#I always wanted a seed where I could make a little bowl city

[teaandinanity]

I think I may have found my perfect RimWorld map

but unfortunately the seed is so stupid I can probably never share it

[viltrumitesuperboy]

Souvenir (Newt Scamander x Reader)

Gender neutral. My dumbass changed the request so they aren’t already together I am sorry but they needed to meet first

EDIT/DISCLAIMER: I hadn’t watched the films in LITERALLY FOREVER i got some parts wrong but for the record the fantastic beasts book does not say what mooncalves eat and i had to go as creative as possible (... grass)

Requested by: NOT anon but i forgot who requested i’m so sorry Maybe Newt introducing his partner to all of his creatures and one of the creates (possibly another bowtruckle but up to you) getting really attached Flying together on Frank the thunderbird (he's a thunderbird right?) Oh fluffy adorable feeding the baby mooncalves (Can you tell I like cute things and all of his animals?)

Word Count: 1593

You first met Newt when you were out on a late night stroll.

People always said it was dangerous to walk outside late at night, but you had magic, and that would at least protect you from no-majs with ill intent. You would never expect to run into a wizard the way you did.

There was, after all, an Erumpent with a man in a bright blue coat making the strangest movements and sounds. It was certainly interesting. Another man stood off to the side, holding a bottle that was unmistakably one that was used for potions. Once the bottle spilled, you ran closer, hoping that you could counter the effects of the potion before it caused any damage. Instead, the Erumpent turned to him and charged. There was a lot of screaming.

You followed them over the hills of Central Park and a frozen river that you absolutely did not trust to hold the weight of a grown man, much less an Erumpent. You threw a quick spell to solidify it completely, and the three of you had managed to get the Erumpent into a very small case.

"Well, it looks like we've made a new friend!" the skinnier man in the blue coat said. "Thanks for helping."

"I really didn't do anything," you replied.

"Nonsense, you froze the river, didn't you? Wonderful spellwork, by the way," he complimented.

You warily looked at the no-maj, currently trying his best to brush off whatever he had spilled on himself. You knew how dangerous it was for them to know about magic.

"Oh, I'm Newt. This is Jacob. We've been gathering all the magical creatures that... are around the city," Newt explained.

"I'm (Y/N)," you said.

You held your hand out in greeting, and he took it with a mild shake. Jacob's was only slightly firmer.

"You know, I'm good with magical creatures. They were my favourites to look for in the forest of the school I went to. If you want, I can help," you offered.

Newt smiled brightly, and motioned back to the city that surrounded you.

"Well, we've finished with this, and we've got more to do. How about we find the rest of them?"

———

Newt opened his case on the floor, nodding to it with a smile.

"Go on. I promise it's safe," he assured you.

You gave him a stern look and climbed down the ladder into a small, wooden workshop.

"Is this an expanding charm?" you called up as he started to make his own way down. "Amazing work. It's rarely ever neat when I expand anything."

"Well, it helps that I've got other magic to keep everything where it is," he grinned. "Shall we?"

He gestured to the door. You pushed it open, your mouth open in shock as you took in the desert-like area around you.

"Newt!" you exclaimed. "Do you know how much work it takes to do this? You either have very powerful magic or a lot of time on your hands."

"Well I wouldn't say I'm very powerful," he humbly responded. "I've had this case for years, and I only started with a few of these areas. Now it's a lot more, but that's not the point."

He gestured to move on, and you followed wordlessly. The disturbance in the background made it clear that it was a piece of cloth rather than the actual background, and he pushed it aside to reveal the Erumpent you had helped him retrieve.

"I found her a while ago, and I'll be returning her home once she's ready. I'd bring you closer but after recent events, I think it would be better not to cause unnecessary damage to all of New York City."

You both laughed. He led you through another curtain to where the Niffler dove into a hole, and the bowtruckles were all on a tree together.

"I'm sure you already know the bowtruckles aren't as friendly as the others in this case, but Pickett likes to hang around me sometimes," Newt said.

He put his hand out for one of the bowtruckles, who climbed onto his hand and scampered up his arm, clinging to his bowtie for a few seconds. Newt had to pull Pickett off and back into his hand, and raised him up between the two of you. You were both met each other's eyes. He looked nervous for a split second, then brought up Pickett between your line of view.

"Say hello, Pickett! This is (Y/N)."

"Hi there," you smiled.

You waved your hand to the little green creature. He jumped from Newt's hand to your shirt, and found his way to the top of your head.

"Pickett! You know you need to ask before you climb someone like that," Newt scolded.

He had his hands on his hips and glared at the bowtruckle sternly. Pickett made a noise that sounded suspiciously like blowing a raspberry and rested himself in your hair.

"I think he likes me," you laughed. "Isn't it rare for bowtruckles to be this friendly?"

"Yes, but I think-"

Newt suddenly cut himself off as a blush grew on his face. You furrowed your eyebrows at him.

"You think what?" you asked.

"Um, I talk to the creatures about you sometimes? I think he remembered your name."

You hadn't known each other too long, but you figured it was enough to be good friends.

"Oh, that's nice. It's great to meet them," you said.

He gestured for you to follow him. He turned quickly as you walked, probably to hide his red face. By the time you reached a large nest, it was completely gone and replaced with a wide smile.

"This is an Occamy! They are usually very protective of their young, but I've earned her trust just enough. I'll be releasing her and her babies once they're a little more grown," Newt said.

The blue serpent-like creature inspected you as you approached the nest. A peer over the edge gave you a glimpse of a smaller Occamy, playing with its siblings. There were chirps coming from the nest. Newt brought you along to a different environment, one that looked more like a desert.

"And that's Frank," he said.

You both looked up to see a Thunderbird flying on his own in the sky. He began to drop down and land as he spotted you.

"Frank, this is my friend! Be nice," Newt said. "You can hold your hand out to him."

You hesitantly put your hand up, around where the bird's beak would be if he was in front of you. Frank shuffled his wings, then got closer until the feathers just under his eye were tickling your hand. You carefully stroked the feathers there, and he closed his eyes in content.

"I'm in America for a lot of reasons, and all of them are to bring these creatures back home," Newt said. "Tina and Queenie have been nice enough to let me stay with them while I'm still here."

"You're welcome to stay with me as well," you smiled.

You continued onto the next area, a quieter and darker one lit by a full moon on one of the curtains. The creatures were like a strange mix of a sheep and a cow with the largest eyes that didn't look like they would fit in their heads.

"Mooncalves!" you said, taking a few steps closer.

"Wait, come back. I'll have you feed them, since it's already time."

They were still a distance away. Despite their shy nature, they were still intrigued by the new addition to their temporary home. They started to get closer. After a few minutes of preparing the bowls with Newt, two of them had already gotten very close to you. They nudged your legs, knowing that you had something they wanted. When Newt walked with his bowl closer to the rest of the mooncalves, they all flocked to him. You followed behind, and some went to you.

"Throw a bit of this onto the ground right here."

He picked up a handful of what looked like rice grains and threw them across the ground. You did the same until the soil was mostly covered. Newt pulled out his wand and mumbled a spell, which caused the soil to cover the little grains and grass to spring up from where they dropped instead. The mooncalves rushed over to the grass and began to graze.

"Grass seeds! It's much more convenient than carrying grass or taking them outside when there's a full moon," Newt explained.

"That's amazing," you complimented, which he bashfully brushed off.

He took your bowl and put it away. A bowtruckle returned to his tree and a niffler nearly grabbing your pen lined with shiny metal later, you both returned to your small room. It was as if you'd entered another world or a dream and were now being pulled back into reality. You stood face to face with Newt, a grin present on his.

"If you're not staying in New York too long, I think maybe you'd need a souvenir before you go," you whispered.

"What's that?"

You took a step closer to him and slowly pressed your lips to his. He brought you closer, a hand on your back to keep the both of you steady. When you pulled away, he kept his hand there.

"That might be one of the best souvenirs I'll ever receive, but I think I can find one better."

"Can you really?"

He laughed breathlessly, and pulled you closer once more.

[undeadasshcle]

"jervis had one job." jonathan mutters to himself, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. then again, unattended is a vague enough state that jervis could have so much as looked the other way. how they got her, though, doesn't matter anymore. on the floor is a disturbing number of gutted fruit, their seeds and pits dumped unceremoniously in a bowl next to them. "i have cyanide, you know." he can only assume that was the end goal here. then...

"these are from the grocery trip i just did, aren't they?" jonathan was looking forward to having a pear in the morning. how disappointing. maybe they could bag the discarded parts still... maybe they're salvageable...

    ‘don’t leave jerome unattended.’ as if he was some sort of toddler.

    both jonathan and jervis could be real sticks-in-the-mud. like two overbearing mother’s constantly hounding him about the ‘dangerous’ things he wanted to do. don’t see how long you can hold your hand over an open flame. don’t pick at your injuries. don’t kidnap a cop just to see how long it would take for someone to come looking. don’t do this, don’t do that. so boring. now is exactly the time they should be out there, ruining gotham. the city has been abandoned. overrun by rouges. he could stomp it into the ground even more. make it so that it’s utterly unsalvageable. squash what little hope is left... but instead, he’s stuck in this apartment, brain rotting more from boredom than it did in death.

    somehow, jonathan was more insistent than jervis. possibly because he’s been the one doing the most. the one who took him in and tried to nurse him back to health. a painful few months for both of them. with jonathan gone, he had to take his chance to do something fun.

    hardly hears him when he comes in, too focused on the task at hand. he’s sitting on the ground, legs crossed under him, knife in one hand and apple in the other. some of the fruit has been eaten, but anything he didn’t fancy was carelessly discarded on the floor. the cherries really didn’t stand a chance, but the apples and pears... bleh. jervis had left him to it, not brave enough to wrestle a knife off him. but with mom #1 home...

    and of course he’s right on the money.

    “everyone knows that homemade tastes sooooo much better.” a wide smile stretches across his face as he deftly cuts up the fruit in hand. “besides, i used all of yours already.” finally looks up at jonathan, toothy smile much more visible now. “dumped it in tetch’s tea.” gestures vaguely behind him, where he knows the victim is sitting. this causes jervis to chirp up and promptly drop his cup back on the table. jerome breaks into a fit of manic giggles, knowing full well that the bottle of cyanide is still nearly tucked away in jonathan’s lad. “they sure are. welcome back, jonny.” he calms for just long enough to say it before the giggles return.

unprompted ask | @wingingthenight | always accepting!!

[abiteofnat]

If you’re reading this, I’m coming back to Chicago, beetch

The non-existent rumors are true. After a brief 10-month exit from the city to soak up the fresh air and social distance-friendly suburbs, I am now returning to Chicago as a single, slightly more anxious version of myself. While I’m still trying to kick some of the anxiety and OCD that COVID-19 pushed from “lifelong tagalongs” to “all-controlling demons”, I feel 97% ready to be back where I feel most myself, and cannot wait to welcome that change. While that 3% still makes me a little uncomfy and hesitant, I’m a believer in pushing your boundaries to allow yourself to grow, and also, I am really sick of suburbs food. 

Ha! I joke. I wouldn’t move downtown simply for access to more diverse & higher quality food... or would I? All I know is while there are plenty of gems in the North Shore, I’ve eaten take out from all of them ten times over, and I did not foster my dislike of cooking out of nowhere. My parents do not enjoy cooking, my sister pretends to enjoy cooking, and I will cook if it is 5 ingredients or less. My latest speciality is a toasted bagel with butter, hummus, and EBTB seasoning. Voila. So when it comes to dinner, we are living off of a carousel of suburban favorites, and are losing steam as we are still not comfortable with dining inside (or dining inside in the city, where the fun food is). 

All of this to say, it’s exciting to imagine what life is going to be like in a few short weeks. While I’m still extra precautionary, I can’t wait to have my own space downtown, where I can enjoy coffee on my little balcony (!!!) and dream of the days friends can come squeeze into my studio safely while I lay out an entire table of sharable spreads and snacks from Ema (Charred Eggplant Spread is the best one, don’t fight me). 

So you may ask, how did you come to this decision to move to the heart of downtown out of seemingly nowhere, you hermit? 

It starts with my mom and I having a brief, simultaneous breakdown and coming to the conclusion that we would both feel comfortable doing a staycation downtown, as long as we wore masks, sanitized always, and braved the cold to eat outside. This was big for me! As a person with real OCD, not cute TV show “I have to keep my pens straight” OCD, this would be the most exposure I’d had to a lot of uncontrollable variables since the pandemic started. If you’re thinking, “you get to spend a weekend downtown in a hotel with your mom, shut up”, know that I hear you. I am unbelievably grateful that I’ve gotten this time with my parents, and that we can do a staycation. However, having anxiety comes at a cost, and that cost is blowing everything way the fuck out of proportion instead of being able to rationalize it sometimes. Let’s! Normalize! Having! This! Discussion!

So, we went downtown in early March for a two-night stay, and oh my goodness. The realization that we got to be in a different space, and do different things, and eat different food for a weekend made it feel like a legit vacation, and not like we drove 30 minutes to get there. The view from our room was of Michigan Ave, and hearing the traffic and seeing the people out and about instantly made me feel a sense of peace I wasn’t expecting. I’ve lived downtown for 6 years, but it always shocks me how much the city feels like an extension of me once I’m in it after being away. My mom and I went out for a walk (gentle yet forceful reminder to please wear a mask), then decided to grab dinner while we were out. The plan was to bring it back to the room, but there was a warm spell, and there just happened to be a table for two at Topolobampo on Clark, and suddenly we were sitting on the patio under the lights eating masa quesadillas dipped in a spicy salsa verde. It just happened!!! 

Before getting downtown, I was tentatively looking at apartments for the spring. I was looking at Lincoln Park, Old Town, maybe Lakeview, and came across a listing in the Gold Cost that caught my eye. That one was swiped out from under me within days, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the area. Then I discovered another unit that was available, and couldn’t shake it from my mind. Over mushroom tacos I discussed it with my mom, and we decided to go see it. Totally not what I had been planning for in terms of location, but why not? 

Once we polished off breakfast the next morning (Eggs Benedict with fried eggs, extra hollandaise) we headed out to see the place. Let me say I have never seen my mom fall in love with a single apartment I’ve lived in, and she was ALL. FOR. IT. Unreal reaction on her part. Once I saw the west-facing views and the incredible natural lighting, I was 100% in as well.

We spent the rest of the weekend wandering the downtown area, enjoying another dinner outside at The Gwen and my mom’s first visit to the Starbucks Reserve Roastery, which was 95% more empty than I’ve ever seen it given we went in a pandemic at 8:30PM. Shit on Starbucks all you want, but that Roastery is an incredible use of space (in non-pandemic times) and the coffee & Princi pastries are really, really good. 

When we got back home feeling refreshed and like we had actually gone on a vacation, I jumped into apartment shark mode real fast and signed as many documents as the very kind realtor could send over. One week later, whabaam, I was a Gold Coast girl. Ahem, *lady*. What better way to celebrate than going to Somerset and having the Rapini & Roasted Garlic Flatbread and Wild Mushroom Risotto? No clue. As I sat outside, yet again with my mom, I felt a wave of excitement come over me and realized, this is it. This is the sign and feeling I’ve been waiting for, telling me it’s time to move back to the city and start over. The creamy, herbacious risotto also helped solidify that. 

SO. After all of that, the news is I’m moving, and you’re probably wondering why I shared all of this on a blog about food. I meant for this post to be about everywhere I ate during my staycation, but realized quickly we ate at some very basic places - DELICIOUS, but still basic. Oops. Below are all the dishes I had and a rundown of the flavors, textures, etc., however don’t expect to find any new, revolutionary restaurants. Sorry! 

1. Topolobampo 

This Rick Bayless restaurant has been around forever, and unfortunately, you can tell by the interior. We’ve eaten here as a family a couple of times before, but never had a noteworthy experience. I can confirm that in a pinch, the patio covered in fun lights & mini piñatas, and the sharable, filling bites will do just fine. This was my first time going to a Mexican restaurant as a non-alcohol drinker, and instead of my typical mezcal margarita, I opted for a Fresh Limeaide which was refreshing and flavorful. We split the Guacamole and Chips, which if you’ve ever stopped at the Frontera in O’Hare, you know is good as fuck. It’s smooth, creamy, tangy, and topped with chopped onions and cilantro for a little crunch. It’s not the most life-changing, but it is consistently satisfying. Next, we got the Mushroom Tacos and Masa Quesadillas. The Masa Quesadillas were a fun surprise, as instead of a tortilla, the masa is what makes up the outside. They are almost like empanadas and stuffed with gooey, melty cheese, and come with a spicy salsa verde on the side. I would come back for these alone - they’re rich yet light, warm, and comforting, all the things you would want when dining outside when it’s still a little chilly. The Mushroom Tacos were quite frankly unreal, because whatever they seasoned the mushroom slices with and grilled them on made them taste unlike any mushroom I’ve had before. There was definitely some meat crossover on the grill, so don’t order those if you’re vegan, or ask them to prepare the mushroom separately. I however was LOSING MY MIND. Over mushrooms. The joys of being vegetarian! 

2. The Gwen

On a happening Saturday night in Chicago, Upstairs at The Gwen is sure to be a packed scene. Located in River North, this hotel bar/restaurant offers a somehow cozy rooftop filled with loungey couches, fire pits, and ambient lighting, even though you’re surrounded by apartments and skyscrapers and there is nothing “cozy” about River North. Every table was filled, yet since you’re outside and it’s fairy spread apart, it still felt safe. I got my new classic, a Lemonade, and we got the Burrata to start. With sourdough, roasted beets, squash, pomegranate, pistachio, & arugula, this plate was nothing short of mouth-watering. It has textures! It has flavors! It has pomegranate seeds, the TikTok must have of the moment! The bread was 10/10, the burrata was 8/10, and all of the toppings made for a very find bite of salad on their own. For my main I got the Lobster Fettucine, a beautiful bowl of “charcoal fettuccine with saffron-tomato sauce, lobster, calabrian chili butter, and basil-brioche crumbs” as listed on their website. Take any of those ingredients and it’s going to be delicious, but all of them TOGETHER? INCREDIBLE. The chunks of lobster were huge, absolutely making the dish worth its price tag, and the sauce was flavorful, unique, and unlike any sauce I’ve tasted in the last few years. It’s typical to do a squid ink pasta with seafood and tomato sauce, but the saffron added a new element I very much appreciated. 

3. The Starbucks Roastery 

I KNOW. THIS IS A TOURIST DESTINATION. All I am saying is if there’s no line, go get an iced latte with two packets of sugar in the raw. That’s all. It’s really good after something like, I don’t know, Lobster Fettucine. 

4. The Penninsula 

You cannot go wrong with hitting up The Penninsula for breakfast or brunch, especially if you are staying there and have the option to do room service. Typically we would go to Pierrot Gourmet, the cafe in the ground floor of The Penninsula, however it has been closed temporarily. If there’s one thing to order with your breakfast, it’s the smashed fingerling potatoes. Delish. 

5. Somerset 

Somerset is becoming a quick go-to of mine for an impromptu dinner downtown, given it’s in the heart of Gold Coast and is cute if you’re sitting indoors or outdoors. The food is nothing too innovative, but it is done well, which is the most important part with “cuter” restaurants that may focus on the Instagram appeal over the food sometimes. Each time I’ve gone I’ve gotten the seasonal flatbread and a pasta or risotto, usually something with mushrooms, and it’s always been plate-licking good. To drink, I got -you guessed it- a Lemonade! For dinner I went with the Wild Mushroom Risotto which was everything you could hope for in a risotto, topped with olive oil, herbs, and local parmesan. We split the Rapini & Roasted Garlic Flatbread which was as it sounds, flatbread covered in rapini, garlic, and ricotta, which added a nice crunch and had enough rapini to feel like it was replacing a boring vegetable side dish or salad. The patio vibes were wonderful, the judgemental girls in the greenhouses looked like they were having a good time, and our waiter couldn’t have been sweeter. I will be going back to try the Fontina Arancini, which I just noticed on the menu. FRICK. 

So there you have it, a very long-winded explanation of the last few weeks of my life and where you can find me on a staycation in Chicago. Hopefully once I move back to the city I’ll have endless new spots to try and won’t be basic anymore! 

Until next time, Happy Eating!

-Natalie 

[promethes]

dumping the horrendous unconventional short story I wrote for my midterm under the cut to get it off my mind bc I do not like it.

ENTRY 1

I think I will make my life’s motif a bird. It shouldn’t be too hard. They’re everywhere and pop out at the most opportune moments. I’ll find a way to tie them in.

ENTRY 2

Stood in line for way too long at the cafe. Can you believe the girl in front of me didn’t even look up to plan her order until she was physically at the front of the line? I knew what I wanted to order before I even stepped foot into the place. They need to change that. I’m on the lookout for some kind of online suggestion box to submit to since they decided to forgo an in-house one for some God forsaken reason. There’s not a lick of common sense in anyone these days. Saw a robin on my way out and flicked it a sesame seed from my bagel.

ENTRY 3

Would you listen to this garbage? They’re planning on tearing down my favorite bowling alley. “Didn’t pass inspection” my ass. It’s an important cultural landmark of our city and I’m marching down to the mayor to set him straight. I can’t stage important life moments around the cardinal themed bowling alley if there is no bowling alley to have a cardinal theme!

ENTRY 4

Mom’s in the hospital. Driving over now, she said it has something to do with her cholesterol. It either spiked or dropped real low, but I can’t be sure. Either way, she’s in the hospital. I don’t know why she chose the one that’s so far away though. The vending machines in the other one have way better stock.

ENTRY 5

Forgot to say. I didn’t run over any birds on the way there.

ENTRY 6

I don’t think I’m spiraling yet but I’m close to it. Mom’s fine, she’s just staying overnight in case anything acts up again. I, on the other hand, am NOT. Car won’t start and I’ve been sitting here in the parking lot for almost four hours now. Embarrassed beyond belief. A weird old man with a huge shiny truck offered to help and he’s been good on his word lending me his car to jump-start mine, but his bumper stickers make me nervous. His truck has custom lettering too. I’m a big guy, so not too worried, but a little concerned. 

Anyway, it didn’t work and I’m calling a tow truck now. I tried to thank the guy and offered to buy him coffee, but he just said “No way, Jose” which was weird. He smacked the top of my car before he left and said I need to “dress this little lady up.” Maybe I’ll get a sparrow bumper sticker online. Everything’s online these days.

ENTRY 7

Starting to rethink the bird motif thing. Not much goes on in my life anyway, and there’s only so much material I can get out of waking up early to chirping. Maybe I should aim lower. I could choose a color instead. Red would be a cop-out, it’s too obvious. Blood! I need something that’s at least a little challenging. We’ll see. I’ll sleep on it.

ENTRY 8

GREAT NEWS! Sister got a BIRD. A real-life living breathing chirping flying bird. It’s a sign and I’m not going to ignore it. My life’s motif is a bird and it’s not going to be one of those unbearably hidden motifs from English class required readings either.

(Although I did like some of them. That spoon in Middlesex…… I want my bird to be his spoon. To take up space in an almost eerie way. I’ll find a way to make it work.)

ENTRY 9

Laying the groundwork. These things don’t come easy, so I’m sowing the seeds (birds do that, right?) Told everyone at work that my great great great grandfather’s name was Starling. Drilled up a lot of curious questions and I even got to know some of the people I always just miss talking to. They were all VERY interested. Tomorrow I’ll bring in a picture of an actual starling. I don’t think Andrew quite knows that it’s a kind of bird.

ENTRY 10

Don’t remember the name my sister chose and I couldn’t remember if I tried even if I squeezed my eyes shut before blinking really fast like I usually do because this bird (Polly I’m going to call it Polly because an annoying bird deserves an annoying name) is so incessantly annoyingly unbearably loud. I can’t believe this thing is my sign.

My sign is chirping me into the basement and into a frenzy. At least I have my old sleeping bag handy until I can figure out how to shut it up. Why must my motif be so unbearably annoying?

ENTRY 11

Update on the car: starter wires snapped. Haven’t seen any birds around lately (except for a crow but I hate crows and I won’t be counting them) so I was hopeful and asked the mechanic if there’s any chance a bird could’ve pecked at the wires until they got so worn down that they snapped in the hospital parking lot.

He looked at me like I was crazy. I know that was what the look meant because he said, “Are you f****ing crazy man? The wires are deep in your car under the hood.” (I’m censoring the language. I don’t want language taking away from my story. If this is to be read in a future child’s English class to teach a lesson about motifs, I can’t be including foul language.)

I’m not f***ing crazy but I am extremely ticked off. Does he not realize how little birds come out in the cold weather? I need whatever I can get.

I’ll just tell people a bird got stuck under the hood of my car. I’ll change this entry later. Mechanic man doesn’t deserve a spot in a child’s English class; he didn’t even have the decency to watch his language for them.

ENTRY 12

People at work are finally starting to catch on! Got called “bird guy” by Kathleen (Catherine? Kristy? Whatever.) when she saw my shirt. I knew it’d be a good move when I saw it on sale at Walmart. I’m thinking of making the cover of my book Hawaiian print, but I’ll tell my future publisher I’m not married to the idea. Can’t be too picky on my first book! I’ll leave that for the second.

ENTRY 13

I will enjoy my day today I will enjoy my day today I will enjoy my day. Sister needs to get control of Polly. I’ve moved down my whole mattress now. I will enjoy my day I will enjoy my day I will enjoy 

ENTRY 14

Can’t believe I overlooked eagles and hawks. Of course sparrows and starlings weren’t doing the trick! Classic oversight, focusing too much on the mundane. I won’t be making that mistake. I blame it all on that incessant chirping. Mom says it’s not too bad but I’m fairly certain that cholesterol has gotten to her ears. She must be going deaf. She’s lucky she’s ill or else I’d be very extremely sore at her for making that face at me. I know it’s a bad face because it’s the same face that f***ing mechanic made and I don’t think he’s ever made a good face in his life so if my mom made that same face then I really don’t like that. She gets a pass for the cholesterol. 

ENTRY 15

I feel amazing. Bought an eagle bumper sticker at a roadside gas station and after a few strategic snips, it’ll be ready to go on the car. I’m dressing this little lady up! The red, white, and blue has got to go first though. Decided a while ago not to let colors mess with my motif, and I’m not going to slip up on that again! Snip snip.

I’m considering this a debt paid. Dressed the little lady up. Two birds, one stone! I’m making that my new catchphrase.

ENTRY 16

Should I make this a love story? I’m thinking about making it a romance. Doves are right there, really just waiting for me to weave them in. On the other hand, I don’t think that’d work to create much of a conducive learning environment for the kids. I think I’ll stick to a Mark Twain type story instead. 

Reread the beginning and don’t think it’s working. I’ll be cutting all that out. I spoke too much about mom’s cholesterol. Too many side characters and not enough focus. Where was I going with this again? 

ENTRY 17

Writer’s block. It’s ok, I still had that major breakthrough with the hawk/eagle thought. Put in my two weeks to dedicate all my time. I’ve found a bird-watching site that I hope will bring me more peace than f***ing Polly.

ENTRY 18

These birds are really working to stay in my New York Times best-selling children’s novel. Knew this would be a challenge, but they really do never stop conversing. If only they could read, I’d write them a best-selling manual on the best ways to speak inwards rather than outwards. Chirp chirp chirp needs to turn into ______ ________ ________.

ENTRY 19

Sister’s going to be f***ing pissed but it was the only thing to do.

ENTRY 20

Honestly, it was just a bird! If it was really part of our family, you’d think that I’d know its name by now.

ENTRY 21

I said that Polly’s in a better place now, but set her off with the “Polly”. Maybe this was a mistake. She said I “begged” her to get the bird but she shouldn’t say that when she’s the one reacting like this.

ENTRY 22

Books should come with suggestion boxes. No more birds. Story’s six feet under just like Gladys. See, I can finally remember it now that I can hear myself think. 

[agentrouka-blog]

ASOIAF - Dany and the persimmons of doom

The persimmon is mentioned 13 times, 12 times in Dany chapters.

What’s a Persimmon?

The word Diospyros comes from the ancient Greek words "dios" (δῐος) and "pyron" (πῡρον). A popular etymology construed this as "divine fruit", or as meaning "wheat of Zeus" or "God's pear" and "Jove's fire". The dio-, as shown by the short vowel 'i', has nothing to do with 'divine' (δῑoς ), dio- being an affix attached to plant names, and in classical Greek the compound referred to "the fruit of the nettle tree". 

The word persimmon itself is derived from putchamin, pasiminan, or pessamin, from Powhatan, an Algonquian language of the eastern United States, meaning "a dry fruit".

The name was misconstrued to mean something a lot more elevated, something divine, olympian, fiery and impressive, when it really is a lot more basic than that. 

Kind of loving where this is headed already.

(Long, because many quotes.) 

The first and only persimmon mention outside of a Dany chapter is in AGOT, Eddard V. It’s contained in a list of offered refreshments by Pycelle, while Ned has gone to him to inquire about Jon Arryn’s death.

"Lord Arryn's death was a great sadness for all of us, my lord," Grand Maester Pycelle said. "I would be more than happy to tell you what I can of the manner of his passing. Do be seated. Would you care for refreshments? Some dates, perhaps? I have some very fine persimmons as well. Wine no longer agrees with my digestion, I fear, but I can offer you a cup of iced milk, sweetened with honey. I find it most refreshing in this heat."

 (AGOT, Eddard V)

Things in a list are, in my opinion, very often symbolically loaded. 

Dates. Persimmons. Milk sweetened with honey.

Dates, counting just the actual fruit, are also most heavily associated with Dany (7 mentions) and to a lesser degree Tyrion (3 mentions) and Arys Oakheart and Arianne (1 each). Also, Dorne in general. 

Milk with honey, which is what Ned ends up choosing, as a combination is associated with Brienne, Jaime and the Riverland mess, oddly enough, and, sweetened milk in general also with the suppression of Sweetrobin (sweetsleep). I’m sticking to the persimmon for now.

So, what are persimmons about for Dany? 

The first mention occurs in Qarth, close to the beginning of Daenerys III.

Descendants of the ancient kings and queens of Qarth, the Pureborn commanded the Civic Guard and the fleet of ornate galleys that ruled the straits between the seas. Daenerys Targaryen had wanted that fleet, or part of it, and some of their soldiers as well. She made the traditional sacrifice in the Temple of Memory, offered the traditional bribe to the Keeper of the Long List, sent the traditional persimmon to the Opener of the Door, and finally received the traditional blue silk slippers summoning her to the Hall of a Thousand Thrones.  

(ACOK, Daenerys III)

Another list. Hmm...

A sacrifice in the Temple of Memory... (If I look back, I am lost. What was Hazzea’s name again?)

A bribe to the Keeper of the Long List. (Keeper of lists... Arya keeps a kill list. Other list keepers might be the maesters at the Citadel for marriages births and deaths. There are two specifically mentioned “long lists”, Pycelle’s list of people who should swear fealty to Joffrey, and Hizdahr’s list of Dany’s enemies after smashing the slave trade.)

A persimmon to the Opener of Doors. (The red door likely foreshadows her Burning of King’s Landing, which is what I think this refers to. Elsewise, Jon significantly opened the gates of the Wall for the wildlings to march through. Jon, and Dany both open doors in significant dreams or visions.)

Then she receives the blue silk slippers and is summoned to the Hall of a Thousand Thrones. (Blue silk is heavily associated with Sansa, where it’s associated with catastrophe, violence, betrayal and defeat. To a lesser degree same for Brienne and Cersei. And the blue bard. This is not a happy fabric.)

But anyway, so the persimmon is associated with the Opening Of The Door. And what else?

The Pureborn reject Dany’s offerings and do not give her a fleet. She grumbles. She contemplates returning to Vaes Tolorro and making a home there but rejects the idea. Xaro asks her to marry him. A lot. Quaithe says reaches out to her again and gives her the “To go North you must go south etc” prophecy. She decides to go see the HOTU. (Destruction will follow.)

So, persimmon -> rejecting non-conquering path. And Quaithe egging her on.

Next Mention, still in Qarth. The persimmon opens the chapter.

She was breaking her fast on a bowl of cold shrimp-and-persimmon soup when Irri brought her a Qartheen gown, an airy confection of ivory samite patterned with seed pearls. "Take it away," Dany said. "The docks are no place for lady's finery."

If the Milk Men thought her such a savage, she would dress the part for them. When she went to the stables, she wore faded sandsilk pants and woven grass sandals.  

(ACOK, Daenerys V)

She consumes persimmon, and returns to her Dothraki garb, rejects Xaro’s proposal of marriage, finds herself unloved by the smallfolk of Qarth and pressured to leave. 

They know who I am, and they do not love me. Dany could tell from the way they looked at her.

Xaro refuses to help her get a fleet. She contemplates the visons in the HOTU. We get a book series title drop. 

“I remember,” Dany said sadly. “They murdered Rhaegar’s daughter as well, the Little princess. Rhaenys, she was named, like Aegon’s sister. There was no Visenya, but he said the dragon has three heads. What is the song of ice and fire?” 

“It’s no song I’ve ever heard.”

Dany wanders the docks and meets Barristan Selmy and Strong Belwas, who save her from a poison assassination attempt by the Sorrowful Men. Selmy and Belwas were sent by Magister Illyrio along with three ships. She accepts them, and renames them for the three conquering dragons Vhagar, Meraxes, Balerion. 

So, all in all we are on theme here with Dany embracing her inner dragon and rejecting alternative options of making a home. Aegon the Conquerer with Teats it is. Thank you, persimmon.

Next up, A Storm of Swords. Dany goes Unsullied-shopping in Astapor. The persimmon is at the beginning of the chapter.

“Your ears heard true,” said Dany. “I want to buy them all. Tell the Good Masters, if you will.”

She had chosen a Qartheen gown today. The deep violet silk brought out the purple of her eyes. The cut of it bared her left breast. While the Good Masters of Astapor conferred among themselves in low voices, Dany sipped tart persimmon wine from a tall silver flute. She could not quite make out all that they were saying, but she could hear the greed.  

(...)

Dany let them argue, sipping the tart persimmon wine and trying to keep her face blank and ignorant. I will have them all, no matter the price, she told herself. The city had a hundred slave traders, but the eight before her were the greatest. When selling bed slaves, fieldhands, scribes, craftsmen, and tutors, these men were rivals, but their ancestors had allied one with the other for the purpose of making and selling the Unsullied. Brick and blood built Astapor, and brick and blood her people. 

(…)

Two thousand would never serve for what she meant to do. I must have them all. Dany knew what she must do now, though the taste of it was so bitter that even the persimmon wine could not cleanse it from her mouth. She had considered long and hard and found no other way. It is my only choice. "Give me all," she said, "and you may have a dragon."

(…)

“Missandei is no longer a slave. I free you, from this instant. Come ride with me in the litter, I wish to talk.” Rakharo helped them in, and Dany drew the curtains shut against the dust and heat. “If you stay with me you will serve as one of my handmaids,” she said as they set off. “I shall keep you by my side to speak for me as you spoke for Kraznys. But you may leave my service whenever you choose, if you have father or mother you would sooner return to.” “This one will stay,” the girl said. “This one … I … there is no place for me to go. This … I will serve you, gladly.”

(ASOS, Daenerys III)

Persimmon & “buy them all, have them all, give me all” on triple display. Gee, I wonder if we will have another dragon escalation coming up?

Also, Dany’s special brand of slave liberation is in full swing. You are free to leave - with no alternatives provided for you. Or stay and serve as my “handmaid”. Ask Irri what that means.

The night before the transaction, she dreams she is Rhaegar on dragonback, bathing her enemies in dragonfire. A good dream, for Dany. She gets a visit from Quaithe. The next day, she dresses in Dothraki garb again. Fire and Blood.

“Unsullied!” Dany galloped before them, her silver-gold braid flying behind her, her bell chiming with every stride. “Slay the Good Masters, slay the soldiers, slay every man who wears a tokar or holds a whip, but harm no child under twelve, and strike the chains off every slave you see.” She raised the harpy’s fingers in the air … and then she flung the scourge aside. “Freedom!” she sang out. “Dracarys! Dracarys!” “Dracarys!” they shouted back, the sweetest word she’d ever heard. “Dracarys! Dracarys!” And all around them slavers ran and sobbed and begged and died, and the dusty air was filled with spears and fire.

It would appear that the persimmons signal the proximity of a dragon escalation. Persimmons always appear at the beginning of a chapter where Dany chooses Dothraki garb and dragonfire. 

Does it hold up?

A newly conquered Meereen has the next persimmon mention right at the top of the chapter:

Dany broke her fast under the persimmon tree that grew in the terrace garden, watching her dragons chase each other about the apex of the Great Pyramid where the huge bronze harpy once stood. Meereen had a score of lesser pyramids, but none stood even half as tall. From here she could see the whole city: 

(…) 

And beyond the walls was the pewter sea, the winding Skahazadhan, the dry brown hills, burnt orchards, and blackened fields. Up here in her garden Dany sometimes felt like a god, living atop the highest mountain in the world.  

(…)

All my victories turn to dross in my hands, she thought. Whatever I do, all I make is death and horror.

(…)

“My city,” said Dany. “I was looking for a house with a red door, but by night all the doors are black.”

“A red door?” Missandei was puzzled. “What house is this?” “No house. It does not matter.” Dany took the younger girl by the hand. “Never lie to me, Missandei. Never betray me.”

"I never would," Missandei promised. "Look, dawn comes."

(…)

 On the terrace, a few flies stirred sluggishly. A bird began to chirp in the persimmon tree, and then two more. Dany cocked her head to hear their song, but it was not long before the sounds of the waking city drowned them out.

The sounds of my city. 

(…)

“What will you do then, Khaleesi?” asked Rakharo. “Stay,” she said. “Rule. And be a queen.”

(ASOS, Daenerys VI)

After the first persimmon mention, she reflects on the conquest of Meereen in a terrible, savage sack. (Incidentally, using the same kinds of weapons to attack their gate as Jon defends against the Wildling attack on the Wall, specifically the “turtle” and ram. Jon/Dany romantic foreshadowing, surely.) 

Persimmon ->  Dragon and dothraki. Yes, it holds up.

But there is a second persimmon mention. Persimmons in the middle of a chapter tend to signal a rejection of the dragon path. 

After a series of bad news from Astapor and beyond, making her question the success of her actions, she decides to change her plans. The birds draw her attention to the persimmon tree of dragon escalation BUT the sounds of her city drown them out. She turns away from the siren call. She decides to try and responsibly deal with actual ruling. 

So far, so on theme. Will the persimmons make a comeback when Dany re-dragons? Yes. Yes, they will. 

ADWD gives us more persimmons. Many more.

Daenerys II. Middle-chapter persimmon -> Dragon rejection.

She is unrestful. The Sons of the Harpy killed Missandei’s brother, and many more. She agrees to have a suspect’s young daughter tortured to get answers. She grows very tired of ruling. She struggles to comfort Missandei who asserts Dany’s Mhysa identity. But Dany is lonely and longs to be loved, longs for Daario. She takes a bath and, hello, Quaithe!

A woman stood under the persimmon tree, clad in a hooded robe that brushed the grass. Beneath the hood, her face seemed hard and shiny. She is wearing a mask, Dany knew, a wooden mask finished in dark red lacquer. "Quaithe? Am I dreaming?" She pinched her ear and winced at the pain. "I dreamt of you on Balerion, when first we came to Astapor."

 (…)

“Daenerys. Remember the Undying. Remember who you are.” “The blood of the dragon.” But my dragons are roaring in the darkness. “I remember the Undying. Child of three, they called me. Three mounts they promised me, three fires, and three treasons. One for blood and one for gold and one for …”

"Your Grace?" Missandei stood in the door of the queen's bedchamber, a lantern in her hand. "Who are you talking to?"

Dany glanced back toward the persimmon tree. There was no woman there. No hooded robe, no lacquer mask, no Quaithe.

A shadow. A memory. No one. She was the blood of the dragon, but Ser Barristan had warned her that in that blood there was a taint. Could I be going mad? They had called her father mad, once. "I was praying," she told the Naathi girl. "It will be light soon. I had best eat something, before court." 

(…)

If I look back, I am doomed, Dany told herself … but how could she not look back? I should have seen it coming. Was I so blind, or did I close my eyes willfully, so I would not have to see the price of power?

(…)

I am the blood of the dragon, she thought. If they are monsters, so am I.

(ADWD, Daenerys II)

Dany is chaving under the pressures of ruling, already resorting back to cruelty, and under the persimmon tree, Quaithe beckons and tries to lure her back down the dragon path. Dany hesitates. She considers Hizdahr’s 7th proposal to open the fighting pits and questions Ser Barristan on his escape from Joffrey. She visits her dragons and questions herself, harshly. 

This chapter is one big hope spot before it all goes to ashes.  

Daenerys III. Closer to the beginning of the chapter, but not quite up there. -> less enthusiastic dragon rejection.

A banquet to honor the visit of Xaro from Qarth. Sensual dancing. Food and trade on the forefront of Dany’s mind, longing for Daaaaario in the background. 

Daenerys held out her cup for Irri to refill. The wine was sweet and strong, redolent with the smell of eastern spices, much superior to the thin Ghiscari wines that had filled her cup of late. Xaro perused the fruits on the platter Jhiqui offered him and chose a persimmon. Its orange skin matched the color of the coral in his nose. He took a bite and pursed his lips. "Tart."

"Would my lord prefer something sweeter?" 

“Sweetness cloys. Tart fruit and tart women give life its savor.” Xaro took another bite, chewed, swallowed. “Daenerys, sweet queen, I cannot tell you what pleasure it gives me to bask once more in your presence. A child departed Qarth, as lost as she was lovely. I feared she was sailing to her doom, yet now I find her here enthroned, mistress of an ancient city, surrounded by a mighty host that she raised up out of dreams.” No, she thought, out of blood and fire.

(ADWD, Daenerys III)

Tart v. sweet. Right now, a sweet queen? The persimmons beckon. She and Xaro philosophize on the relative merits of slavery. He would buy olives, she has to wait seven years for the newly planted trees to bear fruit. She hears of all the alliances made against her. Then he offers her a fleet to leave Slaver’s Bay and go home. Selmy likes the idea. Dany is sorely tempted, but the swirling rumors cause her court to question her and she lets go of the plans. She rejects Xaro’s tart persimmon-flavored offer of sailing off to conquer elsewhere. Xaro regrets not having killed her in Qarth. They part on bad Terms, she receives declaration of war the next morning.

Daenerys IX. The persimmon’s open the chapter. Uh oh.

The sky was a merciless blue, without a wisp of cloud in sight. The bricks will soon be baking in the sun, thought Dany. Down on the sands, the fighters will feel the heat through the soles of their sandals.

Jhiqui slipped Dany's silk robe from her shoulders and Irri helped her into her bathing pool. The light of the rising sun shimmered on the water, broken by the shadow of the persimmon tree. "Even if the pits must open, must Your Grace go yourself?" asked Missandei as she was washing the queen's hair.

(...)

My handmaids are Dothraki, she told herself. Death rides with every khalasar. The day she wed Khal Drogo, the arakhs had flashed at her wedding feast, and men had died whilst others drank and mated. Life and death went hand in hand amongst the horselords, and a sprinkling of blood was thought to bless a marriage. Her new marriage would soon be drenched in blood. How blessed it would be.

(…)

He is fire made flesh, she thought, and so am I. Daenerys Targaryen vaulted onto the dragon’s back, seized the spear, and ripped it out. The point was half-melted, the iron red-hot, glowing. She flung it aside. Drogon twisted under her, his muscles rippling as he gathered his strength. The air was thick with sand. Dany could not see, she could not breathe, she could not think. The black wings cracked like thunder, and suddenly the scarlet sands were falling away beneath her. Dizzy, Dany closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she glimpsed the Meereenese beneath her through a haze of tears and dust, pouring up the steps and out into the streets. The lash was still in her hand. She flicked it against Drogon’s neck and cried, “Higher!” Her other hand clutched at his scales, her fingers scrabbling for purchase. Drogon’s wide black wings beat the air. Dany could feel the heat of him between her thighs. Her heart felt as if it were about to burst. Yes, she thought, yes, now, now, do it, do it, take me, take me, FLY!

(ADWD, Daenerys IX)

Well. I’d say the pattern fits. Persimmon tree shadow breaks the image of a new dawn on the water, dothraki references, FIRE AND BLOOD.

And her final ADWD chapter? 

Daenerys X. Persimmon joins us close to the beginning of the chapter, but not quite at the top. But Dany makes up for that with enthusiasm.

Hers had been a lonely sojourn, and for most of it she had been hurt and hungry … yet despite it all she had been strangely happy here. A few aches, an empty belly, chills by night … what does it matter when you can fly? I would do it all again.

Jhiqui and Irri would be waiting atop her pyramid back in Meereen, she told herself. Her sweet scribe Missandei as well, and all her little pages. They would bring her food, and she could bathe in the pool beneath the persimmon tree. It would be good to feel clean again. Dany did not need a glass to know that she was filthy.

She was hungry too. One morning she had found some wild onions growing halfway down the south slope, and later that same day a leafy reddish vegetable that might have been some queer sort of cabbage. Whatever it was, it had not made her sick. Aside from that, and one fish that she had caught in the spring-fed pool outside of Drogon's cave, she had survived as best she could on the dragon's leavings, on burned bones and chunks of smoking meat, half-charred and half-raw. She needed more, she knew. One day she kicked at a cracked sheep's skull with the side of a bare foot and sent it bouncing over the edge of the hill. And as she watched it tumble down the steep slope toward the sea of grass, she realized she must follow.

Dany set off through the tall grass at a brisk pace. The earth felt warm between her toes. The grass was as tall as she was. It never seemed so high when I was mounted on my silver, riding beside my sun-and-stars at the head of his khalasar. As she walked, she tapped her thigh with the pitmaster’s whip. That, and the rags on her back, were all she had taken from Meereen.

(…)

Below, she saw men whirling, wreathed in flame, hands up in the air as if caught in the throes of some mad dance. A woman in a green tokar reached for a weeping child, pulling him down into her arms to shield him from the flames. Dany saw the color vividly, but not the woman’s face. People were stepping on her as they lay tangled on the bricks. Some were on fire. Then all of that had faded, the sounds dwindling, the people shrinking, the spears and arrows falling back beneath them as Drogon clawed his way into the sky. Up and up and up he’d borne her, high above the pyramids and pits, his wings outstretched to catch the warm air rising from the city’s sun baked bricks. If I fall and die, it will still have been worth it, she had thought.

(…)

No, Dany told herself. If I look back I am lost. She might live for years amongst the sunbaked rocks of Dragonstone, riding Drogon by day and gnawing at his leavings every evenfall as the great grass sea turned from gold to orange, but that was not the life she had been born to.

(…)

“Quaithe?” Dany called. “Where are you, Quaithe?” Then she saw. Her mask is made of starlight. “Remember who you are, Daenerys,” the stars whispered in a woman’s voice. “The dragons know. Do you?”

(…)

“Drogon killed a little girl. Her name was … her name …” Dany could not recall the child’s name. That made her so sad that she would have cried if all her tears had not been burned away.

(…)

Never, said the grass, in the gruff tones of Jorah Mormont. You were warned, Your Grace. Let this city be, I said. Your war is in Westeros, I told you.

(…)

As the western sky turned the color of a blood bruise, she heard the sound of approaching horses. Dany rose, wiped her hands on her ragged undertunic, and went to stand beside her dragon. That was how Khal Jhaqo found her, when half a hundred mounted warriors emerged from the drifting smoke.

(ADWD, Daenerys X)

She WANTS the persimmon tree. There is the Dothraki environment. She WANTS Quaithe. She starts acting like a literal dragon, nesting, eating Drogon’s leavings, wanders the grasslands half-crazed, suffery dysentery, miscarries (Mhysa v. Mother of Dragons) and makes her sacrifice to the Temple of Memory (Hazzea), which was the first step to the Hall of Thousand Thrones in Qarth. 

Next up, a bribe to the Keeper of the Long List, persimmon to the Opener of (Red) Doors and then it’s Hello, Blue Silk Slippers of (stabbing) Doom in the Hall of Thousand Thrones. 

Considering how consistent the theme of the persimmon is, I’m kind of excited about it seeing how GRRM will use it in TWOW and ADOS.  

Next up I think I’ll look at the context of dates, and milk with honey, just to find out why GRRM chose to have Ned reject the persimmons and dates and did let him choose the milk and honey, in that very first mention. Iced milk and honey. 

[talltales]

pair:   jackson / reader desc:   decay gives way to life         through time, and time only words:  2k rated:  15+ genre:  drama/romance notice: sequel to safe harbor gifted: to @alrightyaphroditie​ and @dawnofus, for their requests

                           —AND THE SIGHTS WERE AS STARK AS MY BABY                                    AND THE COLD WAS AS SHARP AS MY BABY

she is a dangerous, seamless sort of woman—filled to the brim with a fusion of beauty and chaos. it suits her in the same way that red suits roses, jackson thinks, after she’s drifted to sleep with her fingers curled under his shirt.

he can’t really imagine it being any other way.

it takes several minutes to pull himself out of her grasp, half for her determination to chase his heat and half for his own hesitation to leave hers—a balancing act in more ways than one, centered on the growing ambiguity between what is and what could be.

ninety-six days.

in the dark, he turns to watch her curl into a ball beneath the thick blankets, fending off the cold that he leaves in his wake. a glance at the window reveals only the pitch blackness of night, rain dimly lit by the glow of the moon. the smell of it lingers in the air like a cloud of smoke. but jackson has learned to breathe it and draw strength from it.

the rain is plague and sustenance—fortune and fury. the only mercy that it ever granted was the leveling of those deadly tides. somewhere, he supposed, the dam holding those waters in the city had broken and it was flowing unchecked, into the surrounding lands.

maybe there were people still out there. maybe they’d already left.

he finds it hard to care, regardless. the center of his concerns mumbles in her sleep against her pillow, lashes fluttering against the onslaught of her own dreams.

wordlessly, he slips into the kitchen and allows his fingers to trail along the pots that litter the tables between; the beginnings of a flower garden, with seeds nestled deep into rich soil. potential lies locked within them and jackson has taken to waiting with her, holding onto bated breath for the first sprout to breach the earth from below.

she’d taken to gardening with less fuss than he’d imagined. once she’d grasped the basic concepts she was unstoppable.

the network of lights crossing the ceiling beams is his own contribution, offered in lieu of laundry duties for the week. it was a simple enough trade. jackson pretends that the veiled excitement in her eyes had nothing to do with it.

with a quick look over his shoulder, he assures himself that she’s still sleeping. practiced hands open the drawers and cabinets that contain a simple mixing bowl, the sugars and flours and miscellaneous things required for his task. a small packet with a faded label lays beneath his fingers when he’s done and examining the ingredients with an engineer’s eye.

he begins his work.

fifty-one days.

he’s given his first taste of hope. there is promise in the quieting of those deadly waters, and jackson—reasonably, he thinks��decides to act upon it. when he dons his raincoat and ventures down the stairs instead of up, he dares to believe that something could change.

it takes all of two days to get her to stop screaming and let him leave the shelter they’d made for themselves. it takes a day longer to stop her crying.

the first time, all he finds is a dozen corpses between them and the building next door, sunken beneath the waters and reaching for the slate grey skies. jackson learns again not to look down. the second, he finds a rowboat to tow into the hollowed out shelter of the first floor. it’s a fruitful journey that exceeds the bounty of the last, and the two to come.

there isn’t a soul alive as far as he goes, but there are empty units; apartments and small groceries situated above expansive garages. he empties each little by little, building his bachelor’s apartment into something better resembling a home, one piece at a time.

the grocery has a generator. he spends the better part of two weeks dismantling it and transporting the parts, and another week stocking their newly functioning refrigerator with the spoils of his afternoon journeys. it beats dragging their bagged perishables from cold, dirty water.

he brings back books. art. board games.

when he unloads the latter, jackson hears her laugh for the first time in months. the sound draws his eye upward, along the stair-line to where she stands. startled, with a quivering hand held over her mouth.

she cries for the next two hours.

the grieving process, he supposes, is a messy thing. particularly when the loss is not of a single person but an entire world. she folds herself into his coat when he opens it, crawling across his lap and burrowing to the warmth hidden beneath. jackson can’t say he minds the contact when his eyes begin to burn; when it gets harder to shove it back and back and back. there are other times for those sorts of things.

there are always other times.

seventy-five days.

“do you think that we’ll ever taste fruit again?” the question comes quietly, murmured between spoonfuls of chicken soup and the flickering of the candlelight, “or eggs? are there even farms anymore?”

there is an absence in her voice; an airy quality that makes her seem as if she’ll blow away in the slightest wind. but her eyes are fixed upon him—holding his gaze with no give.

she is daring him, jackson realizes.

challenging him to feed her more hope, when he is clinging to that first and only taste of it from weeks before. she is a dangerous, seamless sort of woman. beauty and chaos. it suits her in a way that red suits roses. he can’t really imagine it being any other way.

but, there are no more roses.

there are no more fruit.

“if i find a melon out there, you’ll be the first to know,” he says instead, biting his tongue against the spiked words that he wants to inflict upon her—quiet retaliation for making him think.

“my birthday is in three weeks. you better hurry.”

there is no humor in her smile; merely pain.

eighty-one days.

and though logic argues against any effort, he ventures ever further into the outskirts in the city when the rain relents; in search of rooftop gardens that haven’t been washed away, markets that aren’t swelling with the sickly sweet scent of rotten fruit.

if she notices his efforts, she says nothing. her only answer to the packet of rose seeds laying in her palm is a soft sigh—“putting me to work, are you?”

“i figured it was time,” he watches her bite her lip before she steps closer, past the ever-shrinking boundaries between them to strip away the heavy layers of his outerwear.

the seeds vanish into her pocket.

“you would.”

their banter gives way to silence, as it does of late. he preoccupies himself with the easy way she smoothes his damp hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear. there is care in her movements, clouded as it is by her usual bristling demeanor.

“now that’s what i call a tragedy,” she whispers, busying her fingers with the buttons of his shirt—through the violent shivers rattling his bones, jackson realizes that she is talking about him, “you’re a mess.”

his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth; every thought skitters to a stop at the tentative smile playing across her lips. finally, he finds his words and pushes them out as she peels the wet fabric down his shoulders, “watch your mouth. you, of all people, should understand what i’m trying to do here.”

it has the intended effect. her lips press together as she winds the soaked clothing into a ball and tosses it into the waiting metal bin with the rest of their wash.

“yeah, i do.” she levels a look at him—sharp and bittersweet; filled with a secret that he isn’t meant to know. “you’re trying to get yourself killed going out there for something that you think i want more than i want you here. safe.”

as if the air has been drawn out of her, she drifts to the window and remains there, back turned and arms crossed over her waist.

whatever glimpse he’d caught of joy in her is lost.

he is lost.

ninety-six days.

he only notices that she’s awake by the sound of her muted footsteps, crossing the space between them—his attention is on the improvised stand and the smoother held between his fingers. the tips of them are caked in a layer of vanilla icing that is nothing short of an assault on the senses.

“you’re making a cake,” she asks, and it is anything but a question. how could she wonder, after all, when the evidence is laid out before her?

“and you’re distracting me,” muttering, jackson sets aside the smoother and wipes his hand on his t-shirt before picking up the half-full piping bag of forest green icing. the only color he could find, as it were. “go get cleaned up, we’re having breakfast.”

when he spares her a glance, she is watching him with a strange look—lips parted as if to speak—before she enters their small kitchen space and begins digging for a skillet, “we’re not eating cake for breakfast.”

“it’s your birthday. why not?”

he pauses when he hears the telltale sniffle, faint enough that it almost slips beneath the click of the gas being turned on. from the refrigerator, she pulls a small bottle of plant-based eggs and pours them onto the heating pan, “because it’s my birthday, and i say so.”

“heard.”

they work in comfortable quiet, steadily through the dull echoes of rain washing over the roof. the constancy of it lulls him into a daze. it’s easy to work in, he finds, while piping amateurish decorations onto the perimeter of the cake.

he tops the piped icing with diced pieces of dried melon.

it looks good enough.

he’s in the middle of writing her name across the top when he feels warmth at his back; a soft heat that sinks into his bones and makes it hard to focus, “what is it?”

her words are muffled against the fabric of his shirt—face pressed into the expanse between his shoulders, “you really get on my nerves sometimes, you know? you’re so fucking pragmatic about this whole thing that i wonder if you've even grasped the reality of what happened.”

she exhales, and the sound is shaky at best. teary at worst.

frozen, jackson listens—tries to quell the racing of his heart. it pounds rebelliously against his ribcage, but he keeps his voice even, “and?”

“but i realize that i needed that. more than i needed to be coddled like a child. as far as we know, it’s just the two of us now anyways. so i might as well learn how to see the good in what you do.”

her grip tightens, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. it’s far from the first time that she’s been this close; far from the first time that he’s felt the effects of it—a residual glow at the edges of his thoughts.

giddiness, he labels it, before shoving into a box reserved for things he does not need to think about.

“i love you.”

but there is no box for that.

“i love you,” she repeats, so softly that he can barely hear it. but jackson can feel her lips moving against his back, “you don’t have to reciprocate—“

“i do.”

slowly, he sets down the piping bag and lays it next to the almost almost finished cake.

it takes effort to loosen her grasp on him and turn around; to think past the voice in his head roaring that this is a bad idea. this is the very thing that he’d been trying to avoid, living in such cramped quarters with the only soul he’d dared to bring into his sanctuary.

looking back, it’d been her, the pretty barista with the prettier smile that’d drawn him downstairs in the first place—hoping that he’d be fortunate enough to find her standing behind the counter, making his favorite drink.

he’d gotten lucky, looking back.

“i do,” he admits, threading his fingers through her hair. as her head dips into the crook of his neck, jackson allows himself to breathe. she smiles, and he feels it against his skin—

beauty and chaos. it suits her in the same way that red suits roses.

he can’t really imagine it being any other way.

“i do.”

for longer than you’ll ever know.

                           and the nights were as dark as my baby                            half as beautiful too

[twistednuns]

August 2021

Eating the rainbow: I've started eating a large variety of fruit   for breakfast. Seeing so many different colours in my bowl makes me really happy.

Related: Perfectly ripe nectarines and peaches.

A trip to Austria with Lena and Sash // Ridiculous Spotify playlists. / Staying at a pharmacy loft in Graz with a great view. Right next to the Kunsthaus. An old book with botanical illustrations inspired my elaborate guestbook entry. / Sash making roasted cauliflower with parmesan and eggplant pasta for us. / Pumpkin seed ice-cream and a typical Styrian bean salad. / Walking through the tunnels, riding up the mountain in an elevator. Lizard friends. Walking back down. Orchards. / My new cat friend in Villach. I was very grumpy that evening so the ginger cat following me around for a while actually made my day. / Ossiacher See and another failed SUP attempt. Reading Murakami. Watching a thunderstorm.

Coming home. Beergarden with Sash and Yanch (who drove me home that day even though it was really far. Much appreciated.)

The book flea market in the middle of Bordeaux.

Driving to Cap Ferret, looking for film locations from the movie Les petits mouchoirs. The beautiful dunes bordering  the Atlantic Ocean. Jumping into the waves (after climbing a dune to reach plage d'Horizon which was so horribly exhausting I had to lie down for ten minutes before I could even think about going swimming). Then I got into a nasty current and got swept away further and further from the beach but luckily I remembered what do do in a situation like that from my diving training and managed to save myself.

My first time in Basque country. I absolutely needed to visit Bayonne because one of my favourite musicians is named after this city (at least I think he is). We also visited Biarritz that afternoon and drove on to Spain where we stayed in Bilbao for two nights. One thing I found really interesting is that there is a typical Basque font which is used everywhere, even on street signs.

Getting along famously with the receptionist (who spoke German - but the next day I managed to order coffee in Spanish... a proud moment)

The Guggenheim museum in Bilbao. Especially Louise Bourgeois' Maman sculpture. I took a really great picture of the spider in the fog.

Late night shawarmas. Getting cheap fruit and olives for breakfast in a tiny deli.

Buying a ridiculous amount of canned beverages after the mountain incident/fight/tears. Turning the mood around. Having a nice dinner at a Basque restaurant.

A tour through Spanish mountain villages. Stopping in Guernica after listening to a Spanish podcast about Picasso's famous painting. Discovering a gorgeous beach with a little island by chance.

The house in the vineyards we randomly booked via email even though it wasn't available on Airbnb anymore. A gorgeous old manor in Sainte-Valière (which is usually an artist's residence) with our lovely host Eloise and her daughter. I wish we could've stayed there longer. I loved the old furniture, our green, velvet-upholstered bed and the fireplace in the kitchen. Eating dinner in the dark outside, playing Mastermind. Going on a nightly walk though the village, meeting most of the resident cats and driving the dogs crazy.

Going crazy at Géant. Looking at everything without R. rushing me. Buying everything I wanted.

A nightly picnic at the beach in Fréjus. Skinny-dipping under the full moon. A faint glow from an amusement park on the horizon. Fireworks from a distance. Strange lights from the fishermen.

Even though getting the car stuck in the sand and spending hours in the midday heat trying to push/dig it out (after a horribly stressful morning I might add) wasn't exactly fun, I kinda appreciate   challenging situations like that because they give me a sense of purpose. A concrete problem to fix. Focus and certainty. Do all anxious people perform better in a crisis? Anyway. Coming up with a plan and the kindness of strangers were definitely things to be greatful for.

Italian AutoGrill cappuccino. Still delicious.

Raphael is a better therapist than my actual therapist. We talked a lot on our drive home from France (it was really cosy - rainy weather, gloomy light and misty mountain roads through Switzerland; I was in the passenger seat with a pillow and blanket - fresh laundry smell makes me feel so happy) and I think he's on to something with his theories.

Making roasted chickpeas for the first time. And my favourite pasta sauce.

A lovely but very early dinner at a newly opened Italian restaurant with Lena and Christian on a sunny afternoon. The restaurant's name is Junge Römer - probably because of the Falco song?

Reading about the IFS therapy method and subpersonalities. Very relatable and comprehensible. It's interesting to try and figure out which split personalities you have within yourself; who they are, how they behave, interact and why they're there or what they're responsible for.

Warm milk with honey is always such a trip down memory lane. My grandma used to prepare this for me whenever we stayed overnight.

Wearing proper clothes for a change. Surrendering to the thought that summer is over (when it had never properly started in the first place). Putting on a dress, a headband and cowboy boots. A museum-food-cinema date with Sash.

The comfort of fall season. Thinking about wardrobe updates, learning opportunities, fresh starts. Pre-ordering books and watching movies with the appropriate vibes.

I love my popcorn half-and-half (salty/sweet); and I feel like it defines me as a person. Always in-between, stuck between extremes. Indecisive.

[jimmymcgools]

From ch 17, "Through his airplane window once, Albuquerque had looked like an afterthought, dwarfed by the sky." all the way to the absolutely perfect ending! (since I'm about to chonk on this chapter 🥰❤️)

♥️💙♥️💙 thank you so much! this one got long, wow 

fic commentary meme and my answers

i am WEAK for an indulgent callback and this ending is the most indulgent and callbacky thing i’ve ever done. i really hoped it would give the chapter a sense of closure and finality -- or at least that’s the excuse i gave myself to go absolutely ham. 

Through his airplane window once, Albuquerque had looked like an afterthought, dwarfed by the sky.

i didn’t do it deliberately at the time i wrote chapter one, but at some point i noticed that interesting quirk of jimmy’s very first observation of abq. it’s all sky and mountains and nothing of the actual city: “Albuquerque makes a disgustingly beautiful first impression: the sky as big and curved and blue as he’s always heard it can be, streaked with paintbrush clouds.” 

It had looked like something ready to be forgotten

another callback to chapter 1. “Here, the architecture feels almost temporary, as if it’s been carelessly dropped on some enormous play-mat and forgotten.” i always try to use jimmy’s observations of abq to reflect how he feels about himself at that point. 

along with the thought of the heavy suitcases that he’d watched slip and shift in the overhead lockers before takeoff

i don’t think it really stands out enough to be anything, but i was stuck for list items here and i ended up trying to fold in some of that slippin’ jimmy gaze. the idea that maybe he’s not only looking at people to read them / figure out how he could scam them, but looking for these liability insurance $$ payouts waiting to happen. 

... along with the thought of their drive out to O’Hare, Jimmy silent in the passenger seat of the rental car, the radio off and Chuck’s grip tight on the steering wheel. 

oops--just remembered jimmy says chuck’s waiting in a taxi! 

Jimmy had listened to the line ring for what felt like forever, each silver chime spinning a silver thread across the city, winding toward his mother’s living room. 

more damn callbacks! when he thinks about calling his mother in chapter 9: “He imagines a line emerging from the handset, a thin silvery thread spinning off from his room and his street and then out of Albuquerque, crossing over the Sandias and shooting northeastward, over rivers and fields and Dust Bowl states, until finally arriving in Cicero, in his mother’s living room.” 

It echoed through the handset like it was being piped back to him, like the prison phone was just a sick joke, a closed loop, locked inside

so much of acb is jimmy trying to break out of these closed loops 

In a bright and steady voice, or at least his brightest and steadiest, he had said, “Hey, Mom. Something’s happened.”

law offices of james m mcgill, how may i direct your call! 🙂

It seems unfamiliar at first, but then the city starts to take shape, and he thinks he can see the squat skyscrapers of downtown, the geometric cubes that rise from the flat land. 

i wanted this to be the end point of a series, where jimmy’s first impression is the beginning, and him arriving back from cicero is the middle, and now only here is he finally familiar with the city. the next few sentences are kind of a walk through acb -- "squat skyscrapers of downtown” is similar to how jimmy sees the city in chapter 7 when they go to the movies, then we get central avenue/route 66 “historic and neon-glowed”, and then finally the airport on the “desert shore” like in chapter 14. 

Might even see Chuck’s house, still lit by lantern light. 

ofc jimmy’s thinking of the luminarias but the dramatic irony here was too good to pass up 🔥🔥🔥

And in the west now, clouds. As the sun vanishes below the horizon, they become briefly clear, shadowed with lilac and orange, and Jimmy can see their shape by the light on them. 

you’re going to have to forgive me for how damn metaphorical this is gonna get, but thinking of metaphors is one of the big ways i spark ideas for description, and this ending is really just an enormous chunk of description, so 💀

these clouds. these damn clouds. ever since hamlin snr told jimmy to find a space in the world only he can can fit, jimmy’s thoughts have kept returning to that idea -- and his mother’s innocent words, too: “you were really in no shape”. so the idea that, if he can figure out what shape he is, he’ll know which space he can fit.

and throughout the fic when i was stuck on kim description i’d play with light, and the idea of kim being a source of light, like the sun. the fireworks sequence is a big example, where i wanted to make her as bright as the fireworks, or at the holiday party: “Beneath the hanging Christmas lights, she’s luminous.” 

so when i wrote “and Jimmy can see their shape by the light on them” i was thinking about him seeing the shape of himself and therefore his place in the world because of kim. 

... but the clouds only become briefly clear.

(it’s also a little bit of inspired/stolen phrasing from the end of no country for old men: “and i could see the horn from the light inside of it.”)

If he watched for long enough, he thinks that he could also see them moving slowly, driven by high winds.

oh did you think i was done talking about these clouds? ☁️☁️☁️

this from chapter 11: “A display entitled Surviving in a Moving Landscape shows how the dunes can shift almost forty feet a year in places, driven by high winds”

“surviving in a moving landscape” ♥️ i always thought that was a really nice way to look at the characters of bcs. they’re the animals in the dunes having to adapt to survive, but also the dunes themselves. moving slowly because of these intangible forces on them, adapting to the forces, but changing forever for it. 

The winds move through him, too, hollowing him out.

a future callback, i borrowed "hollowing him out” again for chapter 5 of safs, so keep an eye out 👁

In the darkness, the flat land below the Sandias seems to go on forever, black and flickering with dying embers: scorched earth. 

if i had seen this specific image of abq from the sandias before i wrote the chapter, the light on the clouds would’ve been the city lights of abq -- even BETTER than the sunset! look at it! LOOK!

He can even smell them on the wind: the woodsmoke scent of evening

jimmy thinks of night smelling like woodsmoke on their drive along route 66, and then again on the forecourt of clines corners. bringing that back here with the idea that it’s coming from those imaginary fires of the city lights. 

And he thinks that his whole life since arriving in Albuquerque has been like a controlled burn: searing away the silk shirts and the fake Rolexes and the ice of Michigan Avenue until nothing remains—breath on a cold mirror vanishing—a blank slate. 

(peter griffin voice 👉AHH, AHH, 👉THERE IT IS)

the end here is inspired by this from “how to embrace a swamp creature” by tmg:

Alone with your bathroom mirror Try to get my head straight Breathe on the glass and wait for it to clear Clean slate

Burned back and clean. So he thinks about what he could build. 

jimmy thinking very much like kim here, and especially what she said in the last chapter about the desert being sterile. 

He thinks about his brother on a park bench, surrounded by luminarias. He thinks about a paper-wrapped book with fourteen words inside it.

i really wanted there to be some of chuck in this moment, even though i’ve ended up in such a shippery/kim place. 

He thinks of letting her move against him, move over him, move around him. Of letting her define the edges of him.

the same idea as the light on the clouds, but hopefully a little more apparent! 😂and more returning images, and the seed planted by kim in the white sands motel. 

there’s something so fragile about jimmy’s realisation here, i hope. he really is still doing so much of this for other people. it’s hard -- there’s something about slippin’ jimmy coming to abq and deciding to *dedicate years and years of his life to becoming a lawyer* that’s just... incredible. i tried to get to a place by the end of this fic where it made sense, and of course we all know he ends up doing it, but -- i always wanted there to be this inspiration from within himself to do it, too, outside of him just doing it to follow kim or to make chuck proud. 

but i don’t think he’s found it here, as much as the shape of himself is briefly visible atop the sandia peak. 

Jimmy wonders if he’s allowed to stay here all night, up on the Sandias. Up on this one high place.

oh jimmy if only you could stay up there forever. hamlin snr voice: perspective!!

He imagines waiting exactly here until the sun returns, until it rises behind him and breaks over the mountains. Like sitting beside Kim on the trunk of her car, their legs pressed together beneath the blanket.

this specific idea of holding off on seeing 🌄morning over the sandias 🌄at the end of chapter 16 came as i was planning that chapter. i was worried that ending with a sunrise would seem too final, seem too much like the ending of the whole story, and that chapter 17 would then end up feeling tacked on. 

Then, the dawn had seemed to reach out close enough to touch them, huge and breathless, warm fingers on his skin.

three rapid fire callbacks in these next sentences. first an inverse of this from chapter 6, when kim takes a cup of coffee from him: “He can feel the ghost of her fingers like sunlight on his skin.” 

And Jimmy had inhaled the colors of it: blue and gold and orange, streaks of brightness across the enormous sky.

then white sands: “as Jimmy inhales the air and the colors he thinks that there could be nothing more opposite of a Cook County jail cell than this exact spot in the middle of the White Sands National Monument.”

Morning sliding over the land. 

and this is so niche and impossible, but it’s “I watch the sun rise over this wall / I watch it break and slide” from “graffiti” by throwing muses, which is on the road trip playlist and shows up in chapter 10 with: “A smile crests Kim’s face like the sun over a wall.” but, you know. callback?

And now he stands on the edge of the viewing platform and he looks out into the darkness of the city. And he imagines it all bathed in light.

i said that i decided to shift the idea of the sunrise here because it felt too much like an ending -- and man, the noise i made when i realised that jimmy imagining the sun rising behind him was jimmy imagining the world before him finally illuminated. 

i also loved the idea of the weird clash of him standing there at sunset, at night, and imagining dawn. 

🌄🌄🌄☁️☁️☁️ thank you so much for asking!! 💙

[schleierkauz]

The Color of Revenge: Chapter 5

Because I’m an insomniac fool and because you’re all beautiful and deserve it, here’s chapter 5 featuring the gang and Reckless references so blatant even I caught them. Enjoy the love, everyone!

Chapter 5: An Engagement in Ombra

They had all come. By the time the church bells signaled noon the house that everyone in Ombra knew only as the Bluejay’s workshop was already full. Resa had even opened her chamber of wonders for the special occasion, a little room right behind Mo’s workshop where she displayed truly wonderful things.

Scales of nymphs and water-sprites that she had collected at the nearby riverbank could be found there, two honeycombs made by fire-elves (a gift from Dustfinger) and a strand of hair taken from a glass woman. Bowls of healing herbs and dried flowers, tree bark that could dye clothes, but also the page with Fenoglio’s handwritten words that had brought Cosimo the Fair back from the dead – and the book that had killed the Adderhead, bound by her husband.

Meggie was sure that any guest who wandered into her mother’s treasure chamber would immediately forget that they had actually come to celebrate the engagement of her daughter.

Resa’s chamber of wonders also contained two of the flying machine models that Doria had built. Meggie’s mother treated him like a second son by now, but Mo made no secret of his disapproval of Meggie’s and Doria’s plan to move out into their own quarters.

“Don’t be angry with him. Fathers don’t like anyone who outranks them in their daughter’s favor,” Resa had whispered to Meggie when Mo had asked her just a few days ago if she wasn’t a bit too young to be engaged.

Too young… Meggie didn’t feel young. Sometimes she felt so old as if she had lived a dozen lives already. She remembered so many Meggies… The one who had lived alone with Mo in the old drafty house, the prisoner in Capricorn’s village, or the Meggie who had crossed worlds and who had been in love with Farid.

They all seemed to have lived their very own lives. Sometimes Meggie imagined them as little figurines standing in one of Resa’s treasure chests. She remembered each one of those Meggies fondly, but she wouldn’t have traded any of them for the version of herself who was by Doria’s side.

The love he filled her heart with was like a coat she felt around her shoulders. A warm blanket in a cold winter night. She had always believed that no one would ever know her better than Mo did. But Doria saw so effortlessly into the most hidden corners of her heart as if he had always lived there. Some she hadn’t even known herself until he showed them to her.

It was easy to fight with him, to laugh or to sit in silence, and every day he surprised Meggie with a new outlandish thought or plan and lured her deeper and deeper into this world with his insatiable curiosity. Sometimes they would borrow Fenoglio’s stubborn horse and ride for days into some faraway village because Doria had heard of a blacksmith who created wings of gold or a cobbler who could sew seven-league-boots.

“Nonsense!“ Fenoglio shouted any time Doria spoke of such wonders. “There is no magic in my-, I mean, in this world!” he corrected when Rosenquartz shot him a warning look.

But there was. Doria found it every day. And so Meggie wanted to spend all her days with him, even though they had both only just turned 18. Even Dante loved Doria. Wasn’t that proof enough that she was choosing the right one?

“Do you need proof, Meggie?“ she asked herself while accepting another engagement gift. She knew exactly why she was asking herself this question. Before Dustfinger had disappeared to join Mo in his workshop, he had mentioned that the Strong Man had told Farid about her engagement to his younger brother.

What if he showed up?

Meggie hadn’t seen Farid since he’d left for Lorraine two years ago, after the jugglers of the Prince told him about the pathetic fire-breathers who performed at those distant courts.

Did love ever really disappear? Or did it leave its seeds like a flower which would bloom anew once she saw him again?

Meggie’s heart gave her the answer an hour later when Farid suddenly appeared next to Elinor. He had a beard and she barely recognized him at first, but then he looked over at her and -

No.

Her heart did not beat any faster. It filled up with warmth, familiarity and loving derision when Farid pushed his shoulder-length hair out of his face – shoulder-length like Dustfinger’s hair.

Meggie was sure that despite all those princesses, Farid still loved his teacher more than any other person. And he was still vain and eager to be loved and admired. He needed that admiration like the air he breathed.

As he stepped towards Meggie he wore the half-mocking half-enticing smile on his lips that she remembered so well. A fiery rose grew in the hand he held out to her. It left a heart of ash on his skin when it disappeared.

“Engaged?“ he whispered in her ear as he kissed her on the cheek. “Have you lost your mind? The same meal for the rest of your life?”

“This meal tastes different every single day,“ she whispered back, but of course Farid didn’t believe that. He would never believe her that she loved anyone more than him. But his eyes were already searching for Dustfinger. The one love he would never betray.

“Dustfinger is with Mo in his workshop,“ Meggie said.

“Ah, good. How is he?“ Farid turned to look at a girl who had pushed herself past them. Lucinda, the daughter of the miller who helped Mo make paper.

“A sheep loses all its skin and its life for just six pages!“ her father had said to her and Resa one day. “I’m tired of working with parchment. I’m going to accelerate progress a little bit – after all, it’s said that there are already paper mills in Spain and farther north.”

“He’s doing very well,“ Meggie said. “The whole city loves him and he has two new students.”

Farid frowned.

“They’re probably not half as good as I am, right?“

He was hopeless.

“Come on,“ he said and took Meggie’s hand. “I have to have a serious talk with your fiancé. He should know the risk he’s taking. If he makes you unhappy just once, I will turn him into the finest gray ash that this and any other world has ever seen.”

He probably would.

 They couldn’t find Doria anywhere and the house was still so full that they barely made it up the stairs. Meggie and Dante had their chambers on the second floor and there was one bigger room that they all called the “living room”, even though the word came from another world. Mo’s and Resa’s books were kept there, very few compared to their collection in the other world. They cost a fortune in this one, but luckily Mo was able to fill the shelves himself.

Doria stood at the window – with a girl. Farid still knew Meggie well enough that he could feel her antipathy towards this girl. Doria bought the wood for his flying machine models from Filippa’s father and she usually brought it to him. Meggie had walked in on them once, just as Filippa had asked Doria why he hadn’t chosen a girl from Ombra instead of a stranger whose past was unknown.

No, she didn’t like Filippa Bafone. The fact that she was considered the most beautiful girl in Ombra didn’t help matters.

“Ah, the bride!“ she exclaimed when she saw Meggie and Farid standing in the door. “I just showed Doria my gift for you two.”

She shot Farid an appraising look and offered Meggie a bracelet. It was beautiful. Black, painted with tiny flowers. Doria held the matching one in his hand. He smiled at Meggie and pulled her at his side, not without a cautious glance towards Farid.

The glance that Filippa gave Farid was an invitation and Farid was happy to accept. But before he followed Ombra’s most beautiful girl, he whispered something to Meggie.

“You shouldn’t wear those bracelets. Witchcraft,” he added when he saw Meggie’s confused face. Then he and Filippa disappeared in the crowd. Meggie stared after him in disbelief but Doria had already pulled his knife and scratched the paint off of his bracelet.

“He’s right,“ he said. “I’ve heard whispers that Filippa doesn’t just rely on her beauty. I should probably feel flattered.“

He took the other bracelet out of Meggie’s hand and threw them both out of the window.

“Witches?“ Meggie looked down at the street where the bracelets rolled across the pavement.

“Oh yes.“ Doria took her hand and touched the ring he had put on her finger that morning.

“Not here. A few years ago the light witches fought so fiercely with the dark ones that they all disappeared. But farther north there’s still a lot of them, even though the priests of the new religions really hate them. Here in Ombra there are two merchants who sell their items. They say it’s only light magic but everyone knows that’s a lie.”

Witches… Meggie shivered. They were something that belonged only in storybooks. She laughed at herself a moment later – she lived in a book! At least Fenoglio still liked to see it that way. Did he know anything about witches in this world?

“Eastwards there’s said to be a country where princes ride silver dragons,“ Doria whispered to her. “The women in Lorraine turn into foxes. And up in Prussia, an uncle of mine saw people who have skin made of stone. This world is way bigger than just Ombra, Meggie.”

“I know,“ she replied – but what did she know? In all those years during which Fenoglio’s world had become her home (yes, she admitted, she still called it that), she had barely travelled 50 miles from Ombra. Travelling was arduous and she was so happy here in the city! Doria was here, and Dante and Mo and Resa, Elinor and Darius, Dustfinger, Roxane, Brianna and Jehan. What else did she need?

“Do you know what the Black Prince likes to say?“ Doria fed her one of the tiny cakes that Rosenquartz had bought for them from a bakery that specialized in such delicacies made for glass men.

“‘If you try to hide away from the world, it will come to find you one day.‘ I’ve told you so many times: We should travel! Samarkand, Constantinople, Edo – doesn’t that all sound wonderful?”

He started spinning with Meggie. The guests made room and clapped in time with the beat. Two more couples started dancing and Meggie forgot about witches and Filippa’s bracelets. Yes, they would travel! It was time to explore this world outside of books. She twirled in Doria’s arms and couldn’t tell what made her dizzier: Being in love or dancing.

(Next chapter)

[artificialqueens]

i do like you. [Gigi/Nicky + Jan/Jackie] - pinkgrapefruit

A/N - I wanted to try and figure out these characters and I thought this was the best forward! let me know what you think! betad by the wonderful frey <3

*

And I don’t like it when you’re never home

And I don’t like it when I’m sleeping alone

And I pick up the phone just to call you again

You never say never but you never say when

Gigi tosses and turns in the double bed that feels so empty, now that she’s its only inhabitant. New York City sunrise is filtering through the blinds in thick, warm stripes, making it harder and harder to forget that she is alone. She rolls onto her back, smoothing the covers on her body where they have become ruched during the night, and stares at the crack in the ceiling, reminiscing about the time Nicky tried to replace the light fitting, but ended up creating web-like fractures in the paintwork. She allows herself to exhale a chuckle at the memory of her normally poised girlfriend covered in plaster dust, waving a screwdriver.

Gigi flops onto her front so she can scroll through her messages, finds the good morning text Nicky sent when she woke up four hours ago, and fires back a response. Makes it sweet, but not saccharine, wanting, but not needy. She toes the line of ‘I love you’ without being overbearing, because she knows how hard it is to want someone, but not be able to hold them close and breathe in honeysuckle and lavender from their hair.

It’s only seven when she drags herself out of bed, tossing the comforter in a way she hopes will make it look clean, without being bothered with the arduous task of pulling the sheets taut. Jan and Jackie’s room faces west, so there is no light seeping from under the door, so she busies herself with feeding their cat and putting last night’s dishes away. Two plates, two bowls, one mug, as she fills the other with lemon and ginger tea. By the time Jan wakes up, Nicky is on her two o’clock lunch break, and Gigi is whispering broken French down the line to try and feel connected. It’s the twentieth of March, which, by the countdown on the wall, means there are only sixty-three days until they breathe the same air again. If she catches Jan staring wistfully at it too - she doesn’t mention it.

She ends the call with a promise to call again and she knows they will try. They always try.

But I do, and I do like you

And I do, and I do like you

Nicky sets down the phone with a sigh and looks over the quad. Parsons is beautiful in Paris, but she manages to miss the feeling of New York. She’s taken the prestigious offer of a semester abroad to be able to see family and experience the culture she’d missed so very much, but looking around it all now, she feels like maybe she misjudged it. Yes, she had been missing family, but now she misses the family she created in the States. It took a year to cement her roots firmly in the US soil, to build friendships and relationships, and find a woman who melts her heart, and now she is five hours out of the loop.

She lets her chin fall onto her hand as her other fumbles to unlock her phone, firing off a text to Jackie, who she knows must be feeling it too. It will be almost six p.m. over there,  and - doing the time conversions in her head - Jan will have just woken up.

Paying quickly, she grabs her bag and starts to walk back to the apartment she is leasing. It’s strangely uncomfortable to be back in a country you left. She feels like a foreigner, even though her blood runs clearer here than it ever did in New York. She can breathe more, see the stars if she tries, but she is tied to the floor like a lead balloon.

She sends Gigi a text wishing her a good day, and then buries her phone in her bag, turning back towards the city. She needs cake.

And I don’t like it when you call me out

And I don’t like it when you’re putting me down

Just picking me up on a Saturday night

All ‘cause you had to, had to be right

Jackie responds to Nicky under the table. Her fingers deftly type out condolences and words of wisdom as the rest of her body stays focused on the meal in front of her. She’s having dinner with her host family from her high school exchange trip and she is pretending to be anyone other than herself.

They’re lovely people, they really are, but in a country as famously homophobic as Iran, nowhere is safe. So she tugs on her Hijab and goes back to eating.

By the time dinner is finished, it is almost half-past ten, and Jackie finds herself begging for one of the older sons to escort her across the suburbs of Tehran to her apartment. She arrives home face flushed and completely exhausted, thanking the son in Farsi before triple locking the door and removing the Hijab. She leans back against the wall, hand reaching into a hidden pocket to find her phone - looking forward to the way it will light up with Jan’s face when she turns it on.

She’s not disappointed as texts flood through, ranging from what she had for breakfast to the weather in New York City. It’s a huge comfort for them both to text their random thoughts. It’s a level of connectivity they didn’t think they could experience on different sides of the planet.

Jackie hums to herself quietly as she flicks through her old voice messages, finding one from their freshman year and pressing play. She listens to Jan sing through twenty minutes of the Mean Girls Soundtrack while she removes her subtle makeup and changes into a pair of men’s baseball shorts and an oversized t-shirt for sleep. When it hits half-eleven, she calls Jan, knowing that she’ll be done with classes for the day and heading to their favourite smoothie place. She falls asleep to gossip about the performance movement coach.

And I do, and I do like you

And I do, and I do like you

Jan listens to the quiet, even breaths of her girlfriend halfway across the world. She closes her eyes sometimes, when the work she’s trying to complete feels a little too arduous, and tries to imagine that Jackie is laying in bed next to her. She can roll over and see the glow of their alarm clock send shadows over the gentle curves and ridges of her face. The way her baby hairs flatten on her forehead in a way that makes her look younger than twenty-one.

She’s taken out of her daydream by a server trying to clear her smoothie away and she smiles apologetically, gathering her laptop and leaving a dollar on the table. She checks the time on her dad’s old watch between running across roads and down alleys, before finally arriving at the worn down little cabaret theatre being rented out for the latest show. It’s her first off-broadway show, and as she watches the posters go up outside - her name under the lead character - she feels a pang of longing. She wishes so deeply to not be alone in this moment - the taste bitter under her tongue, a raspberry seed stuck between her teeth.

But Jackie is not there, so she enters through the side door and gets to work, rehearsing the final scenes.

It’s eleven p.m. when she slides into bed in New York, firing off a good morning text to Jackie, as her early riser of a girlfriend sends a good night text from across the ocean. She sends a photo of herself tucked in and receives a bleary-eyed photo back of Jackie, comforter pulled up to her nose.

She can almost picture them in the same bed, and it leaves her to fall asleep with a smile on her face.

Why does the street get louder when it gets dark?

Why do I feel that sound in the pounding in the shape of my heart?

Oooh, oooh, oooh

Facetime is not a substitute for the way your hand fits in mine, Gigi thinks, as she sinks further into her couch. The calling tone burns her ears as she waits for Nicky to just pick up the phone. It’s been more and more like this - harder and harder to hold onto the notion that she’ll be home in just a few more weeks. She’s just not sure Nicky will recognise this as home when she finally returns.

Nicky picks up on what she is sure would be the last ring, and the noise sends floods of relief through the American, who tries to sit up straight. She tries to look less overjoyed to see her girlfriend’s tired eyes, feel less warmed by the quiet, but faintly affectionate tone with which she drawls the two-syllable name to make it four.

They exchange ‘I miss yous’ and hold the ‘i love yous’ on the tips of their tongues for a time when togetherness will feel more like togetherness, and less like loneliness. Then they let the silence hang.

“Do you want to come home?” Gigi asks, and maybe it’s not quite how she meant it, but the tone borders on accusatory, and she’s too tired of censorship and questions that go nowhere, but she looks into Nicky’s pixelated eyes and realises maybe she’s made a mistake.

“Why would you ask that?” Nicky replies, hurt and offended. “Why would you act like that?” She’s referring to the petulant lip, the time between texts that’s been dragging on of late, and the way she refuses to look at her, really look at her. But Gigi cannot read minds.

“Look like what?! Look like what, Nick, like I miss you? Like I really fuckin’ miss you?” If the connection was better, Nicky might have seen the tear in the corner of her eye. She might have heard her voice was cracking in a way that wasn’t static.

“I do miss you. I do want to come home,” Nicky finally responds. And she sounds defeated and tired and like the twenty-three days left are out of her control - which they are. She worries her bottom lip with her teeth, fingers finding the bottom of the Vintage t-shirt she stole from Gigi before she left.

Gigi runs her fingers through the front of her hair, letting the dark brown locks fall in front of her face in a moment of frustration.

“I don’t want to end this call angry,” she states, her tone measured and closed off.

Nicky nods. “Twenty-three days, baby.”

“Twenty-three days.”

And I don’t like it when I feel I’ve been had

And I don’t like it when I go to bed mad

Just to wake up again in the middle of the night

Why do you leave, baby, why do we fight?

“Baby!” Jan squeals across the phone as Jackie picks up with a wide smile and a melting heart.

“Baby,” Jackie repeats, mirroring the happiness in tone and the twinkle in the eyes. Jan scrunches her nose at the term of endearment and it makes Jackie chuckles with mirth. “How’s the show going?” She enquires, knowing that’s why Jan called - not that she needed a reason, but judging by the time, she’s just finished a show, and she looks like she’s glowing, so all things considered…

“I GOT SCOUTED!” Jan screams in a way that makes Jackie worry for her neighbours. She hears something hit the wall in their apartment and assumes it’s Gigi’s way of telling the blonde to please shut up. Still, she can’t stop herself from welling up with pride.

“You deserve this, love. I am so proud of you,” she gushes, one hand running over her eyes to try and stop the tears threatening to escape. Jan is openly crying on the other end of the connection, and one of them needs to stay strong. “I love you, baby.” She repeats because it’s all she can say or do to stop herself from booking an early flight home just to give her a massive hug.

“We are gonna damn celebrate when you get home,” Jan tries to assert, but she’s laughing and crying at the same time, so it’s not very effective. “Twenty-three days.”

“I’m expecting a full welcome committee,” Jackie jibes, smiling still.

“Will me and Gigi do?” Jan giggles, snot dripping from her nose as she tries to hide it from Jackie, who just lets out a quiet snort of laughter.

“That sounds perfect. Go to bed, baby. I love you and I’m proud of you.”

“Good morning Jackie, love you,” Jan says like it’s a promise.

“Good night Jan.”

But I do, and I do like you

And I do, and I do like you

Gigi’s been pacing for twenty minutes when Jan finally throws a cushion at her. She cradles her coffee while sitting on the sofa and her eyes keep flicking to the clock - watching it tick through the minutes. They have half an hour before they need to leave, but it feels like months.

“Bitch, you’re making me feel seasick,” she states, looking disapproving as the taller girl picks up a piece of toast before setting it down again. Too excited to eat.

“How are you so calm?” Gigi enquires, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion as Jan continues to sip her coffee instead of letting it go cold. Peanut - the apartment cat - is curled around her feet.

“Unlike you, I told my girlfriend I loved her a year and a bit ago, and am therefore very secure in my relationship.” She pauses, running her fingers through her hair, “I’ve not had to tiptoe around it since she’s been gone.” Gigi gulps, eyes flicking around the room. She’s well aware that’s what’s been going on  - they all are - but that doesn’t mean Jan’s bluntness didn’t hurt a little bit. Jan and Jackie got together a month before she and Nicky finally did, and they’re all approaching two years together. Gigi and Nicky are just a little bit - very - emotionally cautious.

“Fine,” she relents. “But you’re driving.” Jan laughs, dislodging herself from the cat and grabbing the keys to the rental car off the countertop.

“Sounds right.”

Why does the street get louder when it gets dark?

Why do I feel that sound in the pounding in the shape of my heart?

Oooh, oooh, oooh

Nicky’s flight comes in first and as the plane prepares to land, she shifts nervously in her seat. She’s excited, maybe a little anxious, and all of her nails on her left hand have been bitten down to stubs. She taps her right-hand nails on the arm of her seat until the businessman next to her gives her a scathing look. She knows from his interactions with the air hostesses that he’s French, so she drops a cursory ‘Pardon’ before she resumes watching New York spiral below her.

She lets her head fall back onto the headrest as the plane comes to a stop on the runway. Nicky pulls out her phone to check her long blonde hair as she pulls it out from her customary travel low ponytail. She’s dressed in a simple pair of light grey jogging bottoms and a white t-shirt tied at the waist, Parson’s hoodie tied around her carry-on.

Gigi had told her they’d meet her in Baggage Claim before they go to Jackie’s terminal, so she walks through the archway into the luggage carousel expectantly. Her smile soon drops, though, when she realises they aren’t there. Her hand curls into a fist, nails digging into the soft skin of her palm as her teeth worry the inside of her cheek.

She jumps at the feeling of two hands on her hips and turns with a start, before suddenly flinging herself onto Gigi’s waiting body. She lets herself relax into the hold of the taller girl, feeling more grounded than she has in months, safe and at home. Nicky doesn’t even realise she is crying until she pulls slightly out of the embrace just to map Gigi’s face. It’s only been four months, but she looks older, the bags under her eyes are a little more prominent - she has a new acne scar on her chin and a couple more freckles on the apples of her cheeks, but she looks perfect. She puts a hand on each cheek and kisses her in a way that connects them deeper than just skin. It’s full of tears and longing, but she needs it more than oxygen, and she only pulls away when she realises that last statement was undoubtedly false, taking in a deep breath while Gigi just studies her. She lets the brunette press her lips to her forehead and smiles at the thought that Gigi didn’t think she missed this.

Nicky feels Gigi’s lips move on her forehead and she doesn’t need to ask to know what it means.

“Me too,” she whispers, “I love you too.”

The spell is broken as Jan coughs behind them. She’s got one hand on Nicky’s giant suitcase and the other on her hip, as she hollers about how this is a lovely reunion, but only one of them has really tried to keep Nicky’s goddamn cat alive, and Nicky slips out of her girlfriends grasp to say a long-awaited hello to one of her best friends.

And I go away, but when I come home again

We’ll find a way to go back and rebegin

Jackie stretches her legs out in the seat, feeling one of her knees crack as she straightens it. After just over eighteen hours travelling - including two connections - she’s finally about to touch down in New York, and she’s beyond happy. The thought of standing in a busy street and just breathing in cool air makes her heart flutter. The idea of the neon lights and the smell of her favourite bodega and a blueberry muffin, god, she could swoon. And Jan.

The smell of her perfume has long since faded on the old Varsity t-shirt she stole back in January, but she can still imagine the shea and sea salt infused blend. She cannot wait to bury her face in her hair and hold her hand and sleep with their legs intertwined under the covers.

She steps off the plane with a sigh of relief, and she feels like she is home. As welcoming as Tehran was - as much as it wormed its way into her heart, New York is where she feels her soul relax.

Back way to the stars

Back into our hearts

We can win

Jackie’s barely stepped into arrivals before she’s jumped on by a short blonde woman, tears streaked down her face in seconds. Jan silently thanks the gods that she kept up her strength training in Tehran, regretful that she’d not even considered the outcome where she’d have knocked her girlfriend to the floor.

Luckily, Jackie can hold her petite love up, legs wrapped around her waist and face buried in the crook of her neck. Nicky hurries over to grab her bags and takes them back to Gigi, while Jackie just focuses on getting them both back to the relative safety of their friends, without walking into any suitcases or unsuspecting humans.

“I missed you so fucking much,” she hears Jan whisper into her neck and she smiles, twisting her head to press a chaste kiss to her hair. Jan drops her legs, sliding down til she’s standing with her arms wrapped tightly around Jackie’s waist, head pressed into her chest while the brunette burrows her face into her hair, chasing the shea and sea salt, and the smell of her grapefruit shampoo.

She looks up at the other couple briefly to wink at them, and they smile in understanding.

Why does the street get louder when it gets dark?

Why do I feel that sound in the pounding in the shape of my heart?

Nicky places her head on Gigi’s naked collarbone, fingers tracing patterns onto her sternum as they both relish in the way the room feels like a vintage polaroid. It’s warm and comfortable and so full of love it’s almost choking. The covers pool around their legs as Gigi uses one finger to lift the blonde’s chin up to meet her - lips connecting as Nicky’s back arches in the moonlight. Her hair cascades over one shoulder and Gigi’s knee rises between the other girl’s legs.

Jackie rests her cheek on Jan’s hip, smiling gently as the blonde runs her fingers through her hair. She places a soft kiss on her navel before she pulls herself up to the top of the bed, laying on her back so Jan can curl around her like a cat. “That felt like a good celebration,” Jan whispers into her favourite point on her neck, and Jackie hums in response. The moonlight falls through the window leaving a pattern of shadows on their intertwined legs.

“G’NIGHT,” Nicky yells and the entire apartment bursts into laughter.

Oooh, oooh, oooh

*

[bbrandy2002]

My Love

Chapter Two-There You'll Be

Book: The Royal Heir

Liam x Riley

Series Summary: After losing the love of his life, Liam is left with a newborn daughter and a council that demands he endure another social season quickly. Not wanting to move on, he gets help from an unlikely ally-his late wife.

C/N: It wont always be like this, that's all I'm saying. This is angsty!!!

_____________

The capital city was peaceful as it laid under a veil of darkness. The moon glowed brightly in a cloudless sky, the stars glistened like clusters of white diamonds and sapphires and the ebb and flow of the Mediterranean tide gave off a calming lull. Spring was in full bloom and the typical, crisp night winds were just beginning to have a touch of warmth. It was a time for renewal and rebirth in Cordonia-tiny seeds and saplings sprouting into little blossoms.

Meanwhile, in a private, heavily guarded section of the hospital, was a room and a shattered heart. Monitors were shut off, silencing its deafening sounds, tubes removed, and lights dimmed to match the mood within its walls. Staff began collecting equipment and their distraught selves, leaving Liam behind to hover over Riley’s bedside, alone.

He couldn't take his heavily, tearful eyes off her, nor did he dare try. As he stood next to her bed in a complete daze, trying to make any kind of sense of what just took place, he reached out for her tiny hand. For a moment he just held it in his; rubbing his thumb gently along the outside of her palm, wanting desperately to feel her squeeze back, even if just slightly. 

This wasn't the first time he felt the consequences of an unexpected loss, yet, this...this was different than his mothers. The woman who gave him everything he ever dreamed of- the chance to be himself, an unconditional love, a real marriage and a family- was somehow gone. 

Liam leaned down and lifted the dainty hand he held in his, up to his lips, placing a soft kiss over her knuckles.

"And here we wait", Riley exclaimed as she leaned against the railing of the dock overlooking the water of the New York bay. The gusty wind blowing her brown hair in twists and twirls, sweeping across her face and covering the golden hue of her cheeks.

Liam stepped up beside her, gazing out at the near empty waters before quirking his brow at her, "For?".

Riley beamed enthusiastically tapping him lightly on the shoulder, "For a magical boat ride I've summoned just for you".

He brushes her pale, cool hand across his cheek, then holds it in place, memorizing how she feels- how she made him feel. Her engagement ring dimples his skin and he can't help but recall the night he gave it to her. 

His lips begin to quiver, feeling an ache in his chest he'd never felt before, "Riley'' he wails out, completely overcome by an increasing wave of grief, "darling, don't leave me". 

He turns her hand over and kisses the palm, his lips lingering along each crease and fingertip.  Lowering her hand and placing it gently across her stomach, draped by a white sheet, his eyes turn his gaze to her peaceful, face. Liam traces his thumb along her jawline, caresses her cheek, and trails his finger over her lips. 

Standing side-by-side on the deck of the boat Riley had miraculously summoned on his behalf, he reached for her hand,  “I want you to know that I admire you. Your adventurous spirit. The way you follow your heart”.

She laces her fingers through his, “You can live that way too.''

“If only. My whole life I”ve prepared myself to do what’s best for Cordonia”.

“Well...we’re not in Cordonia now…”, Riley wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him closer, searching his eyes before meeting his lips with hers. They kiss passionately while the mist of the sea rains down on them. 

Liam smiles into her kiss, "You're full of surprises aren't you?"

She leans in for one more kiss and pulls away with a sly grin, "I try".

"I'm glad to have met you, Riley. I'll never forget this night”.

With both hands, he wipes away the tears that have drenched his cheeks and were hanging off his chin. He needed to be closer to her, to feel her body pressed against his and to hold her in his arms. Climbing into the bed beside her with very little room for himself, he rolled to his side and placed one arm under her and with the other, pulled her closer to him, cradling her head snuggly against his neck  Feeling her cold skin against his own flesh, Liam pulled the sheet up around her chest and wrapped her tightly in his arms. This was his Riley after all, he couldn’t help but want to protect her, keep her warm and feeling safe in his arms. He rested the side of his face on top of her head, breathing in the floral scent of her hair that was becoming moistened by the never ending tears that fell into them.

“My love...’, he swallowed between whimpers, his entire body quaking with grief, “I don’t know how to do this love...I don’t...I don’t know what to do without you”.

*****

Outside of her room, a despondent Bastien stood on the other side of the closed door. He could hear every sniffle, every agonizing moan and grief stricken sob that escaped from his King. He, himself, stunned by the entire situation and the loss of a young Queen who took Cordonia by storm. He pondered whether she had ever truly forgiven him for his part in the Applewood incident. Bastien was sure she had, she was always nothing but kind and respectful to him, yet, his regret for that ordeal crashed into his chest like a ton of bricks. 

He glanced over to dozens of guards,  watching over the door to the private wing, noticing that all their training in keeping their emotions in check were failing miserably. Bastien bit his top lip and inhaled deeply through his nose, attempting to maintain some composure, but, knowing this was the saddest situation he had witnessed since Jackson Walker’s death. He remembered the look on a devastated,  young Drake’s face when he told him his father had passed away. 

As if it were some cosmic joke, he turned to see a stunned Drake standing there, both hands in his pockets with that same look of denial again.

Drake knew by Bastien’s demeanor and that of the guards he passed coming in, what her status was, but wouldn't allow his heart to accept it. 

He approached Bastien wearily, breathing heavily from adrenaline and fear, “Where is she Bas, where’s Brook’s...I need to see her.”

Bastien gestured with his weepy eyes to the door and Drake stepped away from him to go inside, but, Bastien grabbed his arm to hold him back.

“You can’t go in there right now, Drake.’

Drake jerked his arm back, “The hell I can’t, she needs me...Liam needs me...and WHERE THE FUCK ARE ALL THE DOCTORS AT, she needs help?”

"Son, keep your voice down'' he muttered, pressing into Drake's chest to ease him away from the door and into the opposite wall. 

Bastien gripped both of Drake’s shoulders and looked into his troubled eyes with a sigh, “Drake..”

“Don’t...don’t you dare say it’, shirking away from him, nodding furiously, “don’t...she’s not…’, his voice becoming weak and raspy, “she not...gone”. Drake weaved around Bastien, gasping for words, his eyes welling up and raised his hand to Riley’s room. He pushed it in quietly, just enough to see his distraught best friend on her hospital bed cradling- his, Brooks. 

Drake reaches out and shoves Riley, who for a second, struggles to keep her footing before toppling over and landing on a soft snow drift.

“Hey!” she yells, prepared to give him a piece of her mind, however, stops herself when she notices the most star-filled sky she had ever laid her eyes on.  The stars shooting, light up the night.

“Drake...:”

He plops down next to her, “Yes, my lady?”

“This is absolutely gorgeous”.

Drake takes in a refreshing breath, “Nothing beats a clear view of the sky during a meteor shower”.

Riley smiles as she watches stars race across the sky; her eyes glistening with astonishment, “I’m glad I didn’t miss this”.

He huffs, “Really? Would’ve figured you’d rather eat bon-bons and dress up tiny dogs, or whatever shit Olivia had planned for the night”.

“Not exactly my scene”, she scoffs.

As they both stare up at the sky, the clouds start to creep across the stars.

“Looks like we were just in time to see this before the storm comes”.

“Yeah, I didn’t want to miss it”, he rubs a hand over his face, “I used to do this with my sister, Savannah, every year. We grew up around the royals. My dad used to do security for Liam and his brother, and my sister and I were allowed to hang out with them. My sister, she’s...she’s been through a lot”.

“Wow, did Drake Walker just open up to me, maybe trust me a little?”.

“I don’t trust a lot of people, Brooks, but maybe I do trust you”.

“Drake, that’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to anyone”.

“Heh, maybe”.

As more snowflakes continue to fall, Drake sighed, “I better get you back. It’d be quite a scandal if I let one of the Prince’s suitors freeze to death out here on my watch’.

“I’d hate for my untimely demise to cause you any difficulty’, 

He stands from the snow, sweeping the flakes from his backside and extends his hand to Riley, “Let’s go back in”.

Drake’s body began to shake and his chest tightened as he closed the door back gingerly. He turned to face Bastien, feeling a weakness he hadn’t experienced in many years and fell limply to his knees.

********

Maxwell didn’t need an alarm clock to wake up, his energy and alertness kicked in at 5:00 every morning, ready to go. He threw the panda comforter Hana bought him for Christmas off and stretched heartily, contemplating whether to get in an early morning jog or eat a bowl of brownie ripple ice cream before feeding the peacocks. “It’s always the ice cream, ain’t that  right, Drake Jr”, he spoke to the guinea pig staring at him from its cage. He threw on a blue, cashmere robe to conceal his Batman boxers, since Savannah didn’t approve of him walking around naked in the estate. 

After using the restroom, he headed to the dark kitchen on the first floor, flipping on the lights and grabbing a serving spoon out of a utensil drawer. He stood in front of the open freezer door, trying to decide whether he wanted the brownie ripple or the mint chocolate chip, “what the hell, let’s live dangerously”, reaching for both of them. 

Maxwell flopped back on the couch with both cartons of ice cream and his serving spoon, sitting them both beside him before snatching the remote from the coffee table. He dug out a hearty spoonful of brownie ripple and licked on it while flipping through the channels.

“We have an unconfirmed report that the Queen of Cordonia has passed away unexpectedly. Sources right now are trying to reach the Royal Press office for confirmation”. 

Maxwell’s hand shook with panic as he flipped to the next channel and the next, each one reporting the breaking news alert with Riley face plastered in the backdrop.

He dropped his spoon in the container and tossed it off of him, desperately searching the pockets of his robe for his cell phone. When he found it, he pulled up his messages and found dozens of texts from reporters wanting him to confirm her passing.

“What the fuck is going on?”.

Maxwell flipped desperately to his contacts and tried to call Riley...no answer. He tried Liam several times, each one going to voicemail. Overwhelming fear set in as he pushed the number for Drake, hoping he may have heard something...anything.

Maxwell cleared his throat, a collection of bile had stifled his voice, “Drake, please tell me it’s not true”. 

What he heard was not what he wanted to hear; he didn’t end the call, just loosely allowed his phone to slip from his ear and crash to the floor,  his lip quivering, “Little Blossom”.

Maxwell watches a forlorn Riley waiting at the corner across from the bar he met her the previous night. After she gets  clearing to cross, he pipes up through the sunroof of the limo parked in front and waves his arms wildly.

“Riley!”, he shouts and she approaches him with a bit of confusion and hesitation.

“Maxwell, right?

“Yeah, I'm glad I caught you. We’re heading back to Cordonia so Liam can find someone to marry and all that jazz. But before I go, I wanted to officially extend to you an invitation to join us for the festivities in Cordonia”.

“Huh?”.

“You wouldn’t be allowed to join...but I wanted to sponsor you!”.

Riley furrowed her brow, “You...want to sponsor...me”, she snickered, “is this a joke?”.

“Nah, girl. I’m from a noble house, but I don’t have any sisters, so we don’t have anyone in contention to marry the Prince. Instead we can sponsor any girl we choose. And you’re my pick!”.

Riley shook her head, slightly taken aback, yet, intrigued by his proposal,  animated use of hand gestures and liveliness, “You want to sponsor me? Why?”,

“I’m not doing it for you. I saw how LIam looked at you last night. I’ve never seen him so happy. Honestly? I don’t want him to lose that. We’re kinda crunched for time though. I’ve got a plane leaving within the hour…”

Riley looks around at her bleak surroundings, shifting anxiously at the thought of seeing Liam again, getting away from the boredom and dread that had become her life, and the absolute hell that was waitressing at the bar that stood in front of her. She looked up at Maxwell, a large grin plastered on her face, “I”m in”.

“Yeah”, Maxwell pumped his fist in the air, causing the limo to bounce, “Go pack your bag. This is going to be the adventure of a lifetime”.

Maxwell glanced up at the fireplace, where a selfie of he and Riley posing with the mechanical bull at the American bar during Drake’s birthday, sat in a glittery frame. He felt the blood drain from his face, nausea building in the pit of his stomach and he bolted from the couch, “Bertrand!”

*******

Liam stayed with Riley for over an hour before kissing her once more, making promises to love her forever and take care of Ellie; hoping she would be everything her mother was.

He reached the door of her room and looked back once more as a nurse was carefully placing the sheet to cover her entire body. After exiting the room, he was met by Drake, who pulled him into a hug that didn’t end for several minutes while both wept into the other. 

The guards cleared the halls that led to a private exit, hoping to avoid any and all press or prying eyes. Bastien returned and escorted Liam and Drake through the cordoned off hallways and passages that led to a private car, so not to be followed. 

Liam’s mind was in a complete tailspin. Thoughts of what took place, how a young, vibrant woman dies suddenly without warning, and how the hell he was going to live the rest of his life without her. He was a King  without his Queen, a husband without his wife, and a father without the mother of his child. Nothing made sense, but there was no time to try to make any sense of it; he had a country waiting anxiously to hear word on the fate of his wife and a newborn baby that he was now the sole parent for. In all of his heartbreak, Liam wanted to run far away, to scream, to take all of his anger and grief out on something. 

Bastien maneuvered the car through the throngs of press and people that had amassed around the gates of the palace. Entering through the garage of the palace, he parked the car and Liam jumped out before the door could be opened for him. Drake offered to stay with him, but Liam heard nothing. He wanted to get back to his quarters as quickly as possible, away from everyone and the flurry of questions he had no answers for. This was a new life for Liam, one that he hadn’t fully digested yet, nor believed he ever would. 

He opened the door to his quarters, stepping slowly inside to the darkened foyer, passing listlessly through into the living room. Remnants of Riley scattered throughout from the pictures on the walls, her favorite throw blanket folded neatly on the ottoman, and a vase of purple lilies he bought her yesterday, adorned on the sofa table. Moving to the ottoman, he picked up the throw blanket and sat down on the sofa, lifting the blanket to his nose and inhaling sharply. Her scent lingering from the soft fabric and memories of her laugh, her giggles, the playfulness she exuded flooding through him. He gripped her throw tightly, slumping down onto the floor and began to sob uncontrollably into it. This was his reality, one that he would never accept. 

[bitchardhendricks]

Well I’ve Never Been to Heaven (But I’ve Been to Oklahoma) Pt 10

So. The last couple weeks have been...A Lot. Both personally and y’know from an entire racial equity uprising perspective, and I’ve felt very much that my responsibility was to read, learn, understand, listen, and be quiet. No one needs to hear a white girl writing about white nerd boy problems right now. But I realized after a couple weeks that when I got overwhelmed, or when I needed to relieve the pressure valve on my emotions, I turned to the same form of comfort I always have - stories. Stories about characters I love, whether they’re in tv, movies, fic, whatever. The comfort of those stories allowed me to rest just enough that I could wake up the next day and keep reading, learning, listening. So it may seem silly, this meandering tale of these two flawed men confronting the past and the future together, but reading stories like this helps me feel sane enough that I have the energy to keep trying to do better. I hope this one helps you, too. Catch up on previous entries here, and come say hi in my inbox and let me know what you think.

***

After lunch, they head 1 mile east until they reach an unremarkable long, squat building with a faded green roof hanging down nearly halfway to the ground and obscuring the store front, held up by a series of flared white cinderblock columns. This elongated hut takes up the better part of a city block, and as they pull into the cracked parking lot, Richard spies Jared’s face lighting up as he reads the sign.

“Gardner’s Used Books, CDs, Videos, DVDs, Toys, Comics, Records, Collectibles, Gifts...my goodness, that’s quite a treasure trove!” 

“You have no idea,” Richard says, bounding out of the car and up to the front door in quick strides. The tables set up under the roof’s overhang hold boxes and boxes of books, lining the entire front of the building, but Richard doesn’t stop to look at these. “Bargain books,” he explains as Jared pauses to scan some of the titles. “You find some great stuff, but you can pay outside so I usually do that last.” He points to an old Folgers coffee jug with a slit cut in its plastic lid. A sign above it says 50 CENTS OR 3/$1, but Richard’s attention is now focused on entering the front door, the familiar jingle causing a rush of nostalgia that works its way into his guts. 

He’s 16 again, acne-riddled and knock-kneed, and his new driver’s license is burning a hole in his velcro wallet. The dusty scent of old paper and ancient carpeting is commingling with the aroma of hot oil, onions, and sizzling meat from the bookstore’s attached Mexican restaurant. He has $37 in his pocket, and a whole day of summer vacation to burn. 

As present-day Richard takes in the familiar organized chaos, Jared nearly walks into a gargantuan statue of the Hulk because he’s looking around at the stacks of books piled everywhere, muttering a sheepish, “Excuse me!” to the statue. A bubble of warmth seems to rise from deep within Richard’s belly, and he grabs at Jared’s wrist to redirect him - that thin, elegant wrist, so delicate, almost like a bird, maybe that’s why Jared likes birds so much, because he feels a kinship with them? - and tugs gently. “C’mon. I wanna show you around.”

Richard leads them to the left, past rows and rows of new arrivals and fiction. A coffee shop has been added on; all the decor is aggressively Parisian in a very bland Hobby Lobby-type way. There are wire shelves hanging off the walls holding the top 20 best selling mysteries of all time. Tall wooden shelves in the middle of the room stretch from floor to ceiling, arranged in small mazes that take up their respective corners, crammed with colorful paperbacks. Jared pauses at the Mary Higgins Clarks for a moment, but Richard urges him on by saying, “Wait, there’s more!” 

Another archway, this one opening up into a cavernous beige room with a little more natural light. Small rolling footstools are perched in every aisle so customers can reach the tops of the towering shelves, and with each new shelf, Jared’s eyes seem to grow wider. “Does it just go on forever?” he asks, and Richard nods, steering him past Romance and Horror to the seemingly endless Nonfiction shelves. Cookbooks, humor, foreign language - the section names are taped to wooden beams that extend between the tops of the rows of bookshelves until finally they reach the Computer Science section, which Richard presents with a grand flourish. 

“This is where I got my very first coding manual. Python, it was--” he scans the shelves, squints, but, “oh, um well they don’t have it now. Duh, why would they, that was, anyway, this is where it all started!”

Jared takes in the shelves with a look of absolute wonder lighting up his face. He looks young and carefree in a way Richard isn’t sure he’s ever seen before, like he’s about to burst into song in a musical or something. Before he can say anything, Jared has his phone out, the sound of the camera shutter in his face making Richard jump. “Aw, c’mon Jared, don’t,” he says, but his voice is teasing, soft, and there’s a pleasant whispering at the back of his mind at the idea of this place meaning something to history maybe. Where the first seeds of Pied Piper took hold, and the genius coder Richard Hendricks took his first step toward...toward having everything taken away from him by Hooli and Gavin Fucking Belson. His insides are suddenly doused in ice-cold water and he shakes his head, scowling. 

He’s just about to tell Jared to browse by himself for awhile when he’s stopped short by Jared gasping loudly, “Oh my goodness!”

He’s turned to look at the shelf opposite the Computer Science section and is now holding a light green cloth-bound book in his hands as if it were something made of exquisite, delicate glass. The cover has what looks like colored pencil drawings of two yellow birds sitting together on some branches, and Richard leans closer to read the title out loud - “Birds That Every Child Should Know. By,” he pauses, looking up at Jared for confirmation, “Nelt-yah Blanchan?” 

Jared nods, dumbstruck. He looks positively bowled over, and all thoughts of Gavin have fled Richard’s mind completely because he wants to know what could possibly have made Jared so flabbergasted. “So...what is this book? I mean, why’s it - what’s so special about it? Is it rare or something?”

“It is rare, yes; this book was published in 1907. But, that’s not exactly...” he swallows, then looks at Richard with those terrifyingly blue eyes, the ones that root Richard to the spot and peer inside him and refuse to let him squirm away. “My mother had a copy exactly like this. We would go birding together, you see. Just in the woods behind our apartment complex, nothing too exotic. I would spot robins, orioles, blue jays, but ah - “ his smile grows shaky, like it’s trying unsuccessfully to hold up the weight of all those memories, and he says, “I just never thought I’d see this book again, that’s all.”

“Wow,” Richard says, his upper lip caught in his teeth at his own awkwardness. He never knows what to say when Jared mentions his past. Real helpful, Richard, Jesus fuck. “You should um, you should definitely buy it. Right?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly afford, it’s an antique--”

“Jared, come on. You have to. It’s - look, I’ll buy it for you, ok? As like. A thank you present. For coming with me. You have to deal with my parents, deal with me, and it’s just...it’s the least I can do.”

Jared splays one enormous hand over his chest, aghast. “Richard, you don’t have to--”

“Bup bup bup!” Richard says, easing the book out of Jared’s grip and peeking inside the front cover at the price. $26 is penciled in the top right corner of the title page, which seems more than fair for how happy Jared is to have discovered it, so he snaps the book shut and tucks it under his arm to carry. “Done and done. No arguments, Jared. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jared says quietly, his cheeks pink and his eyes shining, looking at Richard like he’s some sort of miracle, some unexpected wondrous hero, come to slay dragons and save the kingdom from wreck and ruin. It takes longer than strictly necessary for Richard to wrench his gaze away. 

“Come on, there’s a lot more of this place to see.”

[mirovoi1]

REFLECTIONS OF A JAILBIRD

It can be quite hard to force myself to concentrate on writing when myriad distractions abound: I have the internet, snacks at hand, and a curious mind that prefers wandering than getting stuck into the arduous task of gathering my thoughts and organising them into one structured essay.

What is worse is that there are also myriad birds outside my windows that are eager to show off how free they are - while it is me that is cooped up inside an aviary. And this has been my daily life for months already here, in the middle of Istanbul.

The world has surely been turned upside down.

And my state of being has now too.

Have you ever been to prison without being involved in a crime?

The laws of lockdown have worked; they have successfully restricting my body to the house, but it has also set loose thoughts and emotion; and the things that stir inside an idle being.

In fact, I am usually the opposite: a busy body with a braindead head – not a rioting soul in a dead body.

Thus, has been a rare chance to engage in some very unique, albeit testing, self-reflection and what I have observed is that my own mind is actually hell-bent on getting away from me.

Out of due respect for public health, I have not really been anywhere for a full three months. And during this home-sentence, I have been battling with another prison: a mental prison consisting of high walls that forbid me from doing any proper constructive written work.

The summer warmth has arrived in Istanbul; finally replacing the long, wet winter - the heat and sunlight have come and replenished the empty hole that is known as ‘lockdown’. This is a very good change in events. Weather does alter one’s mood.

The uplifting summer-scented air has called me to begin writing down a few notes to share with you all. Although, however lovely days of sunshine and birdsong may be, it seems my newly-found prison-life has offered some useful (and dire) insight into how many lives are lived.

*

Morning after morning after morning, I wake up in the same fashion, with the sound of pigeons outside my bedroom window. They sit there and mumble the same stuff at each other. I get up for a coffee. The sparrows chirp like mad in the big leafy trees from morning till dusk and I am always here to hear it. Now that all forms of unnatural noise have subsided over the past weeks, the world has revealed that there are even chickens living on the banks of in front of the apartments opposite me.

Who would think chickens exist in a city of fifteen million people? Well, I believe it. It is hard not to believe it when their bleating is sometimes all that is left over now that cars and engines sounds have left the room. Right now, it is a bird’s world and I feel as if I am the only living creature that sits around stagnating all day.

Those birds are busy with their lives and I am the one who is sat in the bird cage waiting for some sort of seeds to appear in my bowl.

*

During my lifetime, I have always wondered how come old people so often tend to be miserable.

I was confused as to why oldies were always angry when kids’ balls come over their fence. I thought that old people should know that life goes along better when the world is a tolerant and friendly place - after all, judging by their bent posture and wrinkly skin, it could be safe to say that they have been around for a bit and should be aware of the tricks of the trade.

The world over, I have been yelled at by grumpy old people – usually for noise or some other form of unruliness. But my anticipation for some eventual grey-haired wisdom to save the day always fell through as they most often would revert back to their own form of unruliness – that being their decrepit emotional composure in the face of something minor.

I always liked to imagine that someday, I will become the seemingly only old man in the world who is patient, kind and unconcerned with little things that are of no apparent bother. I thought I would be the kindest granddad who would come out of his house, and instead of shouting with a stick in hand, he would come with a packet of chocolate biscuits and tell the kids just how great they are doing with their soccer skills.

But now I get it.

A silent, idle life, void of real things to do and people to talk to just makes people become dank. Now I understand. A rattle in the refrigerator has the power to really piss people off. I never knew of that rattle when my life extended beyond these four walls.

In a tiny little world, tiny little things just appear so big.

Now I realise, I too, in the future, am capable of becoming an angry old man.

*

In Istanbul you often have company from giant seagulls which are a key part of the infrastructure of this giant port city. Istanbulites love to feed animals, and these massive birds easily get their beaks into heavy pieces of stale bread. They do not want to share their findings with others and so they fly onto the rooftops and drop it, hack at it and throw it around in order to break it into smaller, edible size pieces.

I live on the top-floor and often have to deal with them stomping around on my roof. I have a rooftop sky-window that I can open up and be part of the goings on up there, but they are too busy to care. They are very happy. I am not though, and I give them the evil stare from under the window pane. And, again, they are too busy being happy to care.

*

May is the month of Ramadan and at times some very rhythmic Anatolian music seeps out from behind some bushes somewhere near where those chickens live. There is also drumming at 2am each night. Sometimes I hang myself out the fifth-floor window to try to get a piece of the vibe. I always found the concept of music to be extremely fascinating. Music is such a human thing.

I admit I have felt a bit self-conscious before dancing in front of other people, but I have to say that I feel downright embarrassed doing so in front of animals. So, I don’t. I am sure animals understand the pleasure in moving around and having fun, but the style we do it in… well, I don’t know about that. We must look absolutely ridiculous. But it is Ramadan, and it is a time for celebration.

There is a family of crows that lives in a branch – rent-free – just opposite my biggest windows in the lounge area. I enviously watch them coming and going, and taking turns at sitting on their babies. They screech and caw, as I do when I think I am singing.

As I hum along to these sudden outbreaks of traditional folk tunes, I wonder why we humans feel the need to offer a bit of our own noise to an otherwise good-enough piece of music. We also like to move our bodies along with to the beat, as if that was called for. If you can get past your own two feet, that is, then this timely shuffling is generally known as ‘dancing’.

So, it seems that adding some singing, some lyrics, and well, ultimately some sort of mouth and body movement to the music, it just makes it all come alive.

*

We humans make order of our thoughts through speech. We navigate our world through the use of the mouth; through words; through language, through lyrics, through conversation, through stories, constantly feeling the need to incessantly release some form of mouth-made noise with/to/towards/at other people: we engage in civil, amicable chitter-chatter; we emit our oral vibrations out of rage at poor kids who have lost their ball over the fence, we thrust our noises into the music as we groove along in tow…

…and somehow this makes us feel better about the world.

I can honestly say I am utterly embarrassed to be a human. But, the innate, instinctive need for talk and movement dictates our psyche. The necessity for social interaction with other people and physical interaction with our environment is indisputable. This is the source of a large part of our health. And without it, well…

We humans are a group mammal after all – perhaps more so than the feathered ‘free-folk’ outside that even feel free enough to crap all over my windowsills. But it is obvious: being around people and engaging in meaningful conversation regulates our mood and emotions so that we can avoid entering the otherwise guaranteed free-fall to hell…

…where a lot of us are right now.

All of this has now become starkly clear as I sit in here doing the opposite of what a healthy person does. All the animals accentuate the fact that they can get more done in life now that us human-beings have ceased to be part of the furniture; and we are not around anymore to bother them. Unless I decide to dance behind the glass or something - and that could bother a soul or two.

I mean, if you have to be a human being, then you also have to know how to meet a human being’s needs. That is not to say I dance, but it does mean one needs to be able to think well, speak properly, and move more.

This may seem obvious and straightforward, but I can assure you… it is not.

Just as one may think six months at home would be heaven, and when it comes around you realise it is actually a nightmare. Human beings may sit around in their homes dressed in clothes with their fancy gadgets, but can assure you, we do not always really understand what it is that we need. Nor do we properly see things for what they are…

A lot of us have never learnt to think, nor learnt to move, nor learnt to speak. Properly, that is.

*

Over the years, I have had a number of students who could fall under the category of ‘depressed’; or ‘hell-bound’ would be a better way to put it.

There is a thing called clinical depression, but this dispiritedness is often just simply an environmental, psychological, physiological or sociological inadequacy or imbalance. Sort of like a form of vitamin deficiency that comes good again with the right adjustments.

That is basically to say… yes, as it seems, a lot of melancholy folk typically seem to lead a full-time lifestyle of lockdown.

Try that! What a bloody existence…

I have observed many teenagers of mine who regularly take part in physical activity in their daily lives, be it sports or dance, are generally much more mentally and emotionally healthy – not to mention physically so. They tend to hold onto less negative energy and have a lighter, bouncier kick in their way of being.

Those that have good social, conversational and inter-personal skills tend to have these similar healthy characteristics. In short, those that are well-equipped to meet their simple human needs fare well in the world.

But this species of well-equipped kid is actually depressingly rare. A huge number of adults do not qualify either. That has frustrated me for a long time.

*

Normally at this time of year, I would be busy preparing for the summer holidays for when my students and I hit the long road with our backpacks on.

This year, that is not going to happen though, which is a pity because we were planning for some very exotic locations (Cuba, Madagascar…). And it is also a pity for some of my students that are, and/or have always been full-time-lockdown-lifestylists who would greatly benefit again from a couple of weeks-long de-shackling from the mundane.

However, this virus has offered me a very unique opportunity:

With the ditching of my passport and car-keys and the forgoing of my usual travel-lifestyle, I now get the chance to exist on this great planet in another fascinating way…

By being in prison, experiencing the psychological state of depressed prisoners, getting to know and understand the inner-world of many of my students, rehearsing for when I am old, and getting to write about it all.

More unfortunate is getting to brush up on my knowledge about myriad aspects of birdlife and how damning similar it is to ours. Even more unfortunate than that is the succumbing to the fact that I am capable of using words like ‘myriad’ myriad times in a six and a half page-long essay…

13 May 2020

(Period of lockdown from Covid-19)

(Some Photos from Around My Place in Istanbul)

[aliceslantern]

Give/Take, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 3

Ienzo has been too busy since the war to be overwhelmed by the past. But with little progress to be made in his work with Kairi, old nightmares start to invade.

Riku is a glorified housesitter. Lonely and faced with no choice but to wait for a way to find his friends, he eagerly accepts when Ienzo asks him to help do repairs around the castle. Before long, the two strike up an unlikely friendship, united by their dark pasts and their attempts to be better people.

But just as they begin to consider something more... Kairi wakes up.

Ienzoku (Ienzo/Riku), post-Melody of Memory, slow burn. Updates Thursdays until it's done.

Chapter summary:  Riku gets sick, which ends up having worse consequences than it should.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Ienzo tucked another blanket around Kairi. The air in here was quite cold--despite the oncoming winter, the AC was running to keep their equipment happy. He knew she couldn’t feel anything, but he hoped the position she was in wasn’t uncomfortable. They’d done the best with what they had.

It was getting dark, but there wasn’t anything for dinner in the castle; as in, they’d even eaten all of the auxiliary cans of soup. It might be nice to stretch his legs. He put on his raincoat, picked up an umbrella, and set off.

He thought that shopping would irritate him, being another one of those necessary human activities. But he actually found it quite soothing. The food here seemed fresher, richer than what he was used to. He picked up what they needed for a few days and started to head back. It really was raining rather heavily, making him a bit jumpy in the early evening, despite the bright flashlight of his gummiphone. He still had magic, but that didn’t mean he wanted to use it.

In the darkness of the construction site, he thought he saw a figure. He tensed, trying to find that magic, only to see that it was “Riku?” Still in the rain, without a proper coat. “I suppose you found something to fight, then?”

“...You could say that.” His voice was unsteady, and Ienzo thought he saw him shaking.

“Have you been out here in the cold this entire time?”

“I’m alright,” he stuttered.

“I can both see and hear you shivering.”

“I’m really fine.”

Ienzo frowned. He knew that line through and through. The last thing he needed was for Riku to collapse on them. “Why don’t you come inside and get dry and warm?”

“No, it’s alright. I’ll go--back to the castle.”

“You shouldn’t leave while it’s dark.”

He squinted at Ienzo. There was a flush in his face. “I’ll really be okay.”

“...And it’s not pouring buckets,” Ienzo said dryly. “We have the room and frankly, you look like you feel ill.”

Riku trembled, clearly trying to come up with an excuse.

Ienzo sighed. “You want to run yourself into the ground, fine. But neither Kairi nor I appreciate it. It won’t help make you feel better, that’s for sure.”

“W-why? You b-been there?”

Ienzo chuckled. “Between my reformation and Demyx’s delivery of the replica for Roxas, I don’t think I slept more than an hour a night. And then I crashed in front of Aeleus and it was very humiliating.” He twirled his umbrella. “So really, I’m trying to help you save face, here.”

Riku considered. “W-well if you put it like that.”

He bobbed his head towards the door. “Come on, then.”

Unfortunately the only extra bedroom that was in any livable shape was the one that had belonged to Xehanort. Ienzo gathered some clean sheets and extra blankets for Riku, who was still shivering rather insistently.

“I’ll bring you something dry to wear,” he said.

“You don’t h-have to, I’m sure once I get dry I--”

“Riku, if I let you stay in those wet clothes then I may end up getting the rest of us sick. I’m making soup for dinner. I do hope you’ll come eat it.” He told him briefly where the kitchen and bathroom were.

“I’d hate to intrude--”

“The only thing I particularly hate right now is that you’re refusing help when you clearly need it. It’s fine. We want you to be comfortable.” Insofar as he could be here, anyway.

He dropped his eyes. “...Thanks.”

“It is the least I can do.” He nodded once, curtly. “Dilan gets upset if dinner is not served precisely at seven-thirty. You better be there.”

“Or w-what?”

Ienzo cocked his head. He didn’t know what that tone meant, other than the fact it made his heart skip a little. Nerves? Discomfort? Indigestion? “Then I’m afraid you’ll miss my gourmet cooking, which is a shame for you,” he replied, equally. “Get changed. Quit procrastinating.” He shut the door on Riku before he could protest further, and tried not to ponder the nervous little seed that was now growing in his chest.

It had been a while since he’d had banter with-- anyone , and fighting with Even didn’t count . They were all too busy walking on eggshells around each other. That was why, right? A friendly moment with someone who was nigh-identical to his murderer?

Ienzo shook his head and went to start the soup. He enjoyed the neat order of cooking, its innate harmlessness. They’d been taking turns cooking for everyone; Dilan was a good cook, Aeleus passable. Even couldn’t do much more than boil pasta, nor did he care to do more. Ansem preferred to “support local business” and get takeout. He kept chopping vegetables, making his broth, readying bits of beef. It’d take some time to simmer, so he tried to catch up on his coding on a tablet.

Ienzo was starting to get sick of numbers.

---

Riku was starting to get sick. He felt it. That was dumb, he thought, wincingly. While a warm shower and the blankets on the bed helped with the worst of the shivering, it was only just beginning, an ache in his bones. A potion might at least help him be functional, but one was all the way across the room in the pocket of his pants, which were drying on the radiator.

This room reminded him too much of the one Maleficent had given him the last time he’d stayed here. The furniture was the same style, the walls the same green. He wondered dizzily if this was that room, but this one had a window and the other had not.

Ienzo had left him a set of linen pajamas, but knowing who they belonged to nearly kept him from putting them on--at least until the bone-deep cold reinvaded. He huddled under the three or four blankets he’d been given.

Nice one, idiot, he thought. He’d known that fighting in the rain was a bad idea, but he’d done it anyway , and now he was out of commission for at least a few hours, until the dizziness faded enough for him to travel-- not home , but to the place he’d been living.

It seemed to take a long time, but finally, finally the shivering stopped. The bed wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as he’d thought, and he found himself drifting, trying desperately to stay awake. The soup. He’ll be mad if I don’t eat the soup. The notion of trying to stomach something just made him feel nauseous. Riku tried to sit up, but the wave of vertigo that overcame him was so intense he had to lay right back down.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to fall asleep…

Riku dreamt.

The buildings and alleys of a city in the rain, full of bright pulsing neon and he was searching, so desperately, so desperately, for Sora, and time was running out--

The dream warped and changed.

The castle had seemed darker then, its smell muskier, Heartless wandering the place in droves. He’d hear them fighting each other as he tried to sleep; he remembered that being surprising. At first the pulse and pull of darkness inside of him had felt exhilarating, like he could do anything, like he was unstoppable.

Then he started blacking out.

The loss of time had been a few seconds, minutes at most, like he’d simply zoned out or lost his train of thought. But slowly, over the course of those days, Ansem’s grip on him tightened, and the minutes became hours, and he’d be left in the darkness of his own heart, a sensation that threatened to drown him if he didn’t consciously fight it moment for moment. It had burned, felt hot, and now and again he could twitch his own fingers, take a few hesitant steps in his own body. Even once Ansem had theoretically been purged from him, he still felt that pull, itching, aching, not helped at all when it was quite literally awoken.

Castle Oblivion wasn’t dark. It was bright, white, piercing, despite the fact that it was underground and had no windows. The only darkness came from the Heartless, from the shadowy figures that lurked within--

“Riku?”

I know who I am.

When did that happen? You were always terrified of the dark before--

“...Right. I see. I’ll leave it here for you.”

A clink of metal and glass, a cool hand touching his forehead--

Then I shall make you see that your hopes are nothing but a mere illusion!

Riku grasped Zexion’s wrist hard, and heard a startled cry. A lamp light clicked on.

Not Zexion.

In his hazy state, it took him a long, long moment to realize what had happened. The walls of the room were wobbly. Ienzo was clutching his wrist, gasping and breathing hard. “I-I’m sorry,” Riku stammered. “I didn’t mean--are you hurt?”

But Ienzo didn’t respond. His head was bowed low, and his grip had shot up to his throat. Riku tried to reach towards him--

“Do not .” The words were harsh, almost animal-- with panic , Riku realized dizzily. “Don’t touch me, don’t--” He choked for breath for a moment longer before he darted from the room.

Perhaps it was the fever, but Riku reeled with confusion. Their battle, to his knowledge, had been tough but ultimately mutual. Why was Ienzo reacting this way?

Either way, he’d messed up again , and he felt too awful to try and make more sense of it. He saw that Ienzo had brought him some of the soup, and some tea and medicine, and the guilt only tightened.

His exhausted mind swept him back under.

---

Riku woke with a jolt. He wasn’t sure if the fever had broken or not; he was uncomfortably sweaty in all these layers. He could tell he’d been having dreams, intense, difficult ones, but they all dissolved in the morning light.

Lying on his side, he saw the abandoned soup bowl, the now-cold tea and medicine. A stab of remorse made his stomach clench. In that moment the fever really had made him think Zexion was attacking him, but that didn’t make hurting him any more right.

And--squinting hard--had that grip made Ienzo panic ? Why?

Either way, Riku had a lot of apologizing to do. He warmed what he’d been left with a spell and ate, the prickles of guilt getting worse.

His clothing was dry by now, so he got dressed and folded up everything he’d used. He was still a bit shaky, but he’d be fine enough to get back to the Land of Departure. He hardly ever got sick like that. But he hadn’t been able to sleep well lately, and there was the cold and the rain, and he probably wasn’t eating well either. He’d run himself into the ground. Riku had to get better control of this, if so just to prevent all this from happening again.

He set off to find Ienzo, his heart beating hard with anxiety. Just say sorry. Just say sorry. There had to be something he could do. He hoped he hadn’t hurt him; he knew too well the ache of broken bones.

He headed back to the lab, trying not to talk himself out of it. He mentally rehearsed what he had to say-- you were so kind, I acted completely out of turn-- but when he got there, Ienzo wasn’t even in the room.

“Good morning, Riku,” Even said, and Riku wondered if he was imagining the coolness in his voice. “I see you’re up and about.”

“I’m so sorry about yesterday. Thank you for letting me stay.” He cleared his throat.

“I don’t think any of us are strangers to overwork,” Ansem said. “You’re welcome here any time.”

He dropped his eyes. “...Thanks. Um. Where’s Ienzo? I wanted to thank him for the dinner.”

Again, that stab of paranoia--was the pause too long? “He had a few things to tend to in town, I believe,” Even said. “But I will pass on the message.”

“...Oh. Thanks.” He looked back at Kairi, still deeply asleep. Would she be ashamed of him? “I guess I should… head out, if there’s nothing I can help with here.”

“I don’t believe so,” Even said, without looking up.

“Take care,” Ansem said, with that same old man smile.

Riku returned to the Land of Departure, to the silence.

[scribbles97]

Left Behind - Part 3 - Chapter 22

Part 1 is about family, losing someone you love, and those who love you helping you finding your feet.

Part 2 is about hope, trust, and foiling The Hood plans.

Part 3 is about keeping strong in the face of adversity 

PART 1 / PART 2

Have some John and Ridley fluff before things get too serious...

Not many people knew it, but one of the things John Tracy adored most in life was the first few days back on earth after a long stint in space. Days made all the better when Ridley’s schedule matched up allowing her to be home on his return. 

Yes, there were the pressure headaches, the fight against earth’s gravity, and wobbly legs. It was those days though that it was just him and her, no younger brothers to pull faces, no older relatives to smile at them both in that weird way he didn’t like. Just him, her, and their little apartment near to the beach. 

“How’s the headache?” Ridley whispered as she sunk down into the beanbag he had dragged up onto the roof for her. 

“Fine,” He smiled, accepting the mug of tea and grimacing when he realised it was plastic. 

She grinned wickedly, clearly having seen his face, “I’m not losing any more crockery.” 

Her point was valid and he had to grin along with her as he wrapped his fingers around the warm plastic. He remembered his mother doing the same when Dad had first returned from space, a special set of plastic cups, plates and bowls always set aside just for the occasion. 

“Next time you’re away I’m swapping all of it for none breakable stuff,” He teased, “See how you like it when you get home.”

She gasped as she laughed, eyes lighting up as she watched him with a shake of her head, “You’ll be the one buying me new matching plates!”

He chuckled, allowing the conversation to fall away as he looked up to the stars. It was perhaps the greatest thing he missed about both space and the island, the views of the night sky in the city were nothing compared to those of the space station or Tracy island. Not that it meant he still couldn’t appreciate the view, or the company. 

Leaning across, he rested his head on Ridley’s shoulder, sighing softly in contentment as she leant her head down to rest on his. 

“Missed you.” He murmured. 

“Missed you too.” She sighed, “I’m glad you’re home.”

He could have sat there forever, watching the sky, listening to her soft breathing to block out the constant hum of traffic on the road below. Nobody to disturb them and plenty of warm tea to compensate for his poor circulation in his long fingers. 

Except, his comm. 

There was always his comm to disturb them.

His one direct link to home and the goings on of his family, the one reliable way for them to get hold of him. 

It was midnight though, making it somewhere around lunch time on the island. Everyone knew the time difference, and everyone knew he was fresh out of space, tired and headachy and still readjusting to what everyone else considered normal. 

So why the heck were they ringing him?

Ridley was frowning too as he reached across her for the holoprojector, shaking her head, “What do they want at this time of night?”

“No idea,” He murmured, “You don’t mind do you?”

She shook her head, reaching out to steady the projector as he lifted it towards him, “I don’t imagine they’d call unless it was important.”

“John!” Scott exclaimed as his hologram appeared between he and Ridley, “It’s Mom.”

The three words and Scott’s disheveled look was enough to have him immediately sitting upright. His older brother seemed anxious, wide eyes repeatedly darting to somewhere out of the scope of the hologram. He was still in uniform, the familiar blue and grey of his IR suit a cause for more concern. 

Logic told him to wait to hear the full story as his imagination jumped to several conclusions. 

“Look it’s a long story,” Scott sighed, shoulders bunched up to his ears as he shook his head, “She’s hurt though John, hurt real bad. Lee is on his way to LA with her now and we’re leaving the island ASAP.”

He shook his head, it didn’t matter if it was a long story, he needed to know the facts, “What happened?”

Scott sighed, eyes falling as he took a long slow breath in and glanced away again.

John had always known when Scott was stalling for whatever reason. 

“Report, now Scott.” He growled, “Everything.”

The demand was enough to harden his brothers eyes, and John could see the new set of his jaw even through the lost definition of the hologram. Matching the glare Scott was giving him was easy, keeping composed as his brother filled him in was harder. 

Gaat. A new Zero-X. A rescue that wasn’t real. All a simple distraction so the man that had killed their father could infiltrate their home.

And he had tried to kill their mother. 

“John,” Ridley murmured, squeezing his arm gently, “Breathe honey.”

“The bastard--” He choked out between gritted teeth, “Where is he now?”

Scott’s eyes fell again, widening once more in apology as he pursed his lips, “He got away. He didn’t get the suits though, Kayo made sure of that.”

He felt his own shoulders fall, Kay would be upset. The man was her uncle by blood, and she hated him with every fiber of her being. That he got away would only add fuel to the flames of her anger. 

“Is she with you?”

Scott nodded in confirmation, “Kyrano and Hugh Creighton-Ward were with mom at the time, we’re all going. I think Kayo has some questions.”

“I do too,” John sighed with a nod, “Mom’s going to be okay though, right?”

He wished that technology was as fragile as it once had been, perhaps then he could have blamed Scott’s frozen posture on a glitch rather than the fact that he really had gone so still on the spot.

“I--” Scott stumbled.

Scott never stumbled.

Scott was bold and brave and always knew what was going on. He was his big brother, he was meant to say that Mom would be fine with a few stitches and an overnight stay at the hospital. 

His voice wasn’t meant to sound soft and broken and full of fear as he shook his head and told him that he didn’t know.

“I think you guys should get over there,” He murmured, “The sooner the better.”

“We’ll be there as fast as we can, Scott.” Ridley cut in for him, “You guys fly safe.”

“F.A.B.” Scott replied, “Call us when you get there.”

There were more goodbyes that he didn’t really hear as his mind turned in on itself, focusing on the little he knew. The seed of fear that had always been in the back of his head was suddenly sprouting, as if the information he had was simply a growth serum allowing it to overgrow into something much larger than he wished it to be. 

“John?” Ridley prompted gently as she touched his arm, “Shall we get going, love?”

The sooner the better. Scott had said. Like there was some kind of time limit for how long they had to see Mom. 

He remembered that kind of time limit from years and years before. 

Why was the world so eager to take his mother from them?

“John, what is it?” Ridley asked him again, squeezing his arm that time to draw his attention, “Sweetheart, you’re crying.”

He hadn’t realised there were tears on his cheeks until he reached up to wipe them away, sniffing as he did so and shaking his head. 

“It’s like the world is out to get her.” He choked out, looking to her, remembering a snowy afternoon on a mountain somewhere he didn’t care to remember. All of them just kids, Gordon and Alan still babies. Each of them learning to ski under their parents and grand-parents guidance. 

“There was an avalanche,” He whispered, letting her guide his head back to her shoulder, “Gordon had wandered off, wanted to go on an adventure or something. It almost killed them both.”

It had killed both his maternal grandparents and left both their mother and Gordon in comas for a week. He remembered the doctors telling Dad to prepare for the worst, words that a teenager hadn’t been meant to hear but he couldn’t have helped listening to. 

Dad had taught him about the stars, but it was Mom that had taught him kindness and how to be himself. 

“Your Mom is strong John,” Ridley murmured, reaching up to cup his cheek, “Strong and as stubborn as any of you boys. She’s got a fighting chance, I promise you.”

Biting his lip, he shook his head, trying to blink away the fresh tears that were trying to fall. Ridley’s hand was light on his back as she rubbed gentle, soothing circles, waiting for what he had to say.

“I don’t know if-- Mom’s always been there Rids. If something happens to her we’ll be--” The lump in his throat cut him off as he shook his head again, not willing to face the possibility that maybe they had lost both Dad and Mom. 

“We don’t know that yet,” She told him, voice strong and solid and stern, “We don’t know anything until we get over to the hospital. All we can do is take everything one step at a time.”

It wasn’t her rescue voice, but there was something about the soft determination that forced further worry and questions to one side. She had a point, there was little to be gained from staying on the roof and drowning in fear of potential scenarios. Sitting thinking about what had happened in the past would change nothing, that was then, this was now. 

“We need to go,” He murmured, taking a long breath in, “I need to--” He broke off, all the things that he had to do coming to the fore. 

They needed a plane. He needed a bag. He needed to set up the irrigation system for his plants on the kitchen windowsill. 

“I’ll sort the plane,” Ridley assured him, “You go and sort your plants and then a bag for yourself.”

Standing, she leant down to kiss his hair, pausing there for a moment as he swiped at his cheeks again, “We’ll figure this out John. No matter what happens, we’ll figure things out.”