You’re mean // I’m envious of you // You’re smart // You’re stupid // I look up to you // I think you’re a better person than me // I think I’m a better person than you // I want to apologize to you // I wish I’d never met you // I never want to forget you // I want to get to know you better

[sequinsmile-x]

Office Supplies

The only people who don't know Emily and Aaron love each other are Emily and Aaron.

Penelope, and Dave, take decisive action.

-x-

This is a birthday present for @emilyshotchniss! I hope you had a lovely day, and that you enjoy this fic <3

-x-

Words: 3.1k

Warnings: None

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

“You should tell him.” 

Emily sighs, briefly stopping herself from stirring her coffee, giving herself a moment before she turns back to look at her friend, “Pen, I’m not going to tell him.” 

“But you told me.” 

Emily throws the spoon she’d been using into the sink and holds her coffee between both her hands, the heat from the mug easier to feel than her frustration towards her friend. 

“Yes, because you plied me with absinthe, which may as well be truth serum,” she grumbles, “The combination of you and alcohol can make me admit shit I literally wouldn’t admit under torture.” 

Penelope, unbothered by Emily’s bad mood, carries on, “But peaches, you love Hotch-”

“Be quiet,” Emily says through her teeth, looking around to make sure they were still alone, the kitchen in the bullpen still mercifully empty, “We’re at work.” 

She’d known it for years. The initial pull in her belly when he was missing after Foyet attacked him, something she had told herself was just concern at the time, morphing into something all-consuming. She’d feel her cheeks get warm whenever he stood too close to her. The smell of his cologne enough to make her lose her chain of thought, the heat that he seemed to have in excess rolling off of him and making her shiver if he so much as put his hand on her back to move past her on the jet. 

If there was any part of her that thought it was just about sex she would have jumped him long ago. Let him fuck her against a door or wall, whatever the nearest surface was, to get it, him, out of her system. But it was more than that, it always had been.

She was in love with him. She loved his smile, its rarity making it all the more precious. She loved his dry sense of humour, how he’d use it to disarm the team to make them laugh when they needed it the most. She loved his presence, how she’d feel safe if he just so happened to be in a room. 

And she loved how he loved people. The subtle way he looked after them all, and the not-so-subtle way he had saved her life. 

In Paris, the feelings she had been able to push down burst into life. Everything that had once seemed to live in a grey area transformed into technicolour, settling into her very bones. Her love for him becoming such a part of her she knows she would never be able to stop. She told herself in Paris, those long, lonely days and nights stretching into an infinity, that if she made it back she’d tell him. That she’d take a gamble on the few moments she wondered if he loved her too. Hazy memories of him visiting her in the hospital, still in the suit from her funeral, that she’d half convinced herself were a dream, leading the charge. His hand tight around hers and his lips against her forehead as he promised her he’d catch Ian. 

She didn’t want to do anything when she first got back home partially because she didn’t want him to think that it was out of some kind of gratitude. That he’d saved her life so she wanted to be with him because of it. But also because he deserved better than how she was when she first got home. A shadow of her former self. 

By the time she felt ready for it, different than before but better than she had been, he introduced them to Beth. A woman who looked more like her than his ex-wife, and came without any of the complications than she would bring. So Emily did what she’d always done when she’d had her heart broken. She’d watched all the Star Wars movies in one weekend, cried more than she had in a long time and ate her weight in fries and ice cream. Then the next time she saw everyone she was ok again, content for her happy ending with Aaron to exist nowhere but in her fantasies that had never quite come to fruition. 

Until a girl's night when she’d drunkenly admitted she was in love with him. Shocking Penelope but apparently not JJ, who claimed she had always known there was something there. Damage control hadn’t worked, and now Penelope brought it up often, sure that Aaron would feel the same way. 

“Sorry,” Pen says, leaning in closer and lowering her voice, “I’m just saying-”

“Enough, Pen,” Emily says, sighing when she snaps a little more than she intended to, “It’s…not going to happen. He’s happy with Beth.”

“But he’s-”

“Please,” she pleads with her friend, her eyes flicking to the door to the bullpen as it opens, Aaron flashing her a smile as he walks in. She hates herself for the way her stomach flips, something that once excited her making her feel nauseous, “Please just leave it.” 

Penelope sighs, watching as the sadness Emily clearly tries to fight floods her eyes, but she nods, knowing that for now, this wasn’t an argument she was going to win.

“Ok, fine,” Penelope says, reaching out and putting her hand on Emily’s arm, “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s ok,” Emily says, smiling tightly at her friend, “I guess I just missed my chance.”

Penelope watches as she walks away, leaning against the kitchen counter, blowing out a steady breath as she spots Dave arriving for the day. 

“Time to bring in the big guns,” she mutters to herself, an idea already forming in her head.

___

Emily groans as the looks at the clock, the time dragging on in a way that almost made her wish for a case. Her cell phone screen lights up, and Pen’s name along with a text message flashes up at her. 

Can you do me a favour?”

Emily raises an eyebrow and types out her response. Favours for Penelope could range from the obscure to the barely legal, so she was hesitant to agree to anything without further detail.

What kind of favour?

The response is immediate as if Penelope had never put her phone down whilst she waited for a reply.

Can you get me some sticky notes from the supply closet? I’m all out.

Pretty please. I’ll owe you forever. 

Emily sighs and shakes her head, already standing up as she replies.

You’re lucky I’m bored. The brightly coloured ones? 

She smiles as she gets a response, slipping her phone into her back pocket once she’s read it. 

You know me so well.

She’s distracted as she walks to the supply closet, not paying attention as she opens the door and then closes it behind her again, almost jumping out of her skin when she realises she’s not alone in the tiny room. 

“Shit,” she exclaims, her hand over her heart as Aaron turns to face her, his eyes wide as she clearly surprises him too, “Sorry,” she says, clearing her throat, “I wasn’t expecting to see you in here.” 

“It’s ok,” he replies, smiling at her, his dimples carved out into his cheeks as well as her heart, “Dave asked me to get some pens for him,” he says, holding up the box in his hand, “Although why he couldn’t get them himself is beyond me.” 

She chuckles, “Well, I guess it’s always good to be kind to the elderly.” 

Aaron laughs, the bright sound that made her heart swell in her chest, endless thoughts of what could have been enough to make her cry. 

“I won’t tell him you said that,” he replies, “What are you here for?”

“Pen needed some sticky notes,” she says, reaching for a box of them from the shelf in between them, “Apparently we both have side gigs as assistants now.” 

Any response is cut off by the lock on the door behind her clicking shut, and her eyes go wide, the trap that she had fallen into suddenly clear. She turns around and tries to pull at the door handle, sighing when it doesn’t open. 

“Pen, open the door I know you’re out there.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pen’s muffled voice says through the door, “It must be broken we’ll have to call facilities.” 

Emily looks over her shoulder to look at Aaron, his eyebrows furrowed together in confusion and she looks back at the door, “I heard the lock click.” 

“Funny,” Dave says, and she closes her eyes, leaning her forehead against the door as she realises Penelope wasn’t doing this alone, “I didn’t. Must be my age.” He quips, letting her know he’d been stood out there the whole time and heard their conversation so far. 

“I swear to god, I will kill-”

“We’ll call facilities and get you out of there as soon as we can,” Penelope says, cutting her off before she can finish her threat, “You guys entertain yourself, talk.”

“Penelope,” She warns, but she can already hear footsteps receding, and she knows she and Aaron are alone. She blows out a breath and turns to look at him.

“What was that all about?” He asks, his eyebrows creasing together, and she sighs, running her hand through her hair. 

As soon as she was out of here she was going to kill Penelope and Dave. 

___

Aaron was in love with her.

He’d known it for years. The safety of her smile, her kindness, the place where he sought sanctuary more often than not. Using her as a sounding board when he needed it, drawn towards her because of more than her obvious beauty. 

When he stood over a grave that he knew was empty, he told himself when he got her back, because he’d never been able to think in a world of ‘ifs’ as far as that was concerned, he’d tell her. He’d take a gamble that Dave had always told him was a sure one. His friend always keen to tell him how Emily looked at him when he wasn’t looking. 

At first, he knew the timing wasn’t right. That she wasn’t herself, and he wondered if maybe Emily Prentiss had died that day in Boston. He still loved her and he knew he always would, but as time went on he felt more sure that their time had passed. That the closest he’d ever come to telling her how he felt was the kiss against her forehead in the hospital, apologies muttered against her skin. 

Meeting Beth had been an accident. She was nice and pretty. Funny. And everything that any man would be lucky to find in a woman. At first, he’d turned down her obvious attempts at flirting, but then eventually he decided to give it a go. Any hopes of a fairy tale ending with Emily gone as soon as he overheard Penelope and JJ talking about Emily being in love with someone enough to convince him to let what had only been a few dates with Beth turn into something more.

“Aaron?” 

He stops walking towards his office and turns back to Dave, his friend's use of his name pulling him out of his thoughts, “Yes?” 

Dave smiles at him, something in his eyes glinting, “Would you mind doing me a favour?” 

___

Emily swallows thickly as she places the sticky notes back down, her arms tight across her chest. 

“I…”

She drifts off, unsure how she can get out of this without telling him what she had kept secret for so long, forced into admittance by well-meaning but interfering friends. She knew Penelope and Dave well enough to know that they wouldn’t let them out of here until they deemed the situation solved, or if there was an emergency of some kind. And whilst Emily wasn’t above wishing for a case, she thought there would be some sort of bad karma involved in actively hoping for a major incident. 

Aaron frowns, concerned by her uncharacteristic quietness, all of the levity of their conversation before the door locked gone. He places the box of pens down and steps towards her, his hand on her arm. His concern only deepens when she pulls away like she’s been burned, folding further into herself in an attempt to put some space between them in the tiny closet they were in. 

“Emily,” he says, his use of her first name purposeful, “You can tell me anything, you know that.” 

She looks up at him from where she’d been staring at the floor and her eyes meet his. There’s nothing but understanding in his eyes, and something she daren’t call love. 

“I’m worried it will change things,” she says, the words feeling heavy as they leave her chest. A vulnerability that she hated threatening to choke her. 

“Well,” he says, stepping back to give her a tiny bit more space, respecting that it was what she needed, “That’s not possible, unless you’re about to tell me you were a spy for another government organisation,” he jokes, offering her a half smile, “In which case I’ll just be more impressed that you found time to do it all.” 

She chokes on a laugh and shakes her head at him, “No it’s not…it’s not that, I promise.” 

“Then tell me. You’ll feel better,” he says, wanting nothing more than to pull her into a hug, to offer her comfort he’s not sure she wants. She stares at him and blows out a breath, nodding before she looks back down at the floor, unable to look at him as she finally says it out loud. 

“A couple of months ago I got drunk on a girl's night and admitted to Pen and JJ that I…that I have feelings for you,” she says quietly, hoping that by some miracle he won’t hear her, “And ever since then Pen has been trying to convince me that I should tell you. Which is why she’s locked us in here,” she keeps staring at the floor, tears gathering in her eyes at the continued silence, a confirmation she hadn’t needed that this was pointless, “I keep telling her that you’re with Beth-”

“I’m not with Beth,” he says, finally finding his voice. 

She looks up so quickly her neck hurts, but she barely registers it, “What?” 

Aaron clears his throat, the shock of Emily’s confession wearing off as the pieces fall into place. He realises that he was the guy that he overheard JJ and Penelope talking about weeks ago, and he shakes his head at himself.

“I broke up with her a couple of weeks ago,” he says, his hands in his pockets just to do something with them. 

“Why didn’t you say something?” she asks, her heart beating so firmly in her chest that she’s sure he might be able to hear it. 

“It’s not like it’s some big secret,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders, taking a small step towards her, “Garcia actually found out last night when she asked about my plans, I’m surprised she didn’t tell you.”

Emily chuckles humourlessly as she thinks about that morning, about her friend's seemingly newly revamped attempts to get her to admit to Aaron how she feels about him, and she shakes her head. She looks at him, her arms still across her chest as she tries to heave in a breath, her lungs seemingly full of nothing but him and his cologne because of how close he now was. 

“Wh…why did you break up with her?” She asks, not entirely sure if she wanted to know the answer, sure that the hope that was sparking in her belly was nothing more than yet another thing she’d end up being burned by. 

Aaron gathers himself, his chest tight with emotions he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager who was about to ask out Haley, the other great love of his life. He reaches out to touch Emily, tucking some hair behind her ear, and her breath catches in her throat, her eyes wide as they meet his. 

“Because it didn’t seem fair on either one of us to stay with her when I was in love with someone else.” 

His words hang heavily between them, the air thick with opportunity and what could be about to happen. She stares at him, her mouth open slightly as she licks at her lower lip, wetting it in a way she sees him watch. 

“Aaron…” 

“I thought…” he shakes his head at himself, “I don’t know what I thought. But I’ve always known you could do better than me.” 

She frowns, her shock turning into outrage, “That’s not true,” she says, shaking her head fiercely, furious at him for thinking such a thing, “That’s not true,” she repeats. Everything that had happened in the last few minutes had thrown her for a loop, her entire body practically vibrating with things she didn’t understand, every nerve on edge as she came to terms with the conversation they were having. She grabs the lapels of his jacket, her eyes fixed on his tie, “I…I wanted to be better for you. You’ve been through so much, and I didn’t want to add to that burden.”

“Em,” he says, cupping her cheek, making her look back up at him, “I love you,” he says, and she chokes on a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh as she shakes her head, “You could never be a burden.” 

She doesn’t know what to say, isn’t sure that there is anything that could be said, so she leans forward, closing the gap between them as she presses her lips against his. Everything else stops, and all she can feel is him. His hand at her cheek, the other pressing into her lower back as he pulls her closer, both of them lost in something they know they have been walking towards for years. 

They only pull away when Oxygen becomes necessary, both of them laughing as they lean their foreheads against each other. 

“I love you too,” she says, lifting her hand to cup his cheek, her thumb pressing into his lower lip, “I have for a long time.” 

“We have a lot to talk about,” he says, kissing her thumb before she removes it, smiling as he leans in to kiss her again, “If we ever get out of here.” She laughs and presses her head into his shoulder, her body feeling light for the first time in as long as she can remember, “Still want to kill them?” 

“Maybe not kill,” she says, tilting her head up to look at him, “But I’m sure I’ll think of some kind of revenge.”

Aaron laughs and leans in to kiss her, both of them once again lost in it, in each other, until the door is pulled open and they break apart at the sound of a squeal.

They elope seven months later. 

They break the news to Penelope by leaving a photo taken at the courthouse on her desk, along with a message written on a brightly coloured sticky note. 

Thank you.

Love, The Hotchners 

-x-

Tag list:

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[mlleclaudine]

Artist Explores the Theme of Trust Through Poignant Hand-Sculpted Animal Forms

by Emma Taggart - My Modern Met, September 16, 2024

Detail of “Trust Me”

In a world increasingly fractured by political and social divisions, artist Beth Cavener seeks to rebuild connections through her evocative animal sculptures. Her exhibition Trust at the Carpenters Workshop Gallery in Los Angeles showcases a series of clay creatures infused with complex human emotions.

Cavener’s latest body of work is a response to the feelings of isolation brought on by the COVID-19 pandemic and the political divides we face today. Through her sculptures, she explores the theme of trust and how it’s often “lost, destroyed, betrayed, and abused.” By blending animal forms with human-like gestures and emotions, Cavener captures human vulnerabilities, desires, and conflicts in a way that feels both symbolic and deeply relatable.

Each piece starts as a small model, which Cavener then turns into a full-sized clay sculpture over six to eight months. “The sculptures I create focus on human psychology, stripped of context and rationalization, and articulated through animal and human forms,” says Cavener. “On the surface, these figures are simply feral and domestic individuals suspended in a moment of tension. Beneath the surface, they embody the impacts of aggression, territorial desires, isolation, and pack mentality.”

One striking piece, a fox-like figure titled Trust Me, seems to creep cautiously toward the viewer, partially shrouded in shadow. The creature’s posture conveys both submission and slyness, evoking a mix of empathy and unease. Its vulnerable yet cunning nature invites the viewer to question their own perceptions of trust.

Another piece, titled Shards, depicts a life-size male lion sculpted from 2,800 pounds of clay. The once-majestic symbol of strength is represented with its head bowed and its frail body revealing protruding bones. The incredible sculpture was constructed from thousands of broken clay fragments, symbolizing the painstaking effort needed to restore hope and repair lost faith.

Cavener’s Trust exhibition, in collaboration with Jason Jacques Gallery, will be on view at the Carpenters Workshop Gallery in Los Angeles from September 12 to November 4, 2024.

Check out some of the sculptures from the show below and find more of Cavener’s incredible work on her website.

“Trust Me”

“Captive”

“G.O.A.T”

Detail of “G.O.A.T”

“Shards”

“Shards”

Detail of “Shards”

Beth Cavener: Website | Facebook | Instagram

[kingdom-hearts-last]

Songs That Match The New Characters In This AU:

Xatlyn:

Sage:

Talyn:

Audrey:

The Author:

Kaili:

Chiyanka:

Reiko:

Data-Talyn:

Nara:

[twdmusicboxmystery]

10x19: One More - Analysis

Okay, what did everyone think of 10x19? I really liked it a lot. I’m still trying to get a handle on what everything meant, and I think there’s a lot more to be had than what we see on the surface, but it was a really tragic and moving episode. I got lots of messages from people who watched it early and immediately noticed the Bethyl callbacks.

So, I’m going to do something slightly different this week. Today, I’m going to focus on those—all the obvious callbacks—and tomorrow I’ll do more of a forecasting post about what I think this episode means for the future and where I think it’s going.

***As always, spoilers abound below for 10x19. Don’t read until you’ve watched!!!***

I kind of figured from the description that this would be a case of Gabe and Aaron = Beth and Daryl. And that’s definitely true. I’m going to call this a mixture between Still callbacks and Consumed.

Still, because of all the callbacks I’m sure you noticed at least a few of. And Consumed because it’s two friends out looking for something. Actually, the first thing that made me think of Consumed is that they kept showing really sad things accompanied by really sad music, which reminded me of Consumed. I know for most people in our fandom, that’s not our favorite episode because it’s a Daryl/Carol episode, but just for the imagery and music and sadness of the dystopian world, I really love it. And this episode was similar to that.

So, it starts by showing some—both white and yellow. This flower

Is an Easter Lily. Yeah, not kidding. EASTER Lily.

Of course there are both white and yellow flowers. The yellow ones are reminiscent of the ones we saw in the cemetery in Alone.  

Then we see Aaron and Gabe surrounded by walkers. When they start killing the walkers, its shows blood hitting all the flowers in a really kind of graphic way. I was like, “ew.” But at one point, they also hit a green grasshopper.

So, I was thinking that blood hitting the flowers and the grasshopper could possibly represent Beth being shot. And there are plenty of blond walkers to be had in this episode.

Aaron and Gabe arrive at a particular house. On Maggie’s map, it says this should be a two-story house with a root cellar, and she wants them to check the cellar for supplies. But when they get there, all that’s left is a doorframe with a swinging door and the chimney. The rest has been burnt, and by the looks of it, fairly recently. This is where they see the three charred skeletons with the pink flowers growing around them.

Couple of things. 1) This is a foreshadow for later in the episode. It has to do with the 2 stories, and I’ll get to it at the end. 2) The charred skeletons are a bit like what Daryl saw in 6x06, which was chalk full of Beth symbolism. 3) The pink flowers. (Pink Theory.)

In terms of foreshadows, this really screams the CRM to me, because of the burnt skeletons and the ties to 6x06, and remember that in 5x09, the radio voice (Andy) talked about the republic and a group that was setting people on fire. It’s like that’s one of their tactics.

One thing I didn’t realize from the trailer is that these are not three adult skeletons. It’s two adults and a child, all with their arms wrapped around each other. There’s a huge theme in this episode of families dying and specifically children dying. (Which is actually another tie to Consumed; remember the mother and child walker they find, and Daryl burns? Well, here we have two parents and a child, all who’ve been burnt. Yeah, not a coincidence, folks.)

We have two or three representations of families or children dying in this episode. I was thinking about the family in the gas station in 4a. I don’t think any of theme were children, but Daryl said something about them holding hands and taking themselves out Kumbaya style. And a lot of the skeletons we see here seem to be either taken out by their family members, or else they’ve committed suicide. There’s the child walker Carol and Daryl saw in 5x06. There was the creepy nursery near Denise just before she died. Etc. And it’s really very dark, ominous symbolism. Very sad.

Then Gabe pulls out an egg timer (another one of those), sets it for 5 seconds, and lobs it into the field. When it rings, tons of walkers spring up. So, it’s their way of checking before walking into tall grass. In this case, it shows the dial turning as the timer counts down. It definitely feels like a symbolic countdown to something big.

There’s also huge bullet theme. And usually single bullets. Mays makes them play Russian Roulette, which is all about one single bullet in the chamber. But there are tons of times when they pick up single bullet casings, or we see bullet holes in cars or walls or cans. Just a huge theme.

Okay, let’s get specific. They come upon a line of cars, which is really important. But just before that, Gabriel sees basically two piles of bones. I could tell not all of them were human. Some were too big. And I thought they might be horse bones. @bluesandbeth told me she thought they were two horses with their riders still on top. And she’s right. I couldn’t tell when I first looked at them. But once she said it, I could see it. It’s like a horse lying on it’s side, with the rider still straddling the horse, also lying on his side. And they died that way.

Now, other than knowing that we’ve definitely seen horses in the show before—think Buttons—I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Until @wdway said something interesting. You know the two horseback riders we see in the opening credits? Me and my fellow theorists are always going back and forth about who they are. I originally thought Rick and Michonne, which is the obvious conclusion. But @wdway told me she thinks this is actually Rick and Beth.

And you know, that makes a lot of sense since we didn’t see these new opening credits until Rick disappeared into the CRM. So, they could represent the two missing sheriffs.

And that makes a lot of sense with these bones. Because this scene with the cars has about 20 callbacks to Beth and what we think happened during the missing 17 days. So the bones represent the two riders from the opening credits, which represent the two missing sheriffs.

Now, onto the cars. One has the trunk open (Still) one has the side door hanging open (5x09). And there’s a van where Aaron sees a female walker in the front seat, which is kind of like what we saw in 5x09. Gabe finds a can of food, but there’s a bullet in it, which probably means the food either leaked out or spoiled. 

But the really interesting thing is that him opening this trunk and looking in is very reminiscent of Maggie opening the trunk and finding the Beth walker in 5x10. So if we can equate those two things, both times, it represents opening the trunk and Beth being inside. In 5x10, she was represented by the walker. Here, by the can of food with a bullet hole in it, just like Beth got shot in the head.

Another thing I was reminded of was in 6x04, when Morgan sees the man and woman and she puts down a can of food and a bullet on top and says, “Thank you.” I think this symbolism may be related to that.

Then they go to the MiniMart. On the outside, it feels like the Big Spot or else maybe the gas station where Rick and Daryl met Jesus. In fact, much like in 6x10, there is a post for cigarettes with a price of $4.30.

When it pans out, there’s a coffee pot lying on its side (important because it’s something that water runs through, and we’ve seen a coffee theme as well) a walker with a bullet hole in its forehead, a bright yellow magazine rack by the door, etc. And this was a place you could play the lottery, so there was a poker theme going on.

 Okay, the ARM symbolism is alive and well. My fellow theorists and I have been obsessing about what the arm symbolism points to ever since Leah threw the walker arm at Daryl. In this episode, a walker sticks both hands out of the door, and Gabe hacks them both off, around the forearm/elbow area. 

Then, another walker gets its head and torso out and Aaron stabs it in the head. He and Gabe both grab an arm to try and yank it out of the way so they can get by, but the arms (really the hands because it separates at the forearms) just come off. And really, it’s just the skin, not the bones that comes off, but still. (Ew.)

This is where Gabriel goes up on the roof and we get the scene from the promo.

Okay, so when I first saw the promo, I immediately said this was a Grady callback. The “SAVE US” is something that could only be seen from the sky. Like…from a helicopter? Plus there were some important scenes on the roof of Grady. There’s a walker that’s handcuffed. So it’s an imprisonment theme. And Grady was all about imprisonment. And finally, we have what looks to be two lovers, dead, but entwined together on a mattress. I was thinking that if this is meant to represent Grady, that might represent Beth and Daryl. The love that never happened because Beth “died” and the relationship died with her. Or something equally tragic.

But there are other things we can connect this to as well. First off, what you don’t see in this shot is that there are two other walkers also tied to a second pole, but neither of them are animated. They’re just corpses. So we have a grand total of three prisoners here. If you look closely, the man lying on the mattress has a gun in his hand. Which suggests this might have been a murder/suicide situation.

It’s reminiscent of Merle being handcuffed on the roof in season 1, which was just before he went missing. It also reminded me of the strange, unexplained handcuffs Daryl found in 8x02 in that office building. Those were never explained. But the point is, it’s a handcuffs/imprisonment theme.

A big part of this is a foreshadow for the end of this episode and what happens with Mays. But given that he and his bro are one-off characters only appearing in this episode, I think this must foreshadow more than that, too.

We don’t actually see the inside of this place because Gabe goes to the roof, takes the ladder down (Ladder Theory) and then comes out the front door, but tells Aaron there’s nothing they can use in there.

Then they talk about going home. Aaron and Gabe been out for 2 weeks, which is definitely a Heath/Tara thing. In S6, they’d been out scouting for supplies for 2 weeks, and that was just before Heath disappeared into the CRM. Just saying.

Okay, then Gabe falls in the mud. Here’s the thing: we really thought Gabriel might die in this episode. Obviously not. But I do see some fairly clear death omens for him here. Of course I can’t be sure of anything, but I still think his death is probably close.

First is the fact that he trips at all. Anytime anyone really faceplants on the show, it sort of shows a coming catastrophe for them, which is often death. Beth face-planted in the elevator shaft in 5x04. Spencer fell off the zipline in S6, and died less than a season later. You get the idea. When, when Aaron lifts the walker off him, it leaves some intestines (ew) on his stomach, and the camera focuses on them for a moment. Just felt like a death omen to me.

I will say, however, that anyone who’s read the comics knows that this feels a lot like they might do exactly what they did there for his death. And they don’t usually do that. They almost always remix it in some way. So this could also just be a nod to his comic book death. We’ll have to see where they go with it.

But this scene is super interesting. It feels like EXACTLY the same thing we saw in 10x18. We have Gabriel’s map being ruined, and then a huge storm that immediately follows. And there’s Beth symbolism (talk of a water tower, etc). So I thought it was interesting that we saw it twice, in two subsequent episodes. Also, for most of the episode they’re kinda sorta trying to get to the water tower. As though water tower is end game or something.

Then they get to a warehouse that wasn’t on the map. Gabe finds the bibles inside. I’m still forming a theory about the passage he opens up to, but we all know they use biblical symbolism in this show a lot, and especially around Beth. But remember they found a bible in the barn in Alone. Later, Mays says the pages are torn because he uses them for toilet paper. (Toilet Paper Theory.)

Then we get to the really good Bethyl callbacks. Aaron and Gabriel eat pork, drink alcohol, play poker (not exactly the same as Beth and Daryl’s drinking game, but it’s a game), Aaron has a “bullshit” line, Gabriel shows an 8 and a 2 card, Aaron says he needs to “take a piss,” etc.  

I did notice something while watching, but wasn’t sure what to make of it until AK was talking at the end of the episode. It shows one hand of poker and Aaron folds, which means Gabe wins. This is where he shows a 2 and an 8, which isn’t anything in poker. So, he won the hand on a bluff. And I went, huh. Wonder what that means. But it was a foreshadow of what happens with Mays. I’ll get to that.

Gabe has an “I’m serious” mention. In one of the bigger parallels, the dialogue is not the same, but the meaning is. So, different words, same meaning. Gabriel says his line from the promo about how evil people aren’t the exception, they are the rule. That really disturbs Aaron and he says, “okay, now I’m sober.” It’s the equivalent of “you ain’t a happy drunk at all.” And then he drives it home by saying, “I’m going to go up to the room and pitch myself off head first.”

And THEN—get this—he picks up a golf club and smacks a golf ball at FG, hitting him in the foot. Gabe says, “ow.” So not only a golf/Still reference, but I think it specifically ties back to when Daryl uses the club to kill the walker and hits Beth with the gore.

They say in TTD that they actually did an extended golf sequence where Aaron and Gabe set up this huge mini-golf course thing, but most of it got cut from the episode for time. So there was originally a massive golf theme in this episode.

Of course Mays shows up to take them captive. He shows Gabriel Aaron’s metal arm. So, more arm symbolism.

Without going into tons of detail here, let’s just recognize that the entire theme of this episode is whether or not there are good people in the world still. (Beth line.) Mays thinks all people are evil but Gabe and Aaron prove him wrong by refusing to the point the gun at one another during the Russian Roulette game. There’s a line where Gabriels screams at him that he needs to remember who he was. (“who you were.”) Which is a direct parallel to Beth telling Daryl to stay who he is. Which is a good person. So it’s a similar theme being explored here.

At one point, Mays says, “there’s nothing left in this world but thieves and murderers.” It’s not the same line Glenn says in 5x02, but the wording of the first part is exactly the same. “There’s nothing left in this world that isn’t hidden.”

We also definitely get an “illusion/hallucination” reference here. I noticed Gabriel said (and I’m paraphrasing; didn’t write down the exact words) that Mays was so bitter, and had so convinced himself that everyone in the world was evil, that he’d blinded himself to the truth and couldn’t see that he was about to kill two very decent guys (Gabe and Aaron). So, it just struck me as a you-can’t-see-the-truth-that’s-right-in-front-of-you theme. Plus, maybe a see no evil theme?

Another theme that jumped out at me is whether or not they are the same as him. At one point, he says, “you’re so close,” and I think he means to becoming a villain, like he is. During their fight, he says they’re the same and Gabriel rebukes him, saying they aren’t like him.

We’ve seen that theme a lot before. It’s like a theme of the bad guys trying to make the good guys like them, and the good guys have to prove they’re better than that. So, Crazy Tattoo Guy at Terminus came running out of his train car yelling, “we’re the same,” before he died. Joe Claimer tried hard to convince Daryl that he was like them and one of them, even though he wasn’t. And we could even tie this to Beth saying, “I’m not like you or them, but I made it.” Slightly different meaning in that case, but the verbiage is similar.

(BTW, notice in the pic above, Aaron has a head wound, bleeding from exactly the spot Beth was shot.)

And surprisingly, they actually manage to convince Mays that they’re right and he puts away the gun and unties Aaron, looking as if he’ll let them go. He unties Aaron…and then Gabe kills him. Pretty brutally.

So this is the second reason I think this might be a death knell for Gabe. And it also ties to the bluff in the poker game. AK said that everything Gabe said to Mays about him still believing in God and the bible was a bluff. So we’re left wondering if it was a complete lie, and Gabe has entirely lost his faith. Now, a crisis of faith does line up with Daryl in Inmates/Still, but at the very least, Gabe is in a really dark place. But he hides it well. It doesn’t look that way to others. But I feel like he’s spiraling and being super self-destructive, and this might soon lead to his death.

Remember when he killed Dante? It’s a lot like that. And at one point, Aaron says that Gabe doesn’t mean that (all the negative stuff he says) because his mind is just really full of the Whisperers still, but not all people are like the Whisperers. So, I think the idea is that dealing with the Whisperers really messed Gabe up.

But of course they go upstairs, or up a level and find Mays’ twin brother. And the thing is, Gabe wasn’t entirely wrong to kill him. I mean, in terms of Gabe’s inner arc, obviously he was being really, disturbingly brutal. But Mays was keeping his twin brother a prisoner upstairs. We see two bodies—that of a woman and child—each with a bullet hole in their foreheads. Which is obviously reminiscent of Beth. But the brother also says Mays “made him play.” Which means he did the Russian Roulette thing, but unlike Gabe and Aaron, he didn’t shoot himself but rather turned the gun on his wife and child and eventually shot both of them.

So neither of these guys was exactly Alexandria material. Then the brother gets ahold of Gabe’s gun and shoots himself. Aaron and Gabe leave. On their way out, it shows a photograph of the two brothers laughing together, clearly before the apocalypse.

Okay, let’s talk about this scene. This is what I meant was foreshadowed by Maggie’s two-story building description. Gabe and Aaron found a 2-story building where a family died together. You could say the same thing here of Mays and his brother.

I’m still not entirely sure what to make of the evil twin/evil sibling symbols. I think it must foreshadow something, and we just don’t understand what it points to yet. We saw it with Lizzie/Mica, with Noah’s twin brothers (and the picture of Mays and his brother is very reminiscent of that) and now here. So it’s really fascinating to me, and I’ve talked about it before, but it’s obviously symbolism that’s still in play and that we don’t entirely understand. For more on this, see the 5x09 Post I recently wrote.

But here’s the other thing about this scene. It was this scene in particular that reminded me of the handcuffs Daryl found in S8. 

Because Mays’ bro was handcuffed in the same way. Near those cuffs in S8, there was also what might have been a dogfood sandwich, which is exactly what Daryl was fed at the Sanctuary in 7x03. So you see what I mean? It’s a whole imprisonment theme, with similar symbols around it. And dog symbol always = Sirius = Beth, which is why I think it has to have something to do with her. Then, I saw this:

Guys, this is the exact same brand of dog food we saw with Daryl at the Sanctuary. It’s called A-OK.  

And what does it mean? I’m not sure, but consider this: even in 4x01, Beth had a lot of imprisonment symbols in her cell. A bird cage, a no exit sign, a garden gnome. And if Grady was tied to the CRM, and was absorbed by them, then Beth may have been a prisoner of the CRM for like 8 years, now. And even putting her aside, Rick has been their prisoner for 6 years. That much is confirmed in the show. So I think this points to the CRM in one way or another. It’s about a long imprisonment term, but is tied to Sirius and the return.

In the last scene, Gabe and Aaron walk through a field and they are coming up on the water tower, though it’s still in the distance. One of them says it’s the last place on the map. And I think that’s significant. So, I had a few different thoughts about how we could interpret this.

So, as I already said, Beth = water = endgame. But we also know the CRM is purifying water. So CRM = endgame. What I mean is, maybe it’s saying that the CRM is the last huge battle they’ll have to fight, and maybe then they’ll get the world back. And we’ve kind of thought that for a while. That they’ve been hinting at this group and this war, since season 1 when Rick saw the helicopter in Atlanta. And Beth will be a big part of it.

I also think we may be getting lots of hints of them losing Alexandria here. So it might be a matter of losing one more home or finding one more home. Something like that. If the CRM is the “one more” in the title… well, at first, Gabe says, “two more,” and then eventually “one more.” So I’m thinking two more big arcs. The first is the Commonwealth. The second “one more” is the CRM. But I think that will last for several seasons.

It also occurred to me that the “one more” could also be a death omen for Gabriel. One more place. One more battle. One more episode? And then he’s done. But all of this is just conjecture. Me brainstorming ideas.

One other thing I wrote down is that AK said the bullet in the gun in the Russian Roulette game represented one last trial, and would this be the bullet that will break them? I thought that was interesting, especially in terms of Beth’s loss breaking Daryl.

Okay, lets go back to what I said at the beginning. Obvious callbacks to Bethyl and Still, and lots of things suggesting her imminent return. Since the water tower = Beth and Gabe and Aaron were kind of searching for it the whole episode, you can see how that parallels 5x06, Consumed. But I also think it foreshadows the spinoff with Carol and Daryl leaving together to go search for Beth, even if they don’t know it initially. The fact that Aaron and Gabe were originally searching for something else (food/supplies) but sort of ended up aiming for the water tower here is probably purposeful.

Bottom line? This still points toward Beth being very close. I’ll do more general forecasting tomorrow. Thoughts?

[ronmanmob]

{honesty} Beth looks at Billy on the far side of the yard. Hauling boxes down from the truck, his arms straining in the morning light. She herself sits amidst the various dogs with the task of tenderly grooming every one. But she catches Ron's gaze and for a moment indicates herself and and her boy and Ron himself in a sweeping circular gesture. Somewhere down below the fires of perdition turn to ice as a ghost whisper appears and then vanishes. "Why?" Why is he so kind to them?

Honesty Hour

It's so simple sounding a question that it almost earns a kneejerk answer; a surface level nod towards some innate beneficence on Ron's part perhaps, or an aside to how she and her boy had been in such great need that not showing what small kindness helping them evinced would've been cruel. But that wasn't it by leagues. It was deeper than those basic ideals; more personal; closer to his bones and their marrow than what a glance at the work yard with the truck and the boy and the dogs and the girl could ever hope to imply.

Ron neared the littler of his two new hands before answering. He neared and knelt little more than an arm's reach away, and welcomed Toppah the Mastiff in for a fuss as he explained, quiet-voiced.

'-Why? Why th'jobs, 'b'cause there's work, bu' tha' ain't yer question. Why th'time'a day? Why'd I offah kindness, luv-' Ron pursed his lips briefly. The move made it look like he had a frown coming on, but he didn't. He simply looked upon the girl as she looked back at him. 'Look back f'rew 'istry. There's times gone where folks 'oo weren't like ovvahs were put on trains t'places'a torture 'n deaf jus' b'cause'a wha' they were; 'oo they were; if they was sick some'ow, or gay, or not th'right fit f'th likin' ov th' government'a them times. I don't know if 'istry's repeatin' now, bu' I know, if I was back then 'n as poorly, as queer as I am now, I'd be needin' ov a lot'a kindness.'

A pause came and went. Between them, brindle Toppah wriggled happily as his master ruffled at his neck and shoulders.

'So 'oo am I t'deny th'different th'same kindness I'd need, hm? 'Oo am I t'say th'two'a you need t'be friendless when m'ere, 'n y've proved y'selves wervy 'ov friendship? Yer good people, th'pair'a yah.' Ron glanced between the girl and her boy; gave the latter a friendly nod when their eyes met across the yard. When he looked back to the girl, he gave her a crooked smile; what seriousness, what tension there'd been as he spoke wisping off to climes elsewhere.

'N y'do make me laugh, by 'n by. Yer nice comp'ny.'

[lizzieraindrops]

Your chance to make the sun rise thrice (Chapter 3)

that a garden will grow (11,143 words)

"There are no happy endings, because nothing ends." - The Last Unicorn, Peter S. Beagle That does not mean that there is no joy.

Veera is alive.

Also on AO3  |  Playlist soundtrack  |  Aesthetic sideblog

Happy autumn equinox, everyone.

When I started this story as a oneshot back in 2016, I had no idea that it would turn into a series spanning four years of new life for these characters, much less that it would end up taking me nearly the same amount of time to write it.

I wrote the first part during the darkest yet time of my life as an abstract fantasy of being in a better place. I finish writing it today from a better place, physically, mentally, emotionally, and even spiritually. If I've learned anything from this, it's that your own creativity saves you and is powerful enough to call the better things that seem so impossible into existence.

This is my tribute to Veera as a character and everyone like her and anyone who has identified with her. She changed my life. Even with all OB's many, many flaws (dear god there are SO many), without the explicit representation of Veera's neurodivergence in the Helsinki comics, I don't know how I would have figured out that I'm autistic. That has been both the biggest hurdle and the greatest blessing in the trajectory of my healing. Since it's been so central to this story and its writing, I've included a link to some resources for autism spectrum self-diagnosis.

Part 1: Herbs on the windowsill

Part 2: Someday colors

Part 3: Your chance to make the sun rise thrice  |  Chapter 1  |  Chapter 2  |  Chapter 3

***

Veera wakes gently, early, unexpectedly so. As she sits up, her weighted blanket slips off and crumples around her waist like a shed skin. Bands of muted morning coming through the blinds slide over her as she rises from the plane of the bed. The summer sun has still risen first, of course. True dark never falls here in the summer, at this high a latitude. But right now, its light is softened and diffused by a thin veil of cloud over the city. Listening, the others aren’t up and moving yet.

Slight shifting of her relaxed limbs makes the softness of the sheets into an extravagance. She’s in a rare, delicately balanced state, one where her senses have sharpened just enough to turn ordinary sensations exquisite without overwhelming her. She’ll have to spend some time listening to music – and with Niki and Beth. That was the plan anyway. But the others aren’t up yet.

Today, there’s a restlessness in her. Most days, she gets up slow, simply waiting until her body is ready to go about the day. Yet a quiet kind of discomfort has made a home in her core, nudging her to get moving. The feel of it is neither full nor hollow, not exactly painful yet nothing like comfort. It’s just there, a subdued directionless yearning.

But her mind needs to go at its own pace waking up. Inertia drags at her when she tries to move too fast or cut corners in her daily ritual. Subtle distress quickly follows that inertia if she tries to press the issue. It shows in the incrementally increasing fine tension of her muscles, slowly winding her up like clockwork. So she sits with the feeling. Motionless except for her breath in the middle of her bed, she thinks.

Light. Leaves. Home. Hunger. She should eat soon. They’re out of cereal, though. There’s a farmer’s market a few blocks away that should have fresh summer fruit. She could go. She does, sometimes, early in the morning like now, before Niki wakes up, and just wanders around. As long as she keeps it short and doesn’t talk much, she should be able to manage it without giving herself a headache.

Twenty minutes find her feet traversing muted pink granite. Neat rectangular stone cobbles pave the street below her living room window. The rumble of a loud truck passing right by close makes her flinch, but she manages to shake the discomfort out of her neck and shoulders easily enough once it’s gone. Other than that, the streets are unusually peaceful. Most people like get out of the city this close to midsummer.

She steps lightly over the stone in snugly laced canvas shoes, toes touching down first. There’s some sort of bird hidden in the trees lining the street, singing two repeated notes on a slow loop. A flycatcher, she thinks.

Being in motion somewhat soothes her restlessness as she slips through broad swathes of clouded morning light between the shadows of buildings. The persistent sensation is nothing so strident as the hypervigilance that used to keep her so high strung. But its subtle company has been constant, lately. She can tell she’s internally processing something, but she can’t quite pin it down. Maybe that’s why she’s been waking up so much earlier than normal.

Lately, a strangeness has been gently tugging at the edges of her mind. In part, she knows it’s a growing awareness of how much things have changed since four years ago. It’s happened so gradually. It was nigh invisible until she cast far enough back along the path of her own footsteps to see how far she’s come. She almost died, but she didn’t. She’s no longer in a desperate race to survive. Now, she’s alive. The question of who and what she is now is an unnervingly open one.

These days, she wakes within a body that is soft and scarred. She is both a wounded creature walking this world with strange steps and a thing healing yet already whole. More often than not, she finds her shoulders loose and her chest open, instead of curled tight into a semblance of stone. They can still seize up when her fears circle back around to worry at invisible scars. But it’s not an endless anxious state. It isn’t everything she is anymore.

Likewise, her nightmares don’t spend as many nights haunting her. Weeks pass between them, sometimes. When they do steal back to the surface of her psyche, the quiet fear they stir up saps all her energy and trails lazily through the daylight hours like an oilslick. She spends those days baking something sweet in the apartment’s warmly lit kitchen. Or she takes inventory of the shapes and textures of the leaves that hang suspended in the air of every familiar room.

It helps, even if dreams or memories linger smoldering in the back of her mind the whole time. The sensations and sense of space keep her grounded, both within herself and outside of the fickle fear and pain that flares and fades and keeps returning. Of course, nothing is so immediately comforting as the presence – and, in this searingly ephemeral moment, presences – that remind her she is not alone. But even when they aren’t there, the space itself reminds her that she lives with and in this place she’s chosen to call a home.

The apartment is the first home she can remember that feels the way she suspects one is supposed to. It fits around her, small and enclosed enough to know every inch without uncertainty scratching at the bounds of her awareness. Tucked away up on the third floor, it nests in a quiet old brick building that’s as comfortably worn in as her favorite hoodie. Its wide windows spread big and bright in every room, reminding her to breathe freely. She is no longer a creature caged. Shadows are soft in this place, and the sunlight is as much a part of it as the walls. Its radiant forms lance through glass and smile through aches, never failing to wrap her in warmth.

Leaves unfurl gently in every window. She likes to run the living silken or waxy greenness of purposeful growth between her fingertips. Perhaps their green faces are outnumbered by all the strangely familiar human ones in the photos along the whitewashed walls, marking where friendships have germinated. But then again, perhaps not. It’s a close call, and there’s always more of both growing. They’re still something of a miracle to her, after so long alone.

Low murmurs of outdoor conversation bring her back to the pop-up stalls of the market hovering just ahead. She’s there.

There are somewhat fewer visitors than normal, but the market still appears to be proceeding about business as usual. Early on, this Saturday market tends to be quieter than the Sunday one, not quite as full of people. It's that perfect balance of un-crowded enough that she can keep to her own internal world without interruption, but bustling enough that she doesn't stand out. She's just another woman at the market. Once in a while, gazes will slide over the scars on her cheek, or her upper arm if she’s wearing short sleeves (not her leg or ankle, as she never wears anything except pants). Her skin begins to remember to crawl - but then the eyes keep on sliding past, on to the peppers or the green beans or the fresh cut flowers.

Weaving her way into the dispersed crowd, she heads for the egg stand first, just in case they run out. They often do. With a dozen blue and brown eggs in tow, she roves about until she finds a stand with peaches she can smell from several paces away. Their sweet tang fills the air as she picks them out. She also gets some fresh apricots, brushing her fingertips over their velvety little coats of fuzz. She tucks the stonefruit and eggs safely into the backpack she brought and keeps moving. A yeasty oaf of fresh bread for picnicking later joins them. The rounded tip of the long loaf pokes out the top of the zippered pocket, hovering just behind her ear. She leaves the top of its paper wrapper open so it stays crisp.

Live music rolling out from the street corner captures her, pulling her out of her trajectory mid-stride to swing toward the unadorned sidewalk stage. The resonance of shimmering metal strings and singing wood flows over her and through her, and she simply sways with it, part of it. It sparkles over her skin and hums along her bones, making her flutter her fingers in pleasure, and it’s blissful. After everything she’s been through, the long gauntlet of near misses and fires and nightmare flames, it still seems wrong somehow for things to be this okay, to feel this good.

That’s why, when visceral self-consciousness swoops down on her again without warning, its familiar fear is as much something like relief as it is a thorn in an old wound. Nothing even causes it, really: just a stray passing glance from a stranger that slid over her hands instead of her scars and didn’t even linger. But it makes her remember the oddness of the ways her hands move, when she’s happy, when she’s stressed. It makes her stand out if she doesn’t make the effort to hide them – or if she takes a little too long to think in a conversation – or if she lets on that she can be hurt so easily by the smallest, normally inconsequential things.

In more dangerous times, standing out could have ended very badly for her. The feeling of being hunted might have retreated to the back of her mind, but it has never truly left. In moments like this, she still snaps back into old habits. Her fists clench into stillness, her mind into sharp wariness, her whole self into the ache of immobility except for consciously calculated movements. It’s not quite the old full-body taut-wire tension of terror. Nonetheless, it’s a painful tender twisting inside, pulling things skewed and wrong in her chest.

The thing is, she knows she’s one of the lucky ones. For so many people, the fear never gets to recede at all. Either the danger remains ever-present in the casual cruelties of the world, or their wounds never get the care they need to heal. Not everyone can be set free by toppling a single old castle of corruption into the sea. Veera gets to try to heal, as impossibly hard as it is and always will be. She has support to fall back on now, kind hearts that hear her, arms that will hold her when she hurts. Though they’re rare, she has days where she doesn’t feel like she has to hide at all. It’s so strange. Even before the Helsinki fire, she spent so long becoming acquainted with the wariness of attracting too much attention. She’s still trying to understand who she even is if she’s not hiding.

That’s why she’s doing the work she does with CYGNet. They’re all muddling their way toward healing from their one-off odd brand of hurt, but the support system they’re building could be useful for so much more. In her mind, they’re just the beginning. One day, maybe they can expand to help even more people beyond the Leda project. The Beths with different faces but surviving the same family history. The Nikis with different nightmares but recovering from the same betrayal. The Veeras with different scars who are just as overwhelmed by the everyday world, but deserve just as much of a chance to experience it without having to hide their truth in shame and become someone they’re not.

Well. Maybe one day. For now, one thing at a time. She has to take care of herself and her own healing if she’s going to make any progress down that distant path. Sometimes, the path she’s on right now still seems to stretch so much further ahead than she can fathom.

Eyes closed, Veera takes a breath into her tense stillness. To her own fragile heart, she whispers, It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. She breathes; it passes.

Giving herself a few minutes more to listen to the music, she waits until the grip of physical memory lessens. The sound is still lovely, even if she can’t quite fall back into the two-piece symphony the way she did mere moments ago. She calms further as she carries herself onward again down the tent-lined street. Under the surface, though, in the same hollow where her restlessness lives, her heart remains sore where something still won’t settle into place.

Fortunately, there are other good things at the market that help soothe the ache. Even for someone like her who needs to limit her exposure to overstimulation and crowds, they make it worth braving all the bustle now and again.

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth at the sight of a profusion of green fronds leaning out from beneath the awning of the stand up ahead. It's bursting with foliage in more shades of green than she knew existed, and chock full of rows of those knobbly little succulents she loves so much. The vendor is a quiet man with a ponytail and a kind face. He merely smiles at her whenever she comes by. He’s one of those strangers who are friends by the shared appreciation of silence. Sometimes words get in the way.

He nods at her in recognition as she ducks into the stand to avoid a loud group of shoppers. Though there are people in there, something about the vendor and the greenery keeps things calm. The tiny forest is an island in the flow of people. It’s nearly on the opposite end of the market from where she started, and it always provides a brief respite where she can recover a little before heading back. Besides, she likes to look over the lacy ferns and trailing philodendrons and all the tiny succulents in every color of the rainbow, even if she already has too many.

She still leaves most of the houseplants to Niki to look after. But to her own surprise, she’s quite good at taking care of the succulents. For the most part, she leaves them somewhere sunny and ignores them. They love it. Sometimes they even treat her to little shiny-papery flowers in brilliant pink or yellow.

Ranks of mini succulents line one of stall’s tables. She’s barely skimming her fingers over the surfaces of a row of flat, stone-like lithops when she sees it. One of the tiny pots is filled with what appear to be little green spheres like peas. Looking closer, they’re round, succulent leaves attached to thin trailing stems. Sprouting from the end of one string of them is a long, spindly stem curving up to a closed flower bud that bobs in the breeze. She’s never seen anything like it.

The man running the stand notices her looking at it. Veera points at the plant and tilts her head in a question. He smiles and extracts a sheet of paper for her from a messy pile half tucked under the cash box. Its a care sheet for Senecio rowleyanus, or string of pearls.

Veera did promise Niki she’d stop bringing home so many succulents. But the plant man’s pressing the little pot of pearls into her hands, waving her wide eyes away with a smile when she reaches for her wallet. This one will have to be an exception. Her small smile and wave of thanks receive another nod in acknowledgement and farewell. Cupping the pot in both hands, she ventures back into the mid-morning river of people to take herself home.

On the way back down the street, the plant cradled against her chest draws smiles from the crowd. They often transfer to her as well. Something about the green thing in her arms softens people’s expressions, even when they see her scars. It makes it easier to walk softly, and to carry her dull ache of residual fear just as gently.

As if struck, she stumbles when she remembers that today, she gets to go home to her two best friends in the entire world. The ache that knowledge calls forth is just as arresting as the kind that comes with the clinging oilslick fear, yet different. This is far stronger and far sweeter, its truth a soft clarity. Veera clutches her plant close to her chest with one hand as she catches her balance on a fruit-covered table with the other. A handful of little oranges roll off as she bumps into it.

Stammering apologies, Veera scrambles to gather up the fallen fruit. A nearby woman browsing the citrus in a purple sweater kneels down to help her. Veera wasn’t planning on buying mandarins, but she can hardly knock them all over the ground and run off. She hopes she has enough cash left. Straightening up, she looks for somewhere to sit the fruit down so she can check her wallet.

But the woman in the sweater holds her hands out for them. She’s already put the ones she picked up in a canvas bag.

“I’ll take them,” she says. “I was gonna buy some anyway.” Her sweater is a few shades bluer than the warm purple of Veera’s own hoodie.

Veera blinks at her. “Are – are you sure?” She holds out one of the mandarins, showing its dented skin, fragrant with released citrus oils.

The woman gives her a small smile. “Yeah. I’ll eat that one first.”

“Oh. Um. Okay.” Veera delicately hands three more mandarins over. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t worry about it.” The woman’s voice is like her smile: small but kind.

Veera whispers her thanks again, then hurries home before she can be waylaid by any more painfully kind gestures from strangers.

***

Veera’s so relieved to walk through her own door into the kitchen that she doesn’t realize someone’s in the living room, not until she hears a soft sob. Her head snaps up. Niki’s on the couch with her face in her hands and Beth next to her with an arm around her. Alarmed, Veera drops her bag on the kitchen counter and begins to make a beeline for her. But she hesitates. She’s used to offering Niki comfort whenever she can, but is she interrupting?

Too late. Beth makes a small sound of surprise when she notices Veera hovering halfway into the room. Niki looks up too, but she wipes her eyes and gives Veera a watery smile. It’s okay.

Niki holds a hand out as Veera makes her way over to the couch. Gladly, Veera takes it. As Veera stands there before the scruffy secondhand sofa in the hazy light from the window, the three of them are briefly an interlinked chain. Beth watches the other two with soft, understanding eyes, her arm steady over Niki’s shoulders.

Niki heaves a shaky sigh. Then she gives Beth’s knee a thankful squeeze and uses Veera’s hand to lever herself up to standing. She briefly embraces Veera, who returns the gesture. “I’m okay,” Niki whispers. Veera nods. Then Niki slips away into the kitchen and starts bustling around, half-seen behind the half-wall that divides it into an alcove off the main room. Presumably, she’s taking a moment to collect herself while unpacking Veera’s groceries. She does that. Niki doesn’t mind if Veera sees her cry – or Beth, apparently. But she always takes a moment alone afterward to put herself back together.

Veera shakes her head to clear away the traces of her second unexpected fright of the morning. In its wake, the empty spot on the couch is too inviting.

She flops onto the cushions next to Beth with a sigh and goes limp. Maybe going to the market was a little too ambitious for today. She’s already had too much excitement this week with Beth visiting, and she hasn’t slept well because of it, which only saps more of her limited energy. Even good things can be so exhausting. She knows she needs to get more rest than most people do, especially when there’s so much happening. But that’s so hard to remember when she knows that this moment is such a rare blessing. Both of her most important people are right here with her right now. It’s so hard to not throw herself completely into every possible joy she can have, in this transcendent sliver of time.

She rolls her head where it rests against the back of the couch to look at Beth sideways. “I got breakfast,” she offers.

“Looks like you wiped yourself out doing it.” Beth leans against the arm of the sofa to look at her. “Morning.” Her own tired eyes twinkle.

Veera smiles. She tries to fix this moment into memory: the wisps of Beth’s unbrushed hair catching the light, the wooden clatter of Niki opening and closing cabinets in the kitchen.

“Are you okay?” Veera asks.

Beth runs a hand through her hair. “Yeah. We were just talking, about,” she waves a hand around, encompassing all the faces in all the photos on the walls, “everything. We’re so different. But some of the stuff, it’s the same. The things we’re all going through. You know?”

Veera does.

The kitchen clatter intensifies as Niki starts moving pots and pans around and clinking them down on the stovetop.

“How many eggs do you want?” Niki calls, voice more steady now. When Veera and Beth come over to investigate, she’s already got a skillet out and is debating with herself whether to start a pot of porridge, too. Veera’s always in favor of porridge no matter what, and Beth’s never had proper Finnish porridge before, so that settles that.

Niki starts scooping the mixed grains into the pan without measuring, like normal. She fills it with an unknown amount of water from the sink with some arcane skill of estimation that Veera has never understood. It always turns out fine. As Beth gets to work slicing some of the fresh fruit, Veera sidles up to Niki and lays a light hand on her arm.

Niki meets her questioning eyes. “I’m okay,” she says again. But she leans into Veera’s touch and stays there. Veera says nothing, just strokes a thumb over Niki’s shoulder and holds the space. Oats and rice swirl in the saucepan as Niki stirs them into the water with a wooden spoon.

“I was talking to her about what happened with Aleks, and mum and dad.” Niki’s voice goes soft, but not hushed. Her words aren’t directed at Beth at the other counter, but they’re not hidden from her, either. “How it made it so hard to trust anyone anymore. Especially Suvi, ‘cause she was there before. And you know how that gets me all... ugh.” She twiddles her wooden spoon in the air. Then she leans even more into Veera, into the arm that curls around her in half an embrace. To think, that Veera is someone who offers such gestures now with hardly a hesitant thought.

“She just gets it, you know?” Niki continues. “Not that you don’t, but it’s different. Like, you understand about how people are always expecting things from you. People see what they wanna see, and only take you seriously if you play along with it. It’s so frustrating. And it’s bullshit! I’ve never met anyone who understands that better than you.” She stirs the porridge again.

“And Beth... she was telling me some about her dad. She knows about having someone close to you just pull the whole rug out from under your world.” Niki pauses her stirring, and looks at Veera. “I’ve always been amazed, how you just landed on your feet and hit the ground running, when you found out. I couldn’t have done that, if I was alone.”

Veera shrugs, incidentally squeezing Niki sideways. “I never was very close with Matti.”

Watching her, Niki’s face falls a little. “I’m glad he didn’t hurt you that way. But I wish... I don’t know. I wish you’d had someone who was there for you, then. Everyone deserves that.”

“Huh.” Veera blinks. “I’d never thought of it that way.”

Arms suddenly wrap tight around her middle, a face tucked into the crook of her neck and shoulders. The handle end of a wooden spoon presses into the muscles between her shoulderblades.

“Niki!” Veera exclaims softly.

“Hey, look.” Her voice is sniffly again. “I’m having a day, okay, let me just –” She holds Veera tight.

“Nikiii,” she cajoles. “I’m fine.” Her eyes flick toward Beth over Niki’s shoulder. Her hand hovers over a peach on the cutting board as she meets her eye. Veera tucks her head down a little, embarrassed. But Beth’s smiling, if also looking a bit watery.

“I know,” Niki says into her shoulder. “I know you’re fine. You’re wonderful. But I’m here, okay? You’re always here for us. But we’re here for you, too.” Niki reaches an arm out blindly toward Beth until her fingers make contact, then gathers her in as if calling in backup. Beth gladly lays down the knife and joins the impromptu embrace next to the stove.

“Um.” Veera automatically relaxes under the extra pressure. It’s nice. But she’s still flustered. And the vociferous burbling of the porridge is getting a little concerning. “I think the porridge is going to boil over.”

Niki releases her with a groan. Veera’s sure she’s rolling her eyes, even though she’s a little too overwhelmed to look at either of them.

“That doesn’t mean you’re getting out of letting us be nice to you,” Niki says as she returns to the stove. Soon, the porridge is placated and eggs sizzle in the skillet, providing a crackling accompaniment.

When the food’s ready, they crowd around the table squeezed into the little kitchen nook below the window as if they do this every day. They pick slices of ripe peach and apricot off a cutting board in the middle. Spoons click in bowls as they do their best not to elbow each other. Stonefruit and cinnamon mix in the air with the light sulfur of fresh eggs and the pervasive aroma of the basil in the windowbox.

After a languid breakfast and a long morning spent simply enjoying each other’s company, the cloud cover is well on its way to burning off. The three head out to the nearby park, determined to make the most of the sun while the two Finns show off the splendor of the Helsinki summer to Beth. They pack up the fresh bread and cheese and the rest of the fruit for a picnic later.

Veera’s companions’ eyes are bright and animated as they leave behind the crisscrossing tracks of the train station and step into the shelter of the park’s old trees. Boughs bend and leaves whisper lazily in the light wind breathing over the bay. Veera follows them. With the hood of her jacket pulled down, the cool and verdant breeze caresses her short hair. Shade and sunlight dapple the grass between the footpaths and spatter the old blanket that they throw over the green, the one that usually lives on the couch that Beth’s currently taken over. They’re exposed to the open sky and anything else that might wander the earth with them. But branches lace and lattice across the blue, and the handful of other park-goers are too immersed in their own summer reverie to pay them any mind.

It’s surreal, almost. Niki basks like a lizard, looking like she needs nothing else in the world to keep her happy. Beth keeps running over to stick her toes in the salt water of the little bay. She takes every deliberate step into grass and gravel as if both she and the world are fresh and new. Peace settles into Veera’s bones. She spends half her time watching the others while reading an old fantasy novel in the shade. The other half, she looks upon the scene as if watching herself, absolutely bewildered by the way she both sees and cannot see the pain that still lives in the three of them, even as she still feels the scores it left trailing across her heart.

It's a long and lazy afternoon in the best understated way. By the time they return home sunwarmed, though, Veera’s starting to feel the effects of having been out all day doing too many things. Her skull is beginning to ache. But it’s familiar and cool and quiet here. She can rest.

Once they unpack the remains of their picnic, Niki makes good on her earlier threat of not letting Veera get out of being fussed over. She chivvies the other two into the living room and onto the couch. To Veera’s mild bemusement, Niki sits next to her, across from Beth, looking far too pleased with herself.

Then Niki pulls all three of them into a cuddle pile with Veera caught in the middle.

Veera lets out a little squeak of surprise as she’s smothered in limbs and warm laughter. Beth’s only too happy to help Niki tag-team her, the traitor. She squeezes Beth’s wrist in retaliation, but all that gets her is Beth slipping out of her grip just enough to tangle her fingers with her own.

With a little shuffling, Veera ends up with Niki pressed comfortably up against her side leaning her head on Veera’s shoulder. Niki also tucks an arm around her, as natural and necessary as breathing. Curled up against her other side, Beth backstops her. She lets Niki play with the ends of her long dark hair with the hand that reaches around Veera’s shoulders. Beth’s still holding onto Veera’s hand, steady like she’s never planning on letting go. The intense late afternoon light slants into the room, sending stars refracting off of the glass bottles on the sill that trail green-leaved vine cuttings.

Veera doesn’t know that she’s ever been as happy as she is right now. She watches herself in half-believing wonder, then stops. She breathes. She feels the others’ breathing like her own. She reminds herself to just be here, just exist.

But the restlessness that she awoke with doesn’t cease, even now with the two presences she treasures most on either side of her, tucked almost as close to her body as they are to her heart. It still aches and whispers in her ear with a soft insistence. Something about the fragile intensity of this moment calls to that unknown quantity like its own.

This little apartment on the edge of the city was never meant to be more than just enough for her and Niki to carve a safe space out of a terrifying world. And it has been that. But then there was more. There were the herbs keeping the kitchen and the succulents dotting the shelves. There were the colors covering the floor in rugs and memories covering the walls in photos. There was ample quiet to replace chill silence, and the fullness of kind words spoken like truth. There were pancakes. There was sunshine. There was Jade and Justyna and Janika and Sofia and Sarah and Helena and Katja and Aryanna and Danielle and Alison and Cosima and Jennifer and Tony and Femke and Fay and Krystal; and there was Beth, and there was Niki, and there was her.

Perhaps that’s the strangeness that keeps plucking at her mind. Not only have her situation and surroundings strayed so far from what her life used to be, but she herself is someone different now. She emerged changed out the other side of the two fires that consumed her entire life. Maybe the flames were bookends. She doesnt remember anything from before the first, and the space between them was long and lonely. The person she became during that in-between time is still fused into her foundations.

And yet, so much of the structure of her self has shifted. New parts of her unfurl daily. Being within her own body feels both utterly familiar and completely new. She can look back at the strange girl she once was and still recognize parts of her as the strange woman she is now. Now, she’s someone who gets called Veera with a voice full of love and Mika with sense of wonder and Leda with mild curiosity, and they are all her.

The unexpectedness of being given so many names still leaves her bemused. There’s a surprising intimacy to them, the way people speak them like they’re describing the shape of her in so many other lives. She’s unaccustomed to it. As difficult as people can be, what she has now is... good. When she thinks on it too hard, it makes her ribs feel like they’re closing in on her heart even while her lungs expand to take in the whole sky in an single endless exhilarated breath.

She’s thinking about it now. It’s not just a thought. It’s a longing and a fulfilling, an ache and a balm, a memory and a future, a call and response. It becomes all of her in this moment, and she shivers with its intensity. The shiver ripples into the bodies nestled on either side of her. Only a few years ago, she could never have imagined being so close, or wanting to. Sometimes it’s still too much, even with Niki – even with both of them, now, who are both so inexplicably easy to be around. The companionable solitude bathes her soul like the green breathing of a forest in eternal spring. She thinks about the unlikeliness, the flouted impossibility of it all. The feeling that it calls into bloom from her seed of a heart is almost too much.

“Veera?” Niki turns to face her in response to the shiver, her golden head catching and holding the gilded afternoon light.

“You alright, Veer?” She blinks at the new sound of the new name spoken in Beth’s softest-leather voice. It fits, too.

Veera inhales to speak, but words evade articulation. She releases the breath again to its own wordless purposes. The hand that’s been interlaced with hers squeezes gently as Beth makes a little questioning sound like a cat and shifts the comfortable weight of her knees in Veera’s lap. On Veera’s other side, Niki leans even further into her than she has been and rests her chin on Veera’s shoulder.

The press of their affection and concern envelop her in dearest aching, and it’s so much. She wants to stay right where she is. But she’s hardly slept for the past two nights and she’s tired and aching from overextending herself and her words have left her again. The immensity of feeling blooming inside her on top of everything else is just too much. She won’t be able to stay like this much longer. She needs to be by herself, to quietly sort through the backlog of everything she’s experiencing that’s stacking up faster than she can process it.

First, though, she needs them to know how much this means to her. Her ears pick up every breath and brush of smallest movement, and her world is filled with little strokes of sound that fall across her skin and hum in her chest as if painted there. They’re closer and dearer to her than anyone has ever been. Veera lifts Beth’s hand with her own and sweeps Niki’s hand into her grasp as well. Then, she presses both of them hard against her heartbeat. She bends her head down and locks her arms over her own chest to hold them there. No sound escapes her except a minute whimper.

Wordless murmurs and small shufflings to stay close tell her that they understand what she can’t say right now, and tell it back to her twofold. She sniffles a little, then begins to untangle herself without yet letting go. She doesn’t want to leave. But if she doesn’t, the waves of overwhelm that currently shove at her will become a tide that pulls her under and leaves her head pounding.

Niki’s voice, low. “You getting overloaded?”

Veera nods.

“Okay,” she says gently. “Go wind down. We won’t be loud.” Niki’s always been so understanding, right from the very first moment she’d shared her strangeness. Secret for a secret, she’d said, guarding Veera’s like her own and holding her trust like a treasure.

“Take care, Mika,” Beth says, mimicking Niki’s tone. Beth’s never been here here for this before. But Veera has texted with her at length numerous times in the past, when she can’t bear conversation out loud but still wants company. Veera can still hardly believe that Beth’s really here, proving herself as compassionate through soft sounds and touches as through a keyboard. “Don’t worry,” she adds as Veera still hesitates to let go. “We’ll be here later.”

Veera breathes out and nods again. She manages to stand, still holding one hand in each of hers. She squeezes them one more time, one after the other. Then she picks her way around the blue-and-brown mess of clothes spilling out of Beth’s suitcase onto the living room floor and steps softly into her own room. She closes the door.

With the blinds half shuttered against the afternoon light coming through the west-facing window, it’s cooler, dimmer, quieter than the main room. Veera likes it that way. She needs its restful seclusion as much as she needs the sun-glazed warmth of the rest of the place. Filled with muted purples and greens, there’s no dizzying array of photographs here. The only picture on the walls is a large cream and gray poster of a detailed sketch of the moon with all its craters arcing over its surface. Stubby succulents dot the heavily book-laden shelf and her cluttered desk in front of the window. They sort of glitter in the sunlight. The beams catch the water stored in the overlarge cells of their chunky little leaves, brightening their soothing shades of green, grey, dusty lavender, and mauve.

Nerves spangling, she changes out of her jeans into something softer without looking at what she’s doing. Sometimes, even just looking at things gets to be too tiring. Her hands know exactly where she keeps everything stashed in her dresser drawer, and her fingers are familiar with the texture of nearly every piece of clothing she owns. She doesn’t need to see them to tell them apart.

Veera sinks into the soft give of the comforter spread over her bed with a sigh. When she pulls the weighted blanket at the foot of it over herself with the rain-like rustle of plastic beans in its quilted pockets, it wraps her in gentle even pressure from above and below. The heaviness of it flattens out the frayed edges of her nerves. Laid out flat on her back with her arms floating loosely on either side and her elbows bent upward, the blanket covers everything except her face and hands.

As the creeping tension begins to trickle away, another sigh escapes her lungs. It’s a slow process. With how large her emotions are now, and with all the excitement and exhaustion of the past three days, it will take a few hours to wear down the worst of it. The tightness of her shoulders and the pinched feeling in her neck will fade. But they won’t completely disappear for a day or so – and that’s if she does nothing but rest her body and mind. The strain is mental as much as it is physical. Her brain just does what brains normally do, only sometimes slower and sometimes faster, and getting there via unorthodox roads. When rushed, the process only gets backed up, the road blocked, the paths tangled. Pushing it is like trying to run with a twisted ankle. It only makes it worse.

At times like this, it’s even easier than usual for the world to turn into sandpaper on her soul and senses. Overexposure to the riptide of existence all around rubs her nerves raw, living faster than she can think and burning brighter than she can bear. Sounds become ocean waves with weight behind them and lights fill her eyes with their intense brilliance. Gentle touches catch her skin like fire, while firm pressure forms a gravity well that could either pull her into a stable orbit or sling her satellite round reeling. It’s so easy for her to get overwhelmed by pain and pleasure alike. The line between them is faint and fluid.

To some degree, that vibrant intensity was always going to be part and parcel of the way she experiences the world. She was always going to be strange. Maybe if she hadn’t been put through two fires, it wouldn’t be quite so overwhelming quite so often. Probably. But she doesn’t know where the scars end and the inherent self begins, because they’re the same now. Whatever the cause, the person she is now is someone subject to both exquisite sharpness and terrible softness, captivated by so many infinitesimal pangs of ache and grace. It’s a lion’s share of pain and wonder across a lamb’s shoulders.

She wouldn’t change it, if she could. She didn’t choose it, but it’s hers. It’s her. It’s given her an unprecedented ability to be gentle in just the right ways with the people who need it most. That comes in handy considering how many traumatized Ledas she works with. Besides, she’s found all sorts of unusual yet efficient ways to do what she needs to do, because the normal ways don’t work for her. Sometimes that results in really neat new things, like the advanced cyber-security system she personally designed for CYGNet. It hasn’t been beaten yet, and if her constant updates have anything to say about it, it never will. If she ever gets tired of co-running the organization with their board of Ledas, she could always actually go into the tech field.

Right now, ever leaving CYGNet seems such a remote possibility. After a couple years of a reduced workload so she could actually finish school and take a few courses in database management to supplement her work, she’s finally returned in her full capacity. It feels good. Between her responsibilities managing the sheer volume of information DYAD had surrendered to them and protecting both it and their secure communication network, she has plenty to keep her mind busy and satisfied.

Now that Sofia and Aryanna take care of most of the administrative work, things run a lot smoother, too. Sofia’s steadied into tenacious steadfastness as her confidence grows, and she’s got a level head and a killer knack for budgets. Aryanna’s a great project manager and she’s got plenty enough charisma to handle the public-facing parts of CYGNet that Niki used to wrangle.

Niki’s stepped back a lot from CYGNet since Veera came back full time. She’d only been involved out of circumstance and necessity in the first place. For years, Niki had been the smiling face of Leda to the world, giving their story the life it needed to be told. Veera doesn’t know how she’d ever have done any of it without her. But really, all Niki wanted was a quiet life with the people she loved. So now that things were steadier and the world’s scrutiny had moved on, she was taking more time for herself. She worked part-time in a cat café downtown a few blocks away from the park, went on dates with Suvi around the city, and came home smiling to Veera and their little apartment.

Niki seems softer these days, happier. It’s like she’s settled into her natural gentleness, rather than defiantly clinging to it like a lifeline after the fire tried to burn it out of her. Her recovery is a thing of beauty. Sometimes Veera is stricken into stillness at the sound of Niki humming to herself in the next room, or at the sight of her smiling to herself while reading in a patch of sunlight, her legs stretched out on the couch. Sometimes, the memory of almost losing her so soon after finding her four years ago floats forth, casting Veera’s current joy in a sickly shade.

But they’ve talked through that fear they both have, many times. They’re both here, alive. They both care too much about the closeness they’ve created to ever choose to be too far apart. Anything else that might separate them will just be the ebb and flow of life, and that’s always true for everyone. Veera tries not to worry about it too much. She’s lucky to have Niki in her life. And these days, Veera’s gotten better at believing her when she says she wants to stay.

She finds her mind going unfocused, her body gone heavy like she needs a nap. It’s been an eventful day. Veera curls up on her side under the blanket, burying the rough texture of her scarred cheek in the softness of her pillow. To see her now, anyone might assume she was one of the others, marked only invisibly. Instead, a chapter of her story is written all down the right side of her body in curlicues of too-light ridges and and too-dark indentations, dappled from face to elbow to ankle. People don’t always read past that page to reach the rest of her. Much of the time, she still can’t, either. But at least there is another chapter now. It’s right here where she’s living in this strange new moment.

Her already heavy limbs go slack. Thoughts shift and sift and slip over each other half-defined. Maybe there will be more chapters she can’t even imagine yet, even better than this half-healed, aching glory.

***

When she wakes once again, Veera finds evening falling in its long, slow descent. It’s late. The sky glows with that particular kind of soft, omnipresent golden glow that only comes with the midnight sun at the height of summer. Niki and Beth have probably gone to bed already. They’re both early risers, and Beth is adjusting relatively well to her jetlag. As usual, the evening belongs to Veera.

Evening here is a half-seen time, gilded in twilight in the summers and shrouded in restful darkness throughout the long winter. Her eyes get a reprieve from the sharp definition of day among the soft placement of shadows. Even in winter, she rarely turns on the lights. Navigating the familiar space is easy by the sound of her feet on thin carpet and linoleum, by the brush of her fingertips on the matte whitewashed walls. She’s usually the only one awake.  Even when Niki wakes up with bad dreams and seeks her out for comfort, they don’t talk much. Voices are kept low. Most of the time, it’s a space for her to be alone with her thoughts, turning them over and laying her experience of the day to rest before she sleeps.

Cautiously, in case Beth’s asleep in the living room, Veera pries her door open so it doesn’t clunk in its uneven frame. Sure enough, Beth’s curled up in her nest of blankets on the couch. Niki’s bedroom door is ajar, and through it she can just catch the barely-heard sounds of an occupied room, the imperceptible breath or rustle of presence simply felt. It’s the difference between quiet and silence. It's subtle, but worlds away from the dullness that permeates an empty space. Having grown up roaming two floors of dim, silent rooms with only the click of the keyboard from ‘uncle’ Matti’s office for company, Veera is endlessly familiar with that emptiness. This is something else: a living seed hidden under the soil; a flower that’s closed its petals for the night.

Pulling the hood of her well-loved purple hoodie up to shield her ears from the mechanical hum of the fridge, she slips out of her room and heads into the kitchen. Things are less sharp now, but she's still unusually sensitive, especially her ears. Retrieving a tall glass of room temperature water and a tin of chicken soup tipped into a bowl takes only a minute. She doesn’t heat it. The quiet is worth more to her than the warmth, in this comfortable stillness. She retreats to her room with the bowl clutched in her hands and curls up at the foot of her bed for a quiet dinner.

She’s far more relaxed and grounded now than she was earlier. But, checking the clock, she’s just woken up from one of her exhausted five-hour recovery naps. She’s too awake, if in a mild and focused sort of way, to go to sleep like she normally would around now.

Well. Though she’s mostly taking the time Beth’s here off from CYGNet work, she has been checking once a day just to make sure nothing critical or time-sensitive has come up. She hasn’t done that yet today because she was absolutely and completely passed out and dead to the world for half of it, so she might as well get that done now.

She cracks her door partly open so that the presences of the others can better keep her company at a distance. Then she boots up her computer and dials down the display to a dim setting in the endless dusk.

Everything looks fairly normal. There’s nothing of note in the security reports, just the usual bots automatically blocked. Other than that, there’s only two messages in her inbox that have been flagged for immediate attention by her custom filters.

The first is a notice of identity confirmation for Jennifer Fitzsimmons in the States. She filed a request not long ago for all her information retrieved from DYAD to be destroyed. It’s one of the solutions they originally came up with to make sure CYGNet didn’t just replace DYAD as a repository of excruciating detail. The whole point of the organization was to help them all reclaim the autonomy that had been stolen from them. That meant making sure every Leda had full control over their own records. CYGNet couldn’t do much for those who didn’t contact them except seal and guard their data in case they wanted it someday, which Veera did dutifully. But they could make sure that anyone who heard about the organization knew they had the option to cut that unauthorized tie.

Veera was surprised how few chose to do so - only 34 of the 113 Ledas in contact with CYGNet. Many seemed to simply consider it a comprehensive if unnervingly detailed medical history that they could refer to for their own use. Others, like herself, saw the data as a window into otherwise lost parts of their lives. After she’d decidedly parted ways with Matti, she had no one to tell her anything about the times she was too young to remember. Still others, like Beth, wanted nothing to do with their records, but chose to preserve them as proof of their ordeals.

On the other hand, a minority including Jennifer had made contact for the exclusive purpose of requesting their data be destroyed and didn’t seek any engagement with it. CYGNet verified their identities to make sure the files in question pertained to the one who was actually making the request. But they made a point of doing the verification by traditional means. They’d all had enough of blood tests and lab rats.

It was more common for people to decide to delete their data after actually accessing some of their records, the way Niki did. After confirming the identities of her monitors, she’d wanted nothing to do with any of it. She said all it did was hurt. She’d already experienced enough of the sharpness of betrayal without knowing the prickly details of every last lie. Her DYAD records were the first ones they erased. Veera deleted the digital files, and Niki burned the hard copies herself, her smile strangely grim yet satisfied as she set them alight with shaking hands. She seemed lighter, after, and less wary of the warmth of flames.

Veera spends a few minutes completing the second half of double-authorizations for Jennifer’s digital and physical record destruction (permanent removal needed confirmation from two board members) before initiating file deletion. She watches the progress bar creep toward 100% while sending the requisite forms off to Danielle in record storage. She’ll put the hard copies in the incinerator. Set to its lowest volume, Veera’s computer gives a small congratulatory bloop as Jennifer’s digital data disappears for good.

Finally, the only other thing that needs her attention is a request for the general Leda health packet from a new sender, dundorsetsilver@webmail.com. Piquing Veera’s curiosity, it specifically asks after the packet’s chapter on the autism spectrum and common comorbids, even though the sender “would hardly deem it necessary, but my new psychiatrist wants to be thorough.”

As she delves further into the odd letter, it hurts a little to read. It’s laced through with the kind of disdainfully certain air of superiority that reveals just how deeply someone has internalized the cruel views that the world holds of certain ways of being. Veera’s found that this attitude is particularly common in people who actually are on the spectrum, but have been taught since before memory, consciously or unconsciously, to suppress every natural expression of their own differences from the norm. They’re more likely to notice and disparage any deviations in others, specifically because they’ve spent so long trying to disavow their own. They’ve gone so long unsupported, learning to see support only as a weakness instead of as a natural and too-often-denied necessity.

It’s heartbreaking, because Veera’s recognized so many of her own eccentricities in so many of the others, and hardly any of them know what it probably means. She sees it again and again, over CYGNet video conferences and at the occasional Leda meet-ups. Cosima’s hands dance while she talks in much the same way that her own flutter when she’s nervous. Tony’s always blasting his music like his life depends on it, and as far as sensory regulation is concerned, it probably does. Rachel deliberately tilts her head in just such a way that Veera can tell she’s masking, trying to remain poised while she takes an extra moment to process and adapt to a situation.

It’s not that surprising, really, since they all share the same genetics. Most people don’t notice, though, because they only know the broadest and most inaccurate stereotypes. That’s why Veera had insisted on adding the neurodiversity chapter to the health packet.

Veera lightly skims her fingers back and forth over the keyboard without pressing down, thinking. The clicks of the barely jostled keys clatter out a tiny rhythm. Normally, they’d want new contacts to establish a secure CYGNet account. This email’s tone and its throwaway address, though, suggests that it’s either from someone who either isn’t comfortable making contact, or who is struggling too hard with internalized shame to ask for help without doing so anonymously.

It’s an easy decision. Veera attaches the health packet PDF to her reply and sends it along with just a few words of her own.

 Hey,

 Here’s the health packet, including the neurodiversity chapter. Whether or not any of it applies to you, I hope it helps you find your way closer to yourself. We’ve all got a long way to go if we’re going to build lives we can call our own.

Veera’s fingers hover over the keys. She wants to somehow tell whoever this is that it’s okay. It’s okay to wonder, to look into their own strangeness, to perhaps embrace it. But they’re probably not ready to hear it.

 If looking into neurodivergence ends up being a path you need to walk to do that, you’re not alone. I’m here, and so are a lot of the others. You know where to find us.

She signs off as merely MK, hoping that whoever it is might feel more comfortable with another semblance of anonymity. That’s all she can do, and for herself, that’s enough.

All at once, weariness weighs her down. Synthesizing such a delicate appropriate response takes so much effort. She’s gotten better at it, especially when she has time to compose and distill her thoughts. But such nuances don’t come naturally to her. She sags, shoulders loose. Though the light is still golden, it’s actually past midnight now. She hadn’t realized how long she spent trying to craft her words into the right shape. She folds her laptop away and sits on the end of her bed, opening the blinds to stare at the glowing amber of the summer night sky.

Now that her senses are less flooded than they were this afternoon, they itch in the way that means they’re craving some kind of input to regulate them, to calibrate her back into balance. Her vast collection of shared music is her go-to for that. There’s really nothing for it quite like becoming a song for a little while. It lets a steady measured flow of clean water smooth down the troubled riverbed of her nerves, torn up by the passing of the flood.

With her headphones on, she’s bathed in a swell of sound that washes over her like the cool sea on a warm day and just as refreshing. Her widely varied tastes change from hour to hour and minute to minute, but she always comes back to metal. The density and intensity of it literally drown out everything else with that single symphony of sensation. Now, she sways to its current in much the same way she wanted to at the market earlier – was that just this morning? Except now she can because she’s alone, and the only people near are the ones she trusts most. She lets herself dance in it, soothingly rock herself back and forth within its waves, shake out her hands along its endless ripples. She forgets the passage of time for awhile, existing only in the sound and the single present moment.

She emerges from her reverie far more relaxed and substantially more grounded. Setting the headphones aside and stretching her spine out along the bedspread, her limbs have gone soft and slow. Even with her long nap earlier, her overload was exhausting enough that she can probably manage to sleep again til morning. The thought is barely formed before she’s already drifting off.

***

She knows what’s different, when she wakes in soul-deep stillness. Lingering tendrils of vague golden-glazed dreams might just be yesterday’s memories. They retract from her consciousness like opening petals, only to birth her into that same sunlight. She can see the brightness without even opening her eyes, warmth flooding into her room through the door she’s left open.

It’s not just that she’s different now; it’s that she’s actually okay, sort of. And even after years, she’s also clearly not. And somehow... it’s enough.

The truth of it holds her in stillness for a nascent moment, like gentle hands around the wings of a bird about to be released into the sky. Then her eyes open to a room washed in brightness. Her neck and shoulders still ache, but her sight is sharp and clear. The bedroom is the same it’s been for years now, furnished simply, with a mess of cords spilling over her desk to the power strip and the too many favorite books crowding the shelves. But she can see it now, the way it’s filled with life in a way that these traces only barely begin to show. It’s not alive because she moves things around and grows plants in it now. She grows plants in it because she is vulnerably, tenaciously, heart-breakingly alive. She is what is filling the space.

Her life is now full of joy in ways she once could never have imagined. Her happiness feels strange because she is not used to it. She is healing, but she is also just beginning to understand the shape and nature of the scars on her heart and mind. They are just as deep and real as the ones on her skin. They may never truly leave her, and she has made peace with that. But that has done absolutely nothing to stop beauty from seeding her life and springing from every fracture like grass from cracks in concrete.

The restless discomfort that’s been plaguing her has been nothing more than her own hesitance, holding back from fully inhabiting this current joy. Some part of her must still believe that it’s undeserved, or that it’s impossible until she is completely okay.

But it’s not. It’s right here and already making itself hers, as broken and whole as she is. She’s been looking at every new leaf wondering if she’s allowed to love it, even while it’s sinking roots into her life and breathing life into the air.

Few people like her get the opportunities she has; to heal, to help, to grow. She’s already trying so hard to give back as many of those chances as possible, even if it's just to the handful of Ledas she’s been able to help. But that doesn’t change the fact that these opportunities are hers; and yet she’s still half holding back.

She could take them. Not from anyone, but for all of them – and for herself. She could choose it in the unknown names of all her people who have been so lost and alone and longing, the ones who never will be found and the ones who are still hoping. She could believe for all of them that she deserves the joy right in front of her. Maybe this whole time she’s been trying to help the others, she’s been trying to heal herself.

It's a terrifying prospect. But maybe doing right by people like her means doing right by her self, too. Maybe it’s as simple, as impossibly hard, as just letting herself be where she is.

With a shock that catches her breath, she realizes that she’s already made her choice. Somewhere deep inside, something has already shifted like a flower turning toward the sun. She has changed.

It’s never going to be easy. She is going to be healing for the rest of her life. Not to mention, she’ll have to do it in a world where she knows all to well that people are often cruel. But there are also people it’s easy to be around. People like her, and unlike her, but kind people, understanding people, even strangers like the plant vendor at the market and the woman with the oranges. Perhaps she needs to mourn the fact that it took her so long to find any. But now... oh, now.

She tumbles out of bed in yesterday’s clothes. She makes her way out of the room past the crusty soup bowl that she left on her desk last night. Brushing past the great glossy leaves of the swiss cheese plant like a forest creature through the undergrowth, she steps into the central room that’s blazing with light and color and life.

As she enters the kitchen, she ignores the twin cries of greeting from the stove. She casts about for her new little pearls plant. Looking around, she spies it in the kitchen window half hidden under the canopy of the basil. She marches right up to it and into the vault of sunlight streaming in.

One by one, each round little bead of a leaf leads up to the stem holding its spindly floating flower - and it's actually a compound flowerhead. It’s opened up several miniscule pinkish-white flowerets with five pointed petals each. They’re giving off the most incredible, intense smell that fills that whole corner of the kitchen and seems like it couldn’t possibly be produced by something so tiny. Her hands flutter near her shoulders in absolute delight. As she breathes in, the little flower’s fragrance mixes with the pungent aroma of the herbs growing next to it. She drinks it all in deeply, breathes in the smell until it fills her lungs. Sometimes she feels as if she could survive on the richness of such things alone, like a hummingbird subsisting on nothing but nectar.

Nonsense. Her world is so much larger than she ever thought it could be, and she wants it, chooses it. Unlatching the window, she flings the shutters open wide to the trees just outside dancing in a kaleidoscope of green and brown and gold and the sunny city beyond and the blue sky above. The summer breeze that rushes in ruffles her messy hair with a wonderful effervescent sensation.

She laughs out loud, then turns around and practically throws herself at Niki and Beth with arms outspread. She seizes them both in a messy hug that somehow manages to include that wooden spoon again. Veera still laughs, and she feels tears on her cheeks, too.

“Whoa! Hey, girl.”

“Oh, shit! Hi Mika.”

“Hey, Veera, are you okay?”

No. Yes. Always. Never. She finds herself crying harder than she’s ever cried in her life. But she’s still smiling, steeped in a deeper kind of joy and certainty than she’s ever felt before. Someone threads their fingers through her hair and strokes her head until the tide turns and sets her free. And then, still, she is held.

None of this will last. Nothing does. There is more elation and agony and monotony and uncertainty and wonder up ahead. And yet, they’re still here, and she’s beyond grateful. She’s never stopped being here. Maybe this really is exactly where she needs to be. Maybe all she needs to do is tell the garden of her heart that it doesn’t have to stop growing.

When she can, Veera breathes in deeply, her ribs pressing against the arms circling her. She feels the way her exhale blusters soft and warm in the small space between her face and the shoulders she leans it into. The yielding soft pressure of the embrace engraves itself into the very bones of her arms, and she will never ever be able to forget the ache of it and will never want to.

Fuck the fires – this is what’s real now. She wants this to be what makes her who she is. This dance of joy in strangeness can be the story she makes of the rest of her life. All she needs to do is remember her choice, and make it, again and again and again.

“Hey, there, hey... there you are,” Beth murmurs. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re here.”

She is; they are.

They are.

[brooklynislandgirl]

Advent Calendar: Day 27 @kylo-wrecked​

Beth’s already let herself in and made herself at home by the time Ben and D.O. come in through the door. Guilt laces everything about her when he stops short and for a moment looks like he could, through no fault of his own, murder her where she stood. Only she isn’t standing. Far from it. The little house, if she’s using the word generously, was all ice by the time she’d gotten here. There might not be a lot of snow in the desert but the temperatures could drop brutally cold once it hits sundown. The lights were off too, and if she had thought better of it, she might have simply waited on the porch or even in her rented suite. He doesn’t ever come up to her place. Instead, she takes the key from under the coffee tin and realises two things; it fits a door no longer part of the structure and hadn’t been for a long time, and that he doesn’t actually care that his door isn’t locked. She doesn’t imagine him having a lot in the way of unexpected visitors, really. She puts the key back in its unsuspecting resting place and let herself in. She turns on a couple of lights and it breaks her heart that he doesn’t have one single seasonal item, not a single bit of glitter or glow. She busies herself with the bits and bobs she finds laying around and makes him a little tree of scrap wood and metal, and below it she places the gifts she meticulously wrapped for him in plain paper she’s drawn over, and tied together with one of her much-prized hair ribbons. It’s nothing earth-shattering, just some replacement tools for the ones she noted were a little rusty and age-worn. Some wax pencils to mark the few measurements he makes; she loves that most of his art is done with the eye and the heart. The gift for D.O is much more obvious, a meaty bone almost as big as she is tall, and a soft little  duck toy, though she did remove the squeaker. Plastic inside animal toys is a recipe for disaster and a huge vet bill she isn’t sure Ben can swing. But even all of that only takes so much time. She browses through his pantry and manages to find just enough things to make a hearty stew which she puts on his stove-top, one of those ancient wood burning ones that doubles as a heat source. The aroma doesn’t take much time to fill the space and add to the comfort of the warmth. Still, everything is too cold for her except Mos Espa at high noon, and she indulges herself by slipping one of his shirts over her own, and curling up on the nearest flat surface ~his bed~ and bundling up with the blanket that still smells like him. That makes her burrow her face into it. And maybe a part of her longs for more than just bedding, more than just well worn flannel. She doesn’t blame him, no, not at all, that this is what he comes home to; food and gifts and a Beth blinking at him with sleep-heavy eyes. And the softest smile she could ever hope to have. “Oh, hey. Uhm. Sorry I jus’ help myself in…but Merry Christmas?”

[tobelongtheseries]

Talon

“To Belong” Writing Contest Entry Written by: Beth A.

Evening had settled over the city, bathing slated rooftops in a warm, honeyed glow. A cool breeze with the scent of rain on its breath trickled through the gutters like a sigh. The purple swell of rainclouds had all but dissipated, leaving spatters of dark, bruise-like hues in the sky. Squirming in the residue, Mennah perched on the sill of a three storey balcony, squinting into the light through the amber tint of her goggles, absorbing each brush stroke of colour in the sky shimmering in the petrol puddles below. 

The small tuft of her tail flicked back and forth in a ‘come-hither’ motion as she balanced on the ledge by the tips of her toes, fingers curling into the strap of an oversized satchel slung over her shoulder like a rucksack. The wind, to prove it still had some breath left in its body, sought a hold on the marmoset’s tiny form, threading wispy fingers through her mane in a vain attempt to buffet her from her perch. 

Even with the warmth of seeping, amber rays tracing through her fur, the cool, lingering touch of the rain made her shiver. Mennah’s pelt fluffed as the zephyr whisked by. Stricken with the urge to just do, she stretched her hand out, spreading it to catch the wind only to feel it slip through her fingers. The cool touch was substantially better than that stifling café. Her fingers twitched and curled. A purse on her lips, she adjusted the strap of her satchel and peered down, eying the drop. The row of terraces cast grey shadows to the sodden street below. Across the road, she could see the lights of ‘The Tablespoon’ flicker off. Fired. Again. She chittered despondently, steering herself over to the railings and perching on the edge. Coiling low, she sprung forward taking off like a bolt from a crossbow, vaulting across impromptu walkways and skittering along slated tiles. The world blurs by her, messy and incomprehensible. 

Streetlights, wet pavements, flashes of passing cars. She blears through it all. Up here, she couldn’t be touched by the scolding tongues of scathing remarks and pompous consumers her ex-establishment had to offer. Up here, she was flying. The warmth in her arms and legs spread to the tips of her fingers, making them tingle every time she rebounded off something. Her abdomen twisted pleasantly, warming at the sweet way it stretched and coiled under the strain. However, the slow burn had grown into a persistent ache niggling on the edge of her senses. With a leap that carried her from a telephone pole to a parapet, the ache screamed. Water sloshed up her legs as she skidded to a halt. The avenues had transformed into wrapper strewn, gurgling alleys and the tiled roofs into flat, concrete balustrades. Gritting her teeth, Mennah reclined on her haunches, her tiny heart like thunder in her ears. 

With a chittering groan, she pulled the satchel’s strap from around her neck and dropped it on the ground beside her. A low trill of pain filtered between the fissures of her teeth as her arm throbbed. Nimble fingers brushed through the dusty gold of her course fur, soothing the wrought muscle beneath. She needed a break. Pealing her goggles from her face with her good arm and setting them beside her, she felt her body warm. A faint trickle began to buzz through her flesh like the conjuring of a lightning bolt. Just as her skin started to sear, white engulfed her vision. With a pulse of light her limbs elongated, gold fur receded into bronzed flesh, and Mennah stepped out of her sprightly marmoset skin and into her willowy human one. She stood, stretching the soreness out of her biceps, arching her back to pull at the taut knots between her shoulders. Her hair brushed against her bare shoulders, swathes of bottle-green bleeding into black from the bottom up. Her toes curled as they squished together in the grime and dirt. 

The swell of pollution and grime engorged itself on the previous trickle of rain, bloating, distending and bursting from the rooftops to trickle and pool in sludge-like puddles in the streets below. Mennah felt her nose wrinkle. With no bus pass or the money for a taxi and the only options being winding through alleys and risking her ass leaping through the voids between buildings, she was much happier taking the longer route home than trudging through the muck, thank you very much. The aftertaste of ozone in the air curled her tongue to her palate. She hated being outside after a wet spell. Scintillating, neon-blue lights pulsed above shiny, wet cobbled streets, mingling with the yellow vapour bulbs of the streetlamps. Fiddling with the bottle green ends of her hair, twisting and threading it around her fingers, Mennah watched as the evening sun swelled and casted a copper-pink glow, bathing the land in a swash of light and colour. She was silent, gaze locked on the brushstrokes of embers sweeping over the parapets and concrete rooftops. 

She stayed that way as the evening quickly began to bleed a dusky blue. Sequestered under the titillating glint of the stars above, Mennah huffed, shuffling through her satchel and shucking out her hoodie to retain some remnants of warmth. There was something ravenous about the shift of summer to autumn. Despite the warm colours and the drizzled, honeyed evenings, emptiness ran through the howling winds. She used to love the autumn, but nowadays it left a bitter edge on raw nerves. The image of that bloated, pus-pile of a boss floated in her mind. Her nails began to leave crescent welts in the flesh of her palms. Fired, rejected, swatted away like a bluebottle fly. Maybe she did bite a little too hard into that old toad, but nobody had the right to insinuate her life or her intelligence because of her damn hair. Besides, her nose did look like an overripe bell pepper. And like that, she was thrown out; uniform left crumpled in the gutter ‘round the back. Her stomach gnawed on itself, tiny pinpricks beginning to sting at the corners of her eyes, and quite suddenly, she began to grow angry. 

What the hell was she doing? She was stuck in a financial rut with nothing but a couple hundred pounds and a shitty foldup couch to her name, and she was sitting here slouching on someone else’s parapet wallowing. She fought the tears back, swiping them away with the back of her hand. With grim resolution she stood, squaring her shoulders from the weighted slouch they pulled themselves into. She was tired of crying, tired of feeling inadequate and alone, of being afraid. By all accounts, she should be fearless; she had persevered against the odds and faced the aspect of destitution many times with icy calm poise. Swallowing around the lump that’d crawled up her throat, Mennah found herself threading her fingers through her hair. Roots to ends. Black to green. The familiar motions soothed her frazzled nerves. There will be other jobs, she told herself, quelling the snake-like whispers in her head. You have enough for next week’s rent and more than enough time to find another job. Just breathe. Sucking up a sharp breath, Mennah tilted her head back, wincing as the bones grated and popped at the base of her skull. 

She had no idea how long she sat there musing, but by the time she surfaced from the broiling torrent that was her mind, night had fully transcended and the moon hung like a lonely bone in the sky, stars scintillating like diamond shards trapped in bubbling tar. Holding it until her lungs began to cinder and her skin itched, she released the breath with a loud ‘pbbbbbbblt’, stepping back into the familiar itch that was her golden marmoset. Her hoodie slumped around her shoulders, swallowing her whole. Hopping through the neck, she balled it up, shunting the thing back into her satchel and hooked the strap around her shoulder once more. The soft cotton felt nice on her calloused fingers, and as she thumbed the tender blisters, she grimaced at the thought of swinging the rest of the way home. Come on you big baby, a familiar tenor echoed snidely in her head, it’s not that far. Pulling at the strap with a huff, she prepared herself to spring from the parapet when a great gust of wind rifled through the small tuft of green fur at the nape of her head. 

She squeaked, head swivelling up to catch a glimpse of whatever oversized pigeon decided to fly in her space. All she managed to catch was a spray of white. She blinked a slow languid motion. An osprey. Not an unusual sight, but not a sight she was used to. Head tilted, Mennah caught herself gawking; the white flight feathers and the black speckles on the underside of their wings reminded her of the eyes of silver birches. Sharp black talons tucked by their tail feathers, curled and relaxed almost harmlessly. The air rumbled with the power of a blustering sea-tempest from a mere beat of their wings. Wings tilted down, and with it went the bird, twisting mid-air until its feet touched the adjoining parapet. The light undersides were tucked away, revealing cold brown flight feathers the colour of petrified wood. From the angle of their head, the osprey had to have known that she was there, but was simply content to fluff up and began preening those gossamer wings. 

She was entranced, watching that powerful, slate grey beak glide through the primers and carefully work its way across to the secondary remiges. Picking at the last tufts, they suddenly paused, making a show of noticing her. Tilting their head and regarding the little marmoset with a raptor-like gaze. Drizzled yellow eyes met her pebble black ones and all at once, Mennah was held captive. There was something foreboding about those eyes. Enticing and dangerous; like honey traps rippling with the twitching limbs of hornets submerged. The backs of her ears began to tingle. Something deep in her reptilian brain told her to run, yet her limbs felt warm and heavy. For as tense as the air was, the silence was calming. Tranquil. Blinking out of her stupor, Mennah realised that the osprey was still watching her. They seemed to be waiting. Brow pursing, Mennah settled onto her haunches, regarding the raptor to see if they would reciprocate the gesture. 

The osprey however, made no such move, their head swivelling to glare over the parapet. Their chest feathers puffed out like the hackles of a cat, and Mennah watched in awe as their wings splayed the span of her arms from fingertip to fingertip. She briefly wondered what those dark feathers would feel like. The next moment, with a powerful swoop of those wings, they were gone, diving over the edge and disappearing from sight. Trapped in a daze, she scooted over to the other parapet, curiosity pulling at her like marionette strings. Reaching the edge, she peered over. The prickle behind her ears spread to the back of her head. In the corner of a brown alley, an eclectic group of humans and animals had gathered in a semi-circle around a scruffy looking cat with a mangled ear and bristled fur. They had it surrounded. She felt her gut lurch. Trappers. Monsters that shucked the pelts off other animals and sold them on the black-market. Oh no … nononono she shouldn’t be here. She needed to leave. A rustle of movement caught her eye. 

The osprey glared on from a podium, perched above the scene like a dour gargoyle. The little menagerie seemed to be talking to each other, their hushed words lost to her from the vantage point, but from the sounds of their oily timbres, it was anything but good. She wanted to look away, leave and pretend she didn’t see the way they pushed in around the poor person snared in their net, but she couldn’t. The situation was beginning to leave a nasty taste in her mouth. Her whole head was buzzing now, from the tip of her nose to the jut of her chin, her heart like thunder in her throat. Without warning, one of the men took a purposeful step forward, a walking skyscraper bound in coils of muscle, boxing the creature in. The cat tried to dart between his legs, but was a fraction too slow. His tail made a sickening crunch beneath the heel of the man’s boot. The yowl was curdling, a hollow cry of pain. Mennah’s gut lurched. A wild, livid glare flitted through her pebble black eyes. Her throat clenched, swallowing the black shriek crawling up her windpipe like a prowling panther. 

This went beyond words. All that passed through her mind was rage. Her teeth bared, focus funnelled onto the dark pillar of a man like he was the focal point of a hurricane. Never in her entire life had she felt such anger coursing through her veins. Somewhere deep inside, she realised later, it fuelled her … and that terrified her. She didn’t think, only reacted. She threw herself off the ledge, honing in on the shaggy mane of chestnut hair. She landed like a brick on water but she quickly scrabbled for purchase. She grabbed at anything she could hold onto, hair, clothes, skin, and pulled as hard as she could, nails biting. She could hear screaming, shouts of surprise at the sudden appearance of a flying ochre furball, but she was deaf to them, working as much damage as she could before bolting the hell out of there. In her peripheral she caught a glance of a matted grey slinking around the corner. Her grip slipped. Strong hands ensnared her, fingers sinking into her ribs before being wrenched from the man’s scalp and flung away like a like a ragdoll. For a brief, weightless moment, Mennah panicked, the image of her small body breaking under the impact of such a throw flitting through her mind like a zoetrope. 

Her skin blistered and the next moment her feet hit the ground, her momentum tangling them around each other. Her bare back smacked against the wall and her lungs stuttered, body crumpling to the ground. The slick of grime coated her arms and knees and smeared all down her front. The edges of her vision blurred and darkened, and slowly enclosed around her sight. Her mind felt slow, crammed with cotton. Figures fluttered by as her world swam in and out of focus. A flare of white with black speckles. Osprey wings. Her mind returned to the sensation of claws at her shoulders. And teeth at her nape. Terror filled her lungs like a heady gas and she lashed out, knuckles scraping against a hard jawline. The weight fell off her back with a yelp, but hands quickly replaced them, fisting in her hair, knotting the dark tendrils and gripping her face tightly. As calloused fingers dug into the soft swell of her cheeks, Mennah felt her lips peel back, unsheathing slick teeth, and she bit down hard. The giant screamed, hand slipping from her hair to wrench the other from her mouth, but she followed, a crazed light glinting in her eyes. 

Her teeth were locked and set. She wasn’t letting go without taking a chunk of him with her. A spill of copper tang spattered over her tongue. In response, something cracked across her cheek, sparking a flash of white across her vision. She drew back, but the hands followed, grabbing her shoulders like bike handles, thumbs digging into the meat around her clavicles, and threw her body onto the ground. She hit the dirt heavily, a gust of air rushing from her lungs. Her head cracked against the cement, teeth rattling as black spots popped behind her eyes for a brief second. Equilibrium whirling, she attempted to sit up, too stunned to notice the figure looming over her until his thick hand slithered around her neck and forced her back down. Head bouncing on the floor, her airways tightened, constricted, she fought to remove the grip on her throat. But it wouldn’t budge. 

She howled and writhed, putting up as much of a fight as she could, but she was tired. The familiar flair in her arm was beginning to rile up and spread to her shoulder. Chest heaving, she fell limp. The man snickered, smirk pulling at his mouth and stretching a silvery scar etched under his bottom lip. “That all you got?” Mennah’s head ached and throbbed, making it hard to pull up much of a coherent thought, but she sucked on her tongue, pulling up as much moisture as she could and spat directly at the bastard’s face. “Go to hell,” she hissed as he reared back with a guttural growl. Hands tightened, crushing her windpipe. “You little -”

“Enough.” The air stilled. Through the watery film of her eyes, Mennah craned her head to see a woman, skin like cattails and rippling yellow eyes, observing the scene with a blasé demeanour. Her voice didn’t raise, words never wavered, but the clipped edge of her tone spoke of a woman who commanded attention. A pause. Fingers around her throat twitching. The man released his white knuckled grip. Back turned, Mennah took her chance and sat up, arms shaking as she braced and locked both elbows. She felt herself pale. The dull thrumming in her ears became a roar. She swallowed. Her throat was in agony. Her breath rattled in her chest in painful spasms, squeezing her insides to near-breaking points. The group around her spilled back, widening the circumference they set around her. A spasm of pain pinched her face. Her whole body strummed like taut elastic. Pouring over the throb of her body, she didn’t notice until the shadow spilled over her that the woman had edged closer. All she could do was swallow thickly as she leaned in, hot breath trickling over her face. Her lips tilted up invitingly; sharp, yellow eyes flitting softly over Mennah’s soft features like the light brush of a feather. 

“Well, aren’t you the little hero?” she intoned, a soft, lilting croon like a mother coddling her sulking child. At once she’d bristled, livid. Who the hell did she think she was? This woman sat back and watched as someone’s tail was crushed, watched this monstrous and debilitating thing happen without as much as a bat of an eyelid. Hell, she probably instigated it with the way the group surrounding her torqued at her command. She was about to hash as much when before she could comprehend what was happening, hot lips were pressed against her own. Mennah’s eyes widened as she felt the woman’s mouth part, tongue probing at her bottom lip. As quickly as it started, the woman pulled away. Mennah sat there, ridged. She could still feel the heat of her breath linger in her. The woman’s lips pealed back into a grin and she leaned in, ever closer. 

“I’ll be seeing you again.” Hot breath curled around the shell of her ear. She didn’t move, not even when she beckoned the group on with a click of her fingers. Not even when the bear-like man shot her a pernicious glare, one with a violent promise tied to its tail. She could only watch as the woman sprung to the air with a flash of light. As she left, she left her with a taste of smoke and iron on her tongue. She stayed there, aching on the ground, for several minutes until the sound of sirens crawled up the hill. She managed to clamber onto her feet, transform and scale the building and reclaim her satchel, dazed. She had a text on her phone; hey BB, wanna come over? can’t eat this jalapeno pizza by myself She didn’t reply. 

As the morning rolled by, she woke to a choker of mottled bruises around her throat like giant, swollen amethysts and remembered that she left her goggles on the parapet. She spent the rest of the day curled on her beaten up loveseat, stomach folding itself over and over again. She felt as though she’d been tranquilised. Everything seemed to process a lot slower, and she felt numb to everything. All she could focus on was keeping the floor from buckling beneath her. She has Trappers on her tail. They were going to come for her. They were going to come for her and gods knew what they’d do? Mennah doubled over herself, wrapping her arms around her legs and pressing her forehead into her knees. Black rings were beginning to encompass her vision. She could still feel the talons shifting beneath her skin.

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Noel! You have been accepted for the role of Kevin Shah (FC: Avan Jogia). What an absolute delight reading your application was! You really grasped what makes Kevin Kevin. The Shah family dynamic is so intricate and interesting, and you really show an intriguing side of it. We can’t wait to have you on the dash! Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Noel Age: 23 Pronouns: She/they Timezone: CDT Activity estimation: I’d estimate myself being on the dash every 2-3 days. Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Kevin Shah Age: 10/06/1978 Gender: Cis male Pronouns: He/him Sexuality: Bisexual Occupation: High school senior Connection to Victim: Kevin vaguely registered the Goode’s arrival in Devil’s Knot, a year or so ago— newcomers in a small town, who wouldn’t have— but that’s pretty much the limit of his interactions with the family. The most he’s seen of them have been through Beth and David, by virtue of being in the same grade at school. David he wrote off almost immediately, as soon as he showed signs of getting along with Kelly. When he went on to win the spot as their football quarterback, Kevin’s assumptions were reaffirmed. Beth had always seemed more interesting, especially with her brother for contrast. Still, Kevin can’t tell if she’s just a troublemaker or if there’s something more substantial to her, so she’s barely been on his radar all year. Now, after the incident, he doesn’t know how to feel about either of them. Alibi: “It’s not the most exciting answer, but I was home alone in my room, reading. What can I say– it’s a Saturday afternoon, Kelly’s out so the house is actually quiet, my best friend is too busy making an honest living to see me. I think I was finishing up Eugene Onegin. I try to get all my Russian lit reading done before winter, otherwise that shit can really fuck you up. …It probably would’ve been more interesting if I said it was In Cold Blood or something, huh?” Faceclaim: Avan Jogia

WRITING SAMPLE

In Michigan, no given point can ever be more than six miles from a lake. Kevin’s too scattered to remember where the piece of information comes from, but it’s as cemented and sure in his mind as his ABC’s, so he figures it must be true. There must be some calculation in there, about how likely you are to be touching a body of water at any given time. Some average of the surface area of the human body, at least at it’s ends, as compared to the square footage of all that cement, grass, forest. Or maybe: surface area of Devil’s Knot above the water, and surface area of all of Devil’s Knot that lies below it.

(He is not thinking of Brian Goode at the bottom of a lake.) Kevin knows something is wrong because his parents are home early. After breaking the news, they just look at him, expectant, waiting for some reaction. He doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be, but he knows he can’t be here, so without a word he turns and goes back to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him loud enough that he knows they hear.

Once a few minutes have passed, he slips the same door open, and soundlessly walks down the stairs and out the back door. Years of practice sneaking out means he has it down to an art, and no one notices him leave.Realistically, he knows he can’t go far. He guesses he can risk about half an hour outside, tops, before one of his parents checks on him. Kevin doesn’t like to give his family ammo, and getting caught sneaking out today of all days could be serious enough that his mother might actually talk to him about it, which would not be ideal. His family life greatly improved the day he learned to lower his expectations and avoid anything that might turn into an excuse for interaction.

Kevin speeds into a jog. The houses start to grow further apart, and pretty soon he’s running parallel to the forest. He knows the reputation that surrounds it, that poor man and his poor, mangled body (Pete Silverman’s dad, a small voice in his head says, but he quashes it, reduces the knowledge to bare-bones, scribbles of text on an old newspaper.) Still, he’s never found the forest as ominous as some of his classmates make it out to be. Something about the quiet of it, how the trees muffle all sounds. Even a few minutes walk into the woods, away from cul-de-sac civilization, can leave him feeling like the only person left in the world. At peace. All that outside chaos, lowered to a hum and then smothered completely. Tonight though, the woods don’t feel calm. They feel like they’re waiting.

Kevin slows his jog until he’s stopped completely, looking into the still trees. He wonders what monster might come out of them, and what he would do if it did.

ANYTHING ELSE?

— It’s like everyone says— the quickest way to get a kid interested in something is to forbid it, and nothing is more taboo in the Shah household than religion. Kevin’s interest in everything spiritual, otherworldly and arcane all stem from his mother’s discomfort with it, her absolute distaste for anything even vaguely mystical. His upbringing was a world of science, facts and reality, leaving him with a pragmatism that only feeds his fascination with anything unlikely. Life in Devil’s Knot can feel so small and alienating, and sometimes the existence of every odd little object and bit of information he’s hoarded away is a reminder of how much else is out there, how many different ways of thinking and seeing exist in the wider world. (But yeah, it definitely helps that his interest of choice pisses his mom off.)

— His interest in the arcane also functions as a way to make the boogeyman of his Devil’s Knot childhood— Satanism— into something controllable, something not frightening. A scientific fascination, rather than chanting monsters in the shadows. A pet project rather than something that could happen to him (or someone he knows.)

— He went through a period during sophomore year where he tried to learn everything he could about the history of Devil’s Knot. He tells himself this had nothing to do with the 10 year anniversary of the murder of Philip Silverman, and any creeping anxieties that may have been bubbling up in the town’s collective unconscious. Kevin decided he maybe knew enough about the town when he found himself in the dusty basement of the library, searching through a box for an article vaguely alluded to in one line of a separate newspaper microfiche, describing a summer in 1934 when there may or may not have been a three-headed lamb born on a farm that used to take up the majority of Elm street. He accidentally inhaled a spiderweb while sifting through files and in the ensuing coughing fit had the (rare) thought that maybe this particular obsession had gone too far.

— Kevin can read tarot cards really well. It’s not something he believes in, but it was a way to pass the time one weekend a few summers back. At the very least, the history of their iconography is really interesting. (His favorite card is the Hanged Man; he considers it widely misunderstood.)

— Kevin can’t deal with Kelly being cheer captain. It was bad enough that his twin sister would choose to sign up for a sport so tacky, so teen sitcom, so stereotypically status quo, but then to put in the time and energy to actually become captain? It’s unforgivable. He avoids her and her friends around school, and any opportunity to accidentally be associated with them. If a classmate asks him if they’re related, he lies.

— (TW: homophobia, racism) Growing up, Kevin’s appearance made him an anomaly. He’s (obviously) checked the statistics, and they’re pretty grim— by the time of the last census in 1990, Indians made up a mere 0.2% of the entire Michigan population. He doesn’t know where that 0.2% are hiding, but apparently it’s not in small, backwoods towns like Devil’s Knot, because he can count on one hand the residents he’s met who look anything like him, outside of his own family. Without going into unpleasant detail, this fact hasn’t been lost on the other residents of Devil’s Knot either, and it hasn’t always been easy. Sometimes it feels more like being born with a target on his back that says ’Total assholes, aim here’. Point being, he’s familiar enough with discrimination, and being judged over parts of himself he can’t control, that he doesn’t see the need to bring any unnecessary negative attention to himself by coming out as bisexual. Not that he’d want to change if he could, or anything like that— he’s always been pretty comfortable with his sexuality. And he’s definitely not afraid, because fuck that. But, barring any sudden fervors of love, it’s not a part of himself he sees the point of broadcasting around school.

— Kevin has a lot of questions about Max Acosta and his trial, but he hesitates to share them with anyone outside his close circle. One thing he that situation has taught him is how quickly the town can turn on those outside the status quo, how fast opinions can flip to the extreme. Learning about the holes in Acosta’s trial fundamentally changed how he saw Devil’s Knot. Kevin had always wondered how far people would go to regain a sense of normalcy in a small town like theirs. He guesses Max Acosta found that out the hard way.

[kcsfalloutshelter]

Happy?… Thanksgiving

The crying continues. One minute I am decorating and feeling the spirit of the holidays and yearning for the joys of the past. The next…I am longing for my grandmother and my dad and all that I feel I have lost over the last few years.

This year feels more painful than last year. Maybe, I was in shock for a year. I don’t remember feeling so heart-broken last year. It was brand new, fresh last year. Grandma has been gone almost two years. Yet, it feels like yesterday when they left me.

I spent most of the 2017 taking care of dad and trying to avoid inhaling the ever rising floor waters around me. I let myself fall apart for my birthday. I stayed in bed and cried like I had not cried in a very long time.

Just when I thought I couldn’t stand the pain another minute, Warren’s grandma called me. All I wanted was a call from my grandma and my prayers were answered. We often don’t get exactly what we ask. We get what we need.

After my birthday, I wiped myself off, put on my big-girl panties, and got on with the daily schedule.

This denial…which I didn’t even realize I was in until right now… was easily hidden because dad was getting so much sicker.

Dad and I had a conversation in last September. The cancer had used the chemo and radiation as fertilizer.

I love my dad. I could not have asked for a better dad. He had faults. Lots. But, he was my dad. He was there for me no matter what, always.

Why I felt the need to justify that statement is beyond my knowledge at the moment. Further investigation may need to happen.

The conversation lead to dad’s last gift for Beth and I.  Thanksgiving and Christmas have been the big holidays in our family all our lives. Slight changes over the years but the foundation stayed. Grandma died in the middle of December. I basically begged my dad to either die before December or wait until after January.

Sounds harsh but the conversation wasn’t. Dad understood.

This conversation was another where dad said he was ready to go home. He didn’t want the pain his body was being tortured with every second of every day. But, he didn’t want to leave us either.

I promise to take care of my sister.

Another revelation…more tears too. I didn’t feel the real weight of this promise until now.

The last real conversation grandma and I had consisted of a similar promise.

I promise to keep our family traditions alive.

These promises came almost 10 months apart. Thanksgiving was a no show.

I have been increasingly anxious about decorating the house. Creating lasting holiday memories for my grandsons. Crushed by traditions that are being changed or lost. Brainstorming how to keep our family together and help shape our traditions to honor the past while being flexible to the current family schedules, and locations.

I have felt like it was up to me alone to determine, or plan to keep, family traditions alive. It is not up to me alone. I am one of thirteen grandchildren. Several of us have adult children. Although, I believe I am the only grandma.

Is that why I feel like I am the head of this insane pack?

Maybe…

While letting this post write itself, like ink flowing from the quills of Lord Tennyson’s mind, I am continually amazed by the connections my mind makes.

Critical thinking is obviously a blessed companion to wandering.

I am trying to plan and be joyful.

I want to smile and laugh.

I want to be free of the aching pain that fills my chest and threatens to drown me.

I do not want to bite at my husband. I do not want to avoid family and friends.

So, I take it minute by minute.

In an effort to feel better, Wednesday night,  I drug all the Christmas decoration storage boxes from the basement. The idea was to have the boxes ready for decorating after the Macy’s Parade.

Hit the music, Please.

A little Lauren Daigle and friends.

Some of the boxes are damp. I knew I should have changed to all plastic bins. 100 year old house comes with some challenges. In the end, all are well worth the work. I love my house, even the rooms we haven’t fixed yet.

See? Do you already have emotional whiplash? My husband says he does…

The music played. I sorted and tossed items that were damp or falling apart from age.

  Bringing up the bins.

After sorting a bit…

  The orange bin…Some pieces from my grandma’s village live in the orange bin for 10 months a year. After grandma passed away, we got to split up the village between all the grandchildren and great grandchildren. It was her pride and joy. She loved her village. We all would help her add to her collection over the years. Most of us went on to start our own villages.

In 2013, my cousin and her family helped grandma put up a large portion of grandma’s village. The love and memories that are attached to each building, tree, person, pathway and light are irreplaceable.

What did grandma’s 2013 village really look like? Glad you asked…

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So, happiness fulled the air. Warren commented that he felt grandma and dad in the room with us. As we chatted, I kept moving boxes and trying to decide why I was just moving the items into another box or bin, when we were just going to take them back out Thursday.

Let the decorating begin.

Five hours later, Warren begs me to take my tired self to bed. I am tired. I am that tired that seeps in you bones and makes your muscles ache. My eyes burn and are a delightfully puffy shade of rouge.

But, will this happiness leave if I rest?

1 AM – I finally submit to trying to sleep.

Toss. Turn. TOSS. TURN.

Have you played this fun game? Delightful.

2 AM – Not going to happen.

Insomnia sucks!

Back downstairs to the bins. No radio. Fix what is bugging me and go back to bed. That is the plan. Stick to the plan.

Sure.

Not going to happen.

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That’s it. Five pictures.

What time did I fall asleep?

3:30 AM.

I was not working on just these. No, that would make sense. I was still sorting bags and bins. The orange bin has returned to the safety of the basement as it is only full of packing paper.

I have also decided to go through all three drawers under the window seat in the dining room.

Why?

Well, I found a glue gun. No glue. I thought I saw some glue in one of the drawers. I throw things in two of the drawers all the time. You know that quick clean up of random items that mysteriously appear, through the help of no one living, and Never leave.

Not there. At least, the drawers are clean and organized again.

I slept through my 8:45 AM alarm. Of course.

Way to go, wacky sleep pattern and racing mind for the win.

I missed the beginning of the Macy’s parade. At least we decided no turkey…or ham…or gathering of any sort days ago. So, no food is ruined. I am Blessed.

I have to look at the silver lining, the blessings, the miracles above the pain. Above the Anger. I feel it simmering below the surface.

I want to lash out. I want everyone to hurt as much as I do. I never want anyone to ever feel as much pain as I do now.

Poor, Warren. Some one really should get him a helmet and shoulder pads.

I am sure you are bursting with interest in what we did eat. Sorry, had to poke fun at our desire to share our meals with each other via virtual images. I have been the poster of many breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. Not to mention, additional posts of ice cream and cake. Warren and I love sweets, almost as much as we love each other.

Constant blessings are in my life. I just have to remember to look . Warren talks me down when the anger threatens to spill out the door and down the highway. I thankfully know the tricks to anchor him when similar events arise.

Food Choice: Breakfast – Chocolate chip waffles.  When? Still pending.

Current time: 5:58 PM Thursday, November 22, 2018.

Oh great! Another day where eating wasn’t a priority. Too bad eating one meal a day doesn’t make you thinner. But, we also know how picky I am…You missed that post? Oh, take a look back over past posts. I know I have mentioned it. 🙂

I have cried. I have laughed. I have been thankful. I have been angry. I have been blessed.

I need to keep reminding myself that dad and grandma, and everyone else we have lost over the past 8 years, are right here with us. I just need to stop. Breathe. Listen. They are there. A wise person told me today that I know exactly what they would say to me if I was talking to them . Listen. You can hear them with you.

Death is not the end. We will see each other again.

Each time depression bares down, pulling me down a dark path, I remember that I am not alone. Even when I cannot see, I am being carried. I am Loved.

So, let the anger pass. Cry every tear that wants to fall. Whether you are in denial, anger, sadness, bargaining, or acceptance, let your grief run it’s own race. Don’t expect to one day wake up and never feel sad again.

I am grateful for every emotion. These emotions hold precious memories linked to the most important people and events in my life. Without these moments, I would not be who I am.

Life sucks. Grief sucks.

Smile through the pain. Remember we are never truly along. We just need to stop. Breathe. Listen. …and don’t forget to go eat something.

  If you are enjoying my blog, please share and follow. I appreciate you and thank you for reading.

  Happy? Thanksgiving... Can we be thankful when we are in pain? Can grief over-shadow joy? Happy?... Thanksgiving The crying continues. One minute I am decorating and feeling the spirit of the holidays and yearning for the joys of the past.

[marketerarena-blog]

The Hardest Exercises for Men, According to 7 Trainers

If you’re confident in the gym, you’re likely familiar with bench presses, squats, and deadlifts. They’re hard, yes. But they aren’t necessarily the most difficult exercises. In fact, the moves that challenge you most might actually look easy—until you try to do them properly.

    Because men like to focus on those heavy lifts or moves that specifically bulk up their chests or arms, they tend to skip over the moves that work on things like flexibility, mobility, and stability—all of which are crucial elements of being able to move well (and to perform those more ‘manly’ exercises). But because these sound like key elements of yoga, pilates, and dance classes, where you’d be hard-pressed to find a bunch of dudes, guys brush them off as no big deal. But if you don’t have good range of motion to begin with and you keep doing all those strength-building exercises, the tightness just keeps adding up.

The 15 Most Important Exercises for Men

The exercises below tend to be the toughest for men, not just because they’ll seriously tax your muscles, but because you need solid flexibility and mobility to do them correctly. Top trainers weigh in on why these moves are so challenging, plus how to make them easier so you can reap all the muscle-building rewards.

  Beth Bischoff

1. Single-leg Hamstring Curls

How to do it: Position a Swiss ball in front of your feet. Lie down with your back and palms flat on the floor. Place your heels on top of the ball, then lift one leg straight in the air (or bend it with toes flexed toward your head). Press your hips and glutes off the floor. Keep your back straight and abs engaged. Dig your working heel into the ball as you curl it toward your glutes. Reverse the motion, then press the Swiss ball away from your glutes to the start position. *Note: Image shows traditional Swiss ball hamstring curls.

Why it’s so hard for men: “Most men don’t work out their legs, and when they do, they opt for heavy lifting like deadlifts or leg press, because they look and feel manly,” says Alonzo Wilson, the founder of Tone House in New York City. “They don’t isolate one leg or do single-leg work, which neglects the hamstring.” And unilateral, or one-sided, exercises are so important because they make it harder for your dominant side to compensate for your weaker side, which can lead to muscular imbalances.

How to do it better: Form is crucial here. “Make sure you don’t arch your back,” says Wilson. “When your back is arched or if you drop your hips, you take most of the hamstring work out of the exercise—which is the point of the hamstring curl!”

Beth Bischoff

2. Barbell Back Squat

How to do it: Load a bar with 85-100 percent of your bodyweight. Place the barbell across the middle of your traps, and pinch your shoulder blades together. Inhale, contracting your abs tight, then lower into a squat. Then drive back up by pushing through your big toe and heel, exhaling at the top.

Why it’s so hard for men: The average guy struggles with this for two reasons, says Adam Rosante, trainer and author of The 30-Second Body. “First, most guys don’t train their lower body regularly with free weights. So when they attempt a loaded barbell squat, their legs start screaming, their hearts start pumping like crazy. and their balance is all over the place. The second issue is a lack of mobility in their hips and ankles. Most guys I see working out in the gym give almost zero priority to mobility.”

How to do it better: It’s time to start incorporating mobility work into your fitness regimen. “Give yourself 10 minutes of mobility work on your hips, glutes, quads, and ankles before you start your workout,” says Rosante. Try these five stretches to open up your hips before lifting. And if you can’t do a bodyweight squat with proper form, don’t throw a heavy barbell on your back. “Maybe you start with 4 sets of 12 reps of a bodyweight squat in your first 2-3 weeks, then progress to an empty bar, then start to incrementally load weight over time,” he suggests. “Start by nailing the form, and build from there.”

Jay Sulivan

3. Tuck Planche

How to do it: Place your hands on a set of parallettes or aluminum workout bars, then rock your weight forward onto your shoulders and hold your legs tucked under your body. Your pelvis should be on the same plane as your shoulders, parallel with the ground.

Why it’s so hard for men: “The planche is so challenging because it’s such a complex and advanced isometric move that engages a lot of muscles most men aren’t familiar with using—plus it requires mobility, strength, and activation in almost every muscle in your body,” explains Stephen Cheuk, the founder of S10 Training in New York City. The only people who tend to nail it consistently? Gymnasts.

How to do it better: “Start a prone full hollow back hold—like a plank with a rounded back—and get used to shifting your whole body forward so wrists are almost level with your hips,” says Cheuk. “Really focus on engaging your core and squeezing your glutes.” From there, you can move up to the bars and use an elevated surface (like a yoga block) to support your feel until you can master the whole hold.

Ian Maddox

4. Lateral Lunge

How to do it: Step to your left side, and lower your hips by squatting back and down with your left leg, making sure to keep your right leg straight. Return to the starting position by pushing up with your left leg. Switch directions and repeat. Do with or without weight.

Why it’s so hard for men: “Most of our daily movements are forward and back, even though moving in different planes keeps us more mobile,” says Joey Thurman, C.P.T., author of 365 Health and Fitness Hacks That Could Save Your Life. “The side lunge is particularly hard for men because we don’t do them often; they’re looked at as a ‘girl’ move. Plus, they challenge our hip flexibility, which is generally crap because a) we sit all day, which causes the muscles in our hips to shorten and b) we overload our quads, which also causes our hips to tighten up.”

How to do it better: Foam rolling your hips, glutes, hamstrings, and quads will go a long way in opening up your hips. “Doing a deep bodyweight squat will truly help you with your hip mobility, too,” says Thurman. “This requires 90-130 degrees of hip flexion (how much your hips bend) and 110-165 degrees of knee flexion (how much your knees bend).” Once a day, squat down as low as you can without letting your heels come up, then hold for 30 seconds and rise up—keep doing this until your butt can almost touch the ground. “This will help you push your hips back enough in the lateral lunge that your hip bones touch your abs while maintaining a neutral spine,” he says.

Pistol squat Edgar Artiga / Getty Images

5. Pistol Squat

How to do it: From a standing position, extend one leg out in front of you, keeping it straight. Bend your other knee and, with control, lower to the ground so your hamstring touches your calf. Press through your heel to stand up.

Why it’s so hard for men: “Guys rarely forget to train things like their arms and chest, but focus less on their legs and even less on unilateral, stability, and mobility challenges,” says Albert Matheny, C.S.C.S., co-founder of SoHo Strength Lab in New York City. “The pistol squat not only challenges the strength/stability of one leg to build muscle, but you also need sufficient lower back and ankle hamstring mobility to do it properly. Rarely do I see a guy who has good mobility—along with strength—in all these areas.”

How to do it better: Improving your pistol squat is all about progressive training. “You want to reduce the depth of your pistol squat until you can perform as least 3 rounds of 5 successful reps,” says Matheny. “Increase the depth when you can get 3 rounds of 10. To help with the motion, you can add a counter balance by holding a weight in front of you.” Including basic mobility work of your hamstrings and low back (like walkouts) will also help, Matheny says.

Beth Bischoff

  5. Strict Pullup

How to do it: Grab a pullup bar and hang so your arms are fully extended. Tighten your core and pull yourself up as hard as you can until the bar touches your collar bone. Slowly let yourself down while keeping your core and lats engaged.

Why it’s so hard for men: “Average dudes struggle with strict pullups—no swinging, no arching—because of limited shoulder and lat mobility,” says Angelo Grinceri, a trainer at Performix House in New York City. “This usually stems from three things: training partial ranges of motion adopted from the bodybuilding mentality, the lack of full-body exercises, and sitting too much, which creates tighter pecs and shoulders, as well as weak lat muscles.”

How to do it better: First, roll out your lats with a foam roller or use a Theragun to loosen them up. “Next, stretch the lats by hanging from a bar for 30-60 seconds at a time a few times each day,” says Grinceri. “Start with just one rep; when you can do that with perfect form, you can progress to more.”

Male fitness athlete performing overhead squat with kettlebell svetikd / Getty Images

  7. Single-arm Overhead Squat

How to do it: First, clean the kettlebell to the rack position. Then, with your palm facing forward and the kettlebell resting against the back of your wrist, lift the kettlebell overhead and lock your arm. Keep your arm steady with a few inches of space between your ear and bicep as you squat down as low as you can, while keeping your back flat, shoulders up, and knees out. Push through your heels to stand, and repeat on the opposite side.

Why it’s so hard for men: “This is particularly challenging for men because you need to have full overhead extension and flexibility in your shoulders and hips,” says Roman Siromakha, a Crossfit coach at CrossFit Outbreak in Brooklyn, New York. A lot of men are limited in overhead movements because of the bench press we love so much, and men tend to have tighter hips that they don’t spend much time stretching.”

How to do it better: To warm up your overhead flexibility and stability, Siromakha suggests overhead passthroughs: Stand holding a PVC pipe with a wide grip in front of you. Keeping arms straight, bring the bar over your head, then behind your back until it touches your glutes. Once that gets easier, move the hands in one finger-width. (Shoulder activation drills like shoulder touches and even downward dog also help with range of motion.) Then, “make sure you’re able to squat with your hips below your knees,” says Siromakha. “If you’re unable to, practice squatting onto a box or bench, slowly progressing to lower and lower surfaces in order to get that full range of motion.”

   https://askfitness.today/the-hardest-exercises-for-men-according-to-7-trainers/

[ghaw2007]

7 Collagen Benefits

7 Collagen Benefits

1. Improves Health of Skin and Hair

As we age, collagen production declines — it’s happening as you read this! You’ll notice it physically: looser skin, more wrinkles and less elasticity. Increasing collagen levels can help your skin look firmer, increase smoothness, and help your skin cells keep renewing and repairing normally.

Double-blind, placebo-controlled studies investigating the anti-aging properties of collagen have found that 2.5–5 grams of collagen hydrolysate used among women aged 35–55 once daily for eight weeks significantly improved skin elasticity, skin moisture, transepidermal water loss (dryness) and skin roughness, all with little to no side effects. (1) This makes collagen one of the best natural skin care ingredients available.

Collagen also reduces cellulite and stretch marks. When skin loses its elasticity as a result of decreased collagen, there’s another side effect: more visible cellulite. Because your skin is now thinner, cellulite becomes more evident — no more hiding what’s happening below the surface. Improving your skin’s elasticity through collagen helps reduce that dimpling on your skin.

2. Reduces Joint Pains and Degeneration

Have you ever felt like you’ve got “skeleton legs,” the types that feel extra stiff and cause pain when you move? Yup, that’s likely a loss of collagen rearing its ugly head. That’s because when we lose collagen, our tendons and ligaments start moving with less ease, leading to stiffness, swollen joints and more.

With its gel-like, smooth structure that covers and holds our bones together, collagen allows us to glide and move without pain. Think of ingesting more collagen like greasing a creaky door hinge: It helps your joints move more easily, reduces pain often associated with aging and even reduces the risk of joint deterioration. (2, 3). It’s no surprise then that a recent study even found that collagen is an effective treatment for treating osteoarthritis and other joint pain and disorders. (4)

Researchers at Harvard’s Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston found that supplementing with type 2 collagen helped patients suffering from rheumatoid arthritis find relief from painful symptoms by decreasing swelling in tender joints. (5) Another study published in the International Journal of Medical Sciences found that people with osteoarthritis joint pain treated with type 2 collagen show significant enhancements in daily activities, such as walking up stairs, ascending or sleeping, and a general improvement in their quality of life. (6)

3. Helps Heal Leaky Gut

If you suffer from leaky gut syndrome, a condition where bad-for-you toxins are able to pass through your digestive tract, collagen can be super-helpful. It helps break down proteins and soothes your gut’s lining, healing damaged cell walls and infusing it with healing amino acids.

The biggest digestive benefit of consuming more collagen is that it helps form connective tissue and therefore “seals and heals” the protective lining of the gastrointestinal tract. Today, we know that many illnesses can actually be traced back to inflammation or irritation stemming from an unhealthy gut. Poor gut health — including changes in the gut microbiome and permeability in the gut lining — allows particles to pass into the bloodstream where they can kick off an inflammatory cascade (hence the name leaky gut syndrome).

Studies have found that in patients with inflammatory bowel disease, serum concentrations of collagen are decreased. (7) Because the amino acids in collagen build the tissue that lines the colon and GI tract, supplementing with collagen can help treat gastrointestinal symptoms and disorders, including leaky gut syndrome, IBS, acid reflux, Crohn’s disease and ulcerative colitis. In addition to helping heal leaky gut, collagen also helps with the absorption of water within the intestines, keeping things moving more freely out of body.

4. Boosts Metabolism, Muscle Mass and Energy Output

A boost in collagen may help increase your metabolism by adding lean muscle mass to your frame and helping with the conversion of essential nutrients. One of glycine’s most important roles is helping form muscle tissue by converting glucose into energy that feeds muscle cells. And remember that retaining muscle mass is crucial as you age, since it helps support posture, bone health and burns more calories than fat. When consuming collagen, you can benefit from also consuming vitamin C to ensure your body can convert the collagen into a useable protein. This can begin to restore the source or your energy and vitality.

That’s not all that glycine can do for your metabolism. Research shows glycine also has important roles in both functions of the digestive and central nervous systems, which play big roles in maintaining a healthy, youthful body. (8) Glycine seems to help slow the effects of aging by improving the body’s use of antioxidants and is also used in the process of constructing healthy cells from DNA and RNA.

In addition, it’s been found that arginine boosts the body’s ability to make protein from other amino acids, which is important for repairing muscle tissue, healing wounds, sparing tissue wasting, boosting the metabolism, and aiding in proper growth and development. And glutamine also helps maintain adequate energy by facilitating the synthesizing of many chemicals. (9) This amino acid provides “fuel” to our cells, including carbon and nitrogen.

5. Strengthens Nails, Hair and Teeth

Ever had peeling and splitting nails? Well, a lack of collagen could be to blame. Collagen protein is the building block of your fingernails, hair and teeth. Adding collagen into your diet regimen can help keep your nails strong and possibly reverse signs of hair loss.

A study published in the Journal of Investigative Dermatology found that there’s an “essential relationships between extracellular matrix (ECM) and hair follicle regeneration, suggesting that collagen could be a potential therapeutic target for hair loss and other skin-related diseases.” (10)

6. Improves Liver Health 

If you’re looking to detox your body of harmful substances, improve blood flow and keep your heart young, collagen is extremely helpful. That’s because glycine helps minimize damage your liver experiences when it absorbs foreign substances, toxins or alcohol that shouldn’t be passing through it.

One of the easiest ways to cleanse your liver is with a bone broth fast. I often recommend a three-day bone broth detox to rapidly repair leaky gut. This may help your body rid itself of chemicals and “reset” your gut, improving overall immune function. Studies have even found that glycine can be used to help reduce alcohol-induced liver damage and other forms of acute or chronic liver injury. (11)

7. Protects Cardiovascular Health

The amino acid proline helps your artery walls release fat buildup in the bloodstream, shrinking the fat in the arteries and minimizing fat accumulation. Proline is needed for tissue repair within the joints and arteries, plus it helps control blood pressure. As part of collagen found within joints, it buffers our bodies from the effects of vibration or shock and helps us hold on to valuable cartilage as we get older. (12)  It is also linked with the prevention of arteriosclerosis (hardening of the arteries) since it helps our arteries stay clear of dangerous plaque buildup.

In addition, arginine helps with nitric oxide production, which allows for better vasodilation — meaning the widening of arteries and relaxation of muscle cells and blood vessels that allows for better circulation.

http://musicbanter.com/song-writing-lyrics-poetry/79770-ghaw2007s-lyrics-collection.html http://futureproducers.com/forums/production-techniques/songwriting-and-lyricism/ghaw2007s-lyrics-523656 http://musesongwriters.com/forums/index.php?/topic/65827-ghaw2007s-lyrics http://boards.soapoperanetwork.com/topic/55799-ghaw2007s-lyrics http://justusboys.com/forum/threads/435561-ghaw2007-s-Lyrics http://gayheaven.org/showthread.php?t=536605 http://allthelyrics.com/forum/showthread.php?t=159439 http://writerscafe.org/ghaw/writing http://songwriterforum.co.uk/index.php?topic=11560.0

[brooklynislandgirl]

📝 {all of 'em but don't do anything until we answer yours or ben will be grumpy}

Bits and Bobs || Accepting

~colour~

When she closes her eyes she can see the paint spilling across her canvas. Taken at first glance everything is rust and dirt and endless emptiness. Shallow, passive eyes cannot see the varying depths where blood blends with coral, where gold becomes the thirst-quenching bite of starfruit. There is an abundance of life below the surface, pallid thin stalks of grass, tiny shrubs struggling on dunes. Creatures who dart too fast to get more than an idea of shape. If she can just crack him open somehow, would all that come pouring out?

~song~

The strings are a little worn, and the body a little warped by the elements. And maybe her voice isn’t all that it should be, a touch off key as she sings it from memory, a melody and words from a far away time in a far away place. Knowing what she knows, though, it could have been written about Ben. In spirit if not directly things she’s heard him mutter when he doesn’t think she’s really listening. She does. More often than not it is all that she can really do. She doesn’t know that maybe he’s listening now.

~scent~ She props her chin on the bridge of his shoulder and turns her face inward, into his neck. She can lose herself in the thickness of the black waves that brush against her bone-structure as if they intended to bar her passage. A hint of soap brushes against her senses. Overlain by sun’s-heat-on-skin, dry-air so desperate for moisture, wood pulp, soft cotton. Salt. Something subtle and herbaceous she can’t quite put a finger on try though she might. It tempts her more than the melting treat in her hand, but she doesn’t bite. Doesn’t want him to move at all so she can remain.

~sound~

She can feel the movement of muscle as he lashes out with his tongue and licks the ice-cream offering relief to the cooling evening swelter, and his entire throat vibrates as he describes exactly how they dispose of the jogger who keeps a choke-chain on a very small dog and yanks it viciously to ‘motivate’ the little beast. The imagery has merit, poetic justice she would say, and the dark rumble of his bitten back laugh. It reminds of the crunch of autumn leaves and the brisk shiver of a misty breeze. A campfire burning. All things briefly lived.

~setting~

Desert just before the monsoon breaks the heat. A crisp sky and full moonlight neither hot nor cold. Yearning. Reaching out. Silhouetted. She wakes.

~fashion style~

The hem of his shirt flirt with her knees. Envelopes her and whispers his secrets across her skin. She wonders if his fingertips would do the same. Would the stories be new? Less cool, more accented? She doesn’t know...yet. But the thieved henely is worn smooth, butter soft. Protective in many ways. Envelopes her when she curls up and holds herself close. ~feeling~

Ben is complex and he’s patient. Ben feels like waiting. Waiting and hoping on a winter morning, or for the promise of spring to be fulfilled. He’s the wish before midnight and the held breath just before sunrise, just before you reach out and hit the snooze button. Just before. He’s all the things that run headlong into the barricade of the back of your teeth and you wanted to say but only stood there and watched with too big eyes and not any voice. It’s not fear. But carefulness. It’s holding onto the idea that maybe everything isn’t so different after all. That you have to strain close and maybe you’ll hear an echo. ~animal~ Beth’s friends tell her of their ‘aumakua. Though it is a little less personal in nature, as far as she can gather, perhaps more in another way of looking at it. One of the most interesting concepts for her is that it is spoken of, thus:

“Raven was not thought of as a god. He was thought of as the transformer, the trickster. He was the being that changed things—sometimes quite by accident, sometimes on purpose.”

Not a god nor demon, neither hero nor villain. Then there’s other similarities from the colour of his hair to the sharpness of his profile. The miles of wingspan remind her of long limbs.

Makes her wonder if Raven is hidden somewhere in his ancestral tree. She’s also sure if she calls him ‘birdie’ that he will never speak to her again.

~holiday~

She appears from the side of his place like a dark little menahune. Lifts her cupped hands up and blows red, green, pink, and purple dust on him before producing a cup of water and arcing it up and at him, intending to douse his hair. She misses by a couple of inches instead and looks appropriately apologetic immediately after.

”I...it’s Holi,” she says. Goes onto explaining the festival of arriving spring, and the blossoming of love. That it is a day to meet, play, laugh, forgive and forget, and to repair broken relationships. “Come play with me, Ben.” And then she runs.

~season~

“Be my winter. My restive season, be the dark of the year and the promise of sun’s rebirth. And I will be your summer, your ever burning sun and warmth, the time of fullest plenty, whaddya say?”

[brooklynislandgirl]

@mynameisanakin {{xx}}

He knows.  Just doesn’t want to admit to it, and that she absolutely understands. There is something absolutely terrifying about bearing your deeper truths, whether its sex or fears or things you aren’t exactly proud of. Which is essentially why she asked the question. She wasn’t trying to make him jump out of his skin, but more to see how he handled something so out of left field, but she now has to admit the look on his face makes her curious. The struggle between unvarnished truth and a comfortable lie doesn’t sit well on him. There’s also...it isn’t a blatant fear but something that shadows the arches of his cheeks, takes the depths of his eyes and makes them more pronounced until she’s reminded of nothing so much as twin blue flames inside the eye sockets of a skull. Entrancing is a word but not the one she’s searching for. It’s maybe...maybe he gives her too much credit. She could put him at ease and explain she hasn’t got Mind, that she can’t pry a portal into his head and draw out his secrets. That was never her forte` although maybe she could go about it a slightly different way. Carefully balance his serotonin and dopamine levels and...

And she feels guilty before he’s said more than two words, because wow. That’s taking things a little too far. She makes herself trail from his face to his hands. Watches the tapered fingers as if that’s any better, there was a reason she’d looked away from them before. It’s distracting bordering on criminal. Even she has to admit, and noticed from the get-go, that he has beautiful hands. Painfully so. Hands that should belong to a surgeon or a musician or a specific kind of model. Especially when she’s got a bottle of Live Love Polish upstairs in this gorgeous electric blue and holographic glitter that she has not a single trouble imagining on him. But before she can get too far down that rabbit hole ~and not imagine a spa day shared between them~ he finally starts talking and she blinks once, twice, and makes a bee-line for his lips, to catch the words carefully. Thankfully Anakin doesn’t talk very fast. And at first she thinks she mishears him but no, out of his angelic face... those two words that...oh. dear. And then...he explains it. Because he can’t quite put her in the realm of knowing such things, or maybe he thinks she’s a little dumb, which she’s used to. She is grateful to the very universe itself that she didn’t have a mouthful of wine right then...or it would be all over the rug, the upholstery, even all over Anakin. She brings her hand up quickly to cup over her mouth just in case she’s mistaken, but no...nothing comes out.

Its a slow creep effect. Snail and moss slow. Enveloping with horror when it finally does occur to her that he shouldn’t know a thing about this. He should be worried about getting the weekend off and taking his person on a date. He should be worried about making the dean’s list ~Anakin is so very far from stupid, he’d be any college’s dream if he applied himself~ and suddenly she can hear a thousand generations of her ancestors rolling their eyes and so she slowly nods not knowing if she wants to beg him to stop, or keep going. Anakin, fortunately, bears no witness to this, and opts for the later.

A tick develops at the back of her eye because that quiet surface belied quite deep waters, it seems. And it’s increasingly disturbing because she can’t quite tell if he’s talking fantasies or actual history of his...ah...exploits? She doesn’t like that word. It feels...dirty. Wrong. Almost worse than what she’s hearing. The tip of her tongue darts out and slicks over suddenly dry lips, and she doesn’t realise it’s because her mouth was already parted and she had dragged in a lungful of air. She almost regrets asking. Not because the darkness that slithers around him, drawing light from the room itself, dimming the already faint gleam of lamps and candles, but people don’t come this way, not usually and the insight she is getting is as excruciating as the lack of any characteristics in his voice, how he puts himself on this kind of display. He is comfortable with these thoughts, too familiar with them so that they don’t really...

She can feel it.

Ghostly brushes of those fingers she was a moment ago admiring fluttering around the delicate ridges of her collar bones so close to the surface of her skin. Tracing their edges, thumb dipping into the tiny space between them and she doesn’t realise she sighs softly. The way the whorls and loops slide along her skin until his nails unmanicured and just this side of ragged ~is he a biter~ gaze the back of her neck. The slightest, slowest increase of pressure that she has to admit makes little flutters below her belly.  Then...tighter. And tighter. Pinprick motes of light dancing in front of her eyes, the pressure as she can’t take another breath. A whisper of panic, something that is remarkably close to fear... the urge to kick. Struggle. Flail until she is free. Pain from capillaries bursting in her eyes. Sensations of dizziness or falling and she can’t tell if its that terrible. If she can just let.... She shakes her head to dislodge the phantom sensations, bringing up every ounce of willpower to bear because...he didn’t mean it. Reliving those moments inside his head, something he must connect to so powerfully that she felt the writhe and twist of his avatar, the magick making itself manifest and honestly she’s absolutely stunned. The taste of power sits like salt and lime on the back of her tongue. She can’t simply just sit there though, and shifts in her spot, drawing her knees up to her chest, and settling her feet on the cushion, leaving only her toes exposed by the hem of her skirt on the edge of her chair. And yet. She doesn’t stop him. Not because she has a ghoulish need to hear the rest of what he has to say, but because like a wound, he needs to expose it to sunlight and air if he has any chance of recovering from any of this.

She takes a sip of her wine when he falls silent, not wanting to seem pushy, though, thinking maybe this was the extent of it. And she’s absolutely wrong, isn’t she?

What he tells her next is far different. Lacking those details that he’s removed himself from, put distance between, gives her far more room to imagine without complicating things with a lashing out even subconsciously of his magick. No, the effect on her is purely psychological on her end and the guilt of that wends its way up her spine following the heat that spreads out through her limbs. Her toes curl on the edge of her seat

As is common for most of her Tradition, Beth has a high thresh hold as far as pain is concerned, is equally blessed a spark of life so tenacious that wounds and illness are practically strangers to her, particularly the kind that are self inflicted. And she might just have a fondness for blades that exceeds what is normally accepted by societal standards. But what did anyone expect from a barefoot heathen, a child of earth and wood and sea, with the blood of sharks in her ancestry? Anakin can’t possibly know any of this or how the idea of shallow lacework across her skin enthralls her, the red smear and heat. The coppery tang and sharpness on the tongue. How she can feel her body respond wantonly especially when she can physically recall the sensations of Marion’s breath hot on the soft flesh of her thigh just before the creature’s teeth sink in. Tear greedy chunks of muscle from her bones until it’s hunger is sated. Her writhes, the screaming seems to feed the rougarou too, though she doesn’t know how or why, and the exhaustion afterwards usually provides some of the best sleep Beth has gotten since....

Since moving here.

When her eyes struggle to catch his, she isn’t aware of the faint sheen on the exposed skin of her throat and modest decolletage, or that her eyes have darkened considerably. That she would blame the wine for a new floridness to her complexion.  “I...ah.” She uncurls her limbs, long for her small stature, the hem of her skirt whispering louder than her voice as it settles around her ankles. She prowls behind around behind him, settles her hands on either side of his shoulders. Leans in so that her lips are close to his ears, and her tone as well as her breath is a little ragged. “Mahalo, Anakin. But I t’ink...I t’ink is time...I show ya some kine. Only question is....jus’ how far ya willin’ t’ go?”

[brooklynislandgirl]

Fictober/Day 1 Prompt: “Can you feel this?”

Sunrise By Turtle

Riggs didn’t do funerals.

There was a difference between visiting her grave and telling her about the things that came and went like they had done before, and everything else. He especially hated the fake sympathy afterwards when it was all supportive pats to the shoulders and the same enchiladas that they made for everything, and people you didn’t even know telling you it would be okay. It never would be; when the thing that gave your life meaning was gone and there was nothing you could do to get it back and all it did was leave a gaping hole in your chest begging you to fill it.

He hadn’t gone. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t recognise the aftermath. Three months. No face. No calls. No texts. As if she’d been shut up inside the same coffin and they’d been buried the same way they’d lived their lives. Together. Eventually, he’d broken down and asked Gamble. Ducked the swing that almost connected with his jaw and knew that maybe now wasn’t a good time. The man had lost his partner and presumably she wasn’t talking to him either.

So what does he do? The only honest and reasonable thing he can.

~*~

When she wakes up, there’s stiffness in her bones and a sense that the world isn’t right. A hand is shoved through her hair and when she lifts her head her neck protests the angle it’s held for...she didn’t know how long. She also noticed that she was covered in an orange, brown and yellow knitted blanket that she’s never seen before and the first thing out of her mouth is something incredibly vulgar, even for her. Fortunately, none else spoke Hawai’ian and therefore the blasphemy went unnoticed. The startled flail of limbs that accompanied her words however did not. “Mornin’ Beth,” he said and his tone was so chipper, she wanted to punch him in the mouth.

“Uh...I’m gonna geev ya mebbe two seconds t’ explain dis.”

More than she’s said in months, and her throat’s dry, her voice brittle autumn leaves. As if by magic, he hands over a thermos full of coffee. For which she was grateful. His old truck wasn’t exactly the most pristine thing in the world and there were drafts shivering their way up her legs, her arms, down the back of her neck. She was still in what passed for pyjamas; cotton shorts and a tank top.

“Well, it’s like this. You’re in my truck, and we’re driving to Mexico. What really needs explaining?”

….

….

“And?” “And what?”

“Martin.” It was maybe the first time she’d said his name fully.

“No idea what you’re talking about. And look at you, you’ve finally discovered the letter T.” She lets that last snarky little comment go by. “I mean...How did I get here?” “When a mommy and a daddy-”

She reaches out, tags him in the arm with a balled up fist, knuckles out. He doesn’t even flinch. “You broke into my apartment and grabbed me out of bed, that’s called kidnapping.”

“Technically, I didn’t break in. Technically, I used the spare key you gave me. Technically I asked you and you said ‘yeah, Mar’in, please?’ all breathy like you do when you’re half awake. How could I resist, especially when you were drooling?” “Gross.”

“A little but I’ll forgive you. This time.”

She takes a swig from the thermos. It’s not coffee.

The tequila burns down her throat until she’s coughing and spluttering, high octane breath pushing out through her mouth and her nose, right before her belly goes shrieking for the hills, leaving her queasy.

It’s the first time she’s felt anything since the funeral and she isn’t sure exactly what it is.

“Whoops, wrong one. That one’s mine.” He hands her a different thermos without ever taking his eyes off the road. It’s hard to read his expression through the wetness on her lashes, the mirrored Aviators perched on his nose. Even the deep timbre of his voice leaves interpretation open.

“Oh, don’t with the face. It’s not like I’m drinking and driving. I’m going to be drinking and parking.”

“Uh-huh.”

It’s the last thing she says for the next three rest stops and two hundred and forty miles.

He manages to get coffee in her, two bites of a microwave burrito that somehow tastes like ash and dust. She’s still not sure how, and isn’t convinced that they sit well in her stomach. A feeling she holds onto when they get to where they’re going and he throws the truck into park in a lot. He loads himself for bear, with a backpack on his shoulders and coming around to her side. She lets him wrap the blanket around her, putting one arm around her knees, the other up higher around her back. She makes a noise when he scoops her up and shuts the truck door with one of his boots. Martin carries her over a little stone plinth and the gravel eventually gives way to a sandy cliff, dotted here and there with scrub pine and sea grasses. She can hear the ocean before she sees it, especially considering her arms are tight around his neck. It isn’t terribly hard for him to pry her off, for all that she’s good at holding on. Mostly because he does it like those shows that deal with troubled animals. He talks her down softly, little more than a raspy rumble in the back of his throat, more thought than word and by the time her toes stretch down, he’s got a hand just below her chest, just above the small of her back. Over the side of the cliff is ocean. Forever down and so deep blue she thinks she can see the sky, the space above sky, and all the stars faded into the foam crests. It’s beautiful really. And it reminds her of what’s lost, a home and her soul and other things that don’t make sense any more. She draws a shuddering breath and claws for his arm because it hurts to look.

“Way I see it...you’ve got two choices, Bee. Sink...or swim.” One hand falls away, the other pushes. Grabs the blanket away from her as he does.

She plummets. Heavy like a stone. Wind hurtling a thousand miles an hour around her and her lungs ache, her heart threatens to burst. It’s fractions of seconds before she stops flailing, corrects herself. Straightens her spine, arches it just so. Something-dynamic, a word she’s always had trouble saying. And there’s just so much animosity there because he knows she used to cliff-dive back in Oahu. That as a free diver she can hold her breath for a long time.

And then she sees….

He’s jumped too. ~*~

Martin Riggs doesn’t do funerals. But he knows a lot about drowning.

He knows sometimes it’s better to let go. To sink.

Either they will break the surface or get pulled deeper under.

Just not alone.