#I know nothing about Substack

[carouselcometh]

Anyways, if anyone wants to preemptively subscribe to my advice column, you can do so here. I'm planning to publish the first installment in a couple days

[wild-at-mind]

Not sure we really needed an exploration of why it’s bad to say ‘happy international women’s day’- it’s just a thing people say. *huge shrug*

[chdarling]

Not a goodbye, just a brb.

And so we reach the end of TLE2.

…holy shit, y’all.

I had it in my head that I was going to write a whole deep, emotional retrospective on what TLE2 has meant to me, how it’s seen me through so many dramatic changes in my life since I start writing it in 2021, etc, etc, etc. And I have so much to say on that, but it turns out, I’m still a little too emotional to do it hahaha. Honestly didn’t think it was going to hit me this hard.

So instead let me talk about the future for a minute, and then another night I’ll invite drunk CH in to do my dirty work for me.

First things first, as you are probably all aware, I will be taking an extended break between TLE2 and TLE3. I’ve been posting this story pretty consistently since 2020, and as much as I have loved it, and continue to love it, it’s time for me to take a little breather and focus on some other projects for a while.

Please do not worry that I’m abandoning TLE. I am not. This story has haunted me since I was fifteen years old. I will never escape until I write those final words. It’s a part of me, and I’m going to see it through. One way or another. But, in order for me to continue to love working on TLE, I need to take some time and space away, and I also have several original projects that I’m really excited to work on, and that I have frankly been neglecting over the past few years as TLE2 took much longer to finish than I anticipated.

Among these projects is a substack that I literally just set up today. So, it’s very fresh. There’s nothing much there yet, but if you’d like to follow along as I focus on my original writing, this would be the place to do it. No pressure at all, but if it interests you, you can subscribe here. (It’s free!)

It’s probably going to be a month or so until I’m really able to dive into this, but I’m really excited, a little scared, and really, really grateful for all of your support.

Probably not a great advertisement for me as a writer to say that I don’t have the words to tell you how much you all have meant to me over the years of sharing TLE, but just know it’s a lot. It’s a lot a lot.

Ok and with this little self-indulgent post out of the way, I’m going to wipe the tears from my misty eyes and go press that publish button for TLE2, one last time.

See you on the other side.

[drdemonprince]

I am always clutching to my idealized reality firmly with both fists. Whenever my hair looks good in a photograph, I immediately get to stressing about the fact that my hair has already grown some imperceptible amount since when the image was captured. Then I cut it, hoping to restore it to its former perfection — and my head gets completely mangled by my clippers and shears. I deny myself my favorite foods and drinks sometimes, knowing that the meal will too quickly be over. The moment someone begins to love me is when I start picturing them dead.  Many late-realized Autistics develop relational patterns that therapists label codependent, controlling, or Borderline. I wonder how much of our supposedly dysfunctional attachment can be attributed to our desire for constancy, and our attempts to impose stability on a reality that forever shifts. For Autistics, most social interactions are mystifying and seem to play out on their own, largely beyond our control. Possible rejection hides in every corner, much of it unforeseeable to us.  Doesn’t it make sense we’d try to control what we can?  When a partner remarks that he’d like to get a bigger mattress, I want to chop off the sides of the bed to force our bodies closer. I want to hiss at every new person that enters the friend group to scare them off. Though all my queer loved ones are enlightened polyamorists, whenever someone I love starts texting someone new I fantasize about slipping away with their phone in the night, unlocking it, finding the new contact, and blocking the threat into oblivion.  I don’t do any of this, of course. But in my selfish, rotted heart, I want to be like Hannibal Lecter, drugging his patients and hypnotically conditioning Clarice to be in love with him. When I learned that Jeffrey Dahmer drilled holes into his lovers’ heads and filled the cavities with hot water and bleach to keep them from abandoning him, I could kind of understand it. And I hated myself for it.  I don’t actually have the stomach to be violent. My war with reality happens only inside. Besides, I know that if I were actually to try and control another person’s life, it would just send them running away. I learned that the dozens of times that I completed boyfriends’ homework for them, paid their rent, wrote cover letters for friends’ job applications, and inserted myself into fights that weren’t mine. I have tried to pull at others’ strings to keep them all happy and around me, but it only ever sent them running away, sad tangles of threads left round my fingers.  People like me must be why Autistics have a reputation for being cold-hearted, unfeeling, and unable to recognize the interiority of anyone else. I’m an anarchist in principle and a lover of my own freedom, so I would never wish to impose my will onto another person. I am terrified of the urges for control and permanence that lurk inside me. I’m afraid of where they might take me, and so I never give voice to them — In fact, I rarely give voice to any of my desires at all.  I let people do what they will without ever voicing my opinion. That’s the only way to truly avoid becoming the Dahmer in my mind. My method of control is to ask nothing, and give everything, hoping that one day another person will notice and choose to be devoted to me.  But even then, they’d change on me. It’s in the nature of all living things. 

I wrote about the Autistic fear of change, where it comes from, how it affects our relationships, and the many ways that we attempt to cope with change, both for good and for ill. It is free to read or have narrated to you on my Substack.

[peppermintquartz]

Read part 1

Read part 2

Read part 3

Read part 4

---

Tommy's wrapped around Evan in the kitchen, the two of them swaying to Etta James as the duck is roasting in the oven.

"I love you," Evan murmurs.

Humming along to the familiar tune, he presses his cheek closer to Evan's. "I love you too, babe."

"Tommy, I love you. I love you so much."

There's something strange about Evan's tone. He sounds as though he's been crying. Tommy pulls back, but Evan is smiling tenderly at him, eyes soft and full of stars like they have been since the first time they kissed.

"Evan, is everything okay?"

"Come back to me so I can prove it," Evan says, incongruous to what Tommy just said.

Tommy freezes and it feels like the light in the kitchen darkens for a second. "What?"

Evan leans in and presses the tip of his nose to Tommy's cheek. "I love you. Please, wake up."

Images flash across Tommy's mind.

A semi bearing down on them as they race away from an obsessed madwoman.

The crash that sent them careening to the top of a hillside.

Blood and panic on Evan's beautiful face.

Him cutting Evan's seatbelt and shoving him out the door.

The lurch of the truck as it loses the fight against gravity.

The terror when his seatbelt won't release and his knife slips out of his blood-slicked hand.

The thought of at least he's safe.

The panicked screaming of his name.

The pain.

The pain.

The pain.

"I'm not here, am I?"

Evan in his arms is still smiling.

Tommy hugs him and kisses him. "I love you," he says.

Evan in his arms says nothing. Something is beeping. It's not the oven.

"I'm going now," Tommy adds. He steps away and cups Evan's cheek. "Will you be there for me?"

---

Life is not a movie. Tommy doesn't wake up fully with that one declaration of love, no matter how sincere and heartfelt.

But his condition stabilizes enough for the hospital to move him out of ICU. His eye response improves, and he sometimes moves his fingers, reacting to touch. The first time he curls his fingers into Buck's hand, Buck breaks down into a weeping mess and has to be led away by staff until he regains his composure.

He comes every day. He's on medical leave anyway to recuperate fully, so he goes to the hospital and sits in an uncomfortable chair on the side of the bed. Sal goes to work and comes over on the days he doesn't. Sometimes he's alone, sometimes he's with his wife Gina. They tell him about Tommy being there for them, especially in the early years of their marriage when their fiery tempers clashed. Tommy had grounded them both until they mellowed.

Bobby drops in too, once with Athena who had another cop take Buck's statement in the room, because he refused to leave Tommy.

Buck told them about Irene, about the way she tried to isolate Buck from his family, his friends. And her tantrum when she realized that he was still pining over Tommy. How she drugged him and cuffed him to the headboard before luring Tommy with a text from Buck's phone to a secluded location.

Her first mistake was saying "hey Tommy, this is Buck". Her second mistake was thinking Buck wouldn't know how to get out of his own cuffs - he and Tommy had practiced often.

Anyway, the police had her, and she was screaming threats when she was pulled from the semi after the crash.

Buck asks Hen to throw out everything in the loft that belongs to Irene. He doesn't want to think about her ever again.

And every day, he talks to Tommy. He reads from Substacks he finds interesting. He talks about the Kinsey scale and how it isn't really helpful for him, but he thinks he's landed under the bisexual flag. "70% women, 30% men, if that makes sense to you?" He reads aloud recipes and asks which he should make. He talks about Irene and how she fooled him with a story about a lost cat, and everything after with her felt shallow, but he was on the rebound and not paying attention to any of the red flags. He tells Tommy that he's not letting Tommy go again, not a second time.

He doesn't talk to Maddie or Chimney for a week.

He does, however, give Jee-yun a big hug and a kiss when they bring her to visit Buck, and places her drawing of "Uncle Tommy in a heli-copper flying in the sky with rainbows" right next to the bed. And then he lets them hug him and apologize and lets Maddie kiss the top of his head.

The day before he has to go back to work, Buck holds Tommy's hand. "I'll be here whenever I'm off shift," he says. "I'll be sure to have more stories to tell you."

Tommy's hand curls into his. Buck swallows down the lump of emotion in his throat. Tommy's grown thinner. He massages the wrist and arm, the way he's seen the other nurses do it.

"I'm gonna miss being right here where I can see you," he continues. "I bet you're happy to have a little less yapping in your ears though."

And then he hears the faintest murmur: "Ev'n?"

Everything stops, just for a heartbeat. Tommy's eyelids flutter. His pulse speeds up and other monitors begin to pick up. His lips move.

"Ev'n?"

"I'm here, I'm here, don't go anywhere," Buck stammers, gripping Tommy's hand in both his own, and then screams for someone to get a doctor. He doesn't even register that he's crying until the teardrops land on the back of his hand, seeping between his and Tommy's fingers.

The nurses have to pry him away. Dianne and Nick sit him down in a chair in the corner and make him contact Sal and Bobby both. They promise to come down as soon as they can. All of them.

When he's allowed back to his usual spot, he takes Tommy's cold hand and kisses it. Tommy can't really keep his eyes open for long, but he smiles faintly.

"Ev'n. There y' are."

"Here I am," Buck whispers. "I'm never leaving again."

[available on ao3]

[see-arcane]

Before the journal opened

Before it saved his life

Before Hell staked a claim

Before he swung his knife

A storm rolled in with the spring

And hope paved his long way

Through monsters and their red wants

He takes step one today.

WARNING: Contains some grisly imagery towards the end.

All free preview chapters are available on my Substack.

Harker

C.R. Kane

March to April

Spring rolled in more grey than green that week. It dribbled rain through morning and noon, pondering to itself whether it would save an encore for evening in the way of a proper storm. The songbirds and the street noise went on as best they could between showers. They made up the only true din in Jonathan Harker’s corner, not counting the hammering of the typewriter or an occasional rustle of sheets. The usual low cacophony of the firm had been whittled down immensely due to the cough that had been shared at the start of the week and sent the greater part of Peter Hawkins’ small legion home to hack and sniffle in private.

This left Jonathan somewhat abandoned, not counting Hawkins’ presence behind the office door. It was just as well. He’d been splitting his attention between the eternal tower of logistical and legal chores that ruled his desk and the shorthand notes made in preparation for his exam. Such had been his constant state for the past two months. There had been ribbing from all directions, some bemoaning the imminent loss of a load-bearing clerk, others saying now they could draw lots and boot someone else out the door, and still more wheedling about whether or not they could still drag him in place as a shield when clientele of a certain incendiary temperament came around. Please?

Jonathan had remained ominously mum. Groans and lamentations ensued.

This was a joke, of course. Young Mr. Harker was nothing if not dedicated to the task of transmuting Hawkins’ charity to a whipcord child fifteen years prior into a proper investment. Case in point, using a lull in his own workload to get things in order for those bedridden solicitors who had the nearest deadlines pending. Bentley idled through with his tea as he did and shook his head.

“Don’t know what it is that comes with your kind, Harker, but it’s a busier thing that any of us idle English have. We’re down two thirds of the building and here you are doing three-quarters of the work. Get the examination out of the way and you may as well tell the old man to retire.” A thoughtful sip came from behind the porcelain. “Must be something they teach you Gurkha sorts, eh? Some kind of discipline our doughy little English schoolboys never get knocked in their heads.”

Jonathan weighed the decision of whether or not to give Arnold Bentley his bimonthly reminder that he was, in fact, English by birth. His parents as well. But the reminder would likely fall into the same pit between the man’s ears where all the others had gone. Worse, it might risk a tally mark against him in whatever invisible score was kept by peers. The one that determined whether the combination of Jonathan’s physiognomy and disposition really were enough to pardon his status or not. He finished this measuring of scales in less than a blink. A smile was summoned.

“Not at all. Just helping where things can be helped.” He straightened a sheaf of forms back in order. “That, and I cannot go a day without productivity, or else I shall have to go home and carve my hand with the kukri knife in penance.”

Bentley paused halfway through his laugh when Jonathan held his gaze. He gawped over his cup.

“God. Really?”

“No, not really. My penmanship would suffer terribly.”

This spurred a louder guffaw from the man, likewise a rattling clap of his open palm to Jonathan’s shoulder. Then he was out like a breeze to carry on with whatever it was he had drifted from in his own territory of the building. Jonathan resumed his interrupted rhythm. Read. Check. Write. Type. Read. Check. Write. Type. So he went for another hour before his watch told him it was time to check the post.

He stepped out during a lull of rain. The thunder talked with itself in the slate-dark clouds, debating whether or not to turn the spigot on the moment the wad of envelopes was out in the open. Jonathan applauded himself on dodging the first drops of the deluge by seconds. Peeking through the window, he saw there were even a few fitful winks of lightning hopping through the sky. What few pedestrians were left went running for shops they had no interest in, restaurants they had no appetites for, and cabs that turned frustratingly scarce within the minute. Jonathan grimaced in premonition of the dash he and Mina would have to make under the umbrella once she was free of her students.

But that was for later. For now, he flipped through the day’s heap and dealt them out to the waiting desks, occupied or not. The last in the stack was a familiar packet and one of extraordinary make. It was patterned with the stamps of myriad countries with ornate flourishes in the writing. A thick crimson seal sporting a rearing dragon marked it as the second delivery from the same foreign estate that had written to Hawkins in February. A castle set in the backdrop of the Carpathians.

Jonathan had felt his heart twist the first time he’d handled a parcel from the address and it twisted doubly hard now. There had been time in the interim to start combing through Exeter’s libraries for any beginning details to have ready should Hawkins want some background to aid one of the solicitors, especially in the case of a potential trip. If the latter came to pass, it would mean a visit to London and a perusal of denser material. A fine enough excuse to wander the superior bookcases and the British Museum on its own. But the luster of the errand was already gone in his mind. The first glimpse of the prospective client’s territory in the first book he’d cracked open, wrought in illustrations and sparse photographs as it was, sent a spear of longing through Jonathan’s chest that still hadn’t left.

Why would anyone living there want to trade such a place for England?

Jonathan was not oblivious to the advantages of the country. He understood his good fortune in access to modern works, from amenities to entertainments; at least in theory. With cautious budgeting. But all his life had been spent in cramped rooms or congested streets. The presence of a park, a farmer’s field, a distant beach, or a picturesque cemetery were the nearest he would ever come to the broad and chainless beauty of places not yet stomped flat with bricks and smoke.

Imagine! Meadows and hills, valleys and forests, all topped with the great serrated crown of the mountains. Cities and villages worn smooth with generations going back through centuries.

Imagine being there with her. Seeing sunrise flood over the peaks, walking old roads and footpaths, tasting and seeing and playing and breathing in a place without its laces drawn like a noose around throat and purse. The trains alone would be enough for her, true, but we would find somewhere to stop. Somewhere in every swatch of the countryside. At some point, as she became lost in a view, in a meal, in a walk, she would see me on my knee and what I held in my hand, and the wedding could happen right there in an ancient chapel, and then…

But the fantasy turned to dust before it could finish.

The required funds were cudgel enough to smash the whole daydream to atoms. At most they might manage a trip someplace other than their usual heights of hedonism. That was, a brief trip to Piccadilly and back. Maybe a bit of theatre. Possibly a picnic. Perhaps even some further place in the Isles. Somewhere rich with quiet and history of its own, but likely not across the Channel. Never a locale so far and mythic as the place Hawkins’ new client seemed interested in abandoning. Jonathan pictured Hawkins writing back to the noble on his behalf, wailing at the stranger not to forsake his fairy tale castle for the doldrums of a Londoner’s garish crate of a manse, no matter how crusted in filigree.

Save yourself! Do not trade your mountains for an English molehill!  Turn back, turn back!

But that would be a poor way to run the firm, wouldn’t it? Resigned, he brought the packet to Hawkins’ office and knocked at the door.

“It’s open, Jonathan.”

Jonathan ducked in with his smile already nailed in place. It was an expression he now had to work at as recent months plodded on and Peter Hawkins’ complexion failed to improve. The man behind the broad desk was only half as rubicund as he’d been the year before. He had insisted to everyone who dared ask that he was merely suffering from a particularly ugly attack of gout and that he would be fine in a week or so. As it stood, Hawkins could still sit up straight and bellow thanks when Jonathan came by with his delivery. He even turned a shade ruddier upon seeing the dragon’s seal.

“Well now,” he said through a grin. He turned the packet over and pointed it at Jonathan. “Have you taken lunch?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Go on and fill up quick. If this is what I believe it is, I expect I’ll need your ear within the hour.”

So saying, Hawkins slit the packet open and began to read. Jonathan dismissed himself with his fingers crossed in his pocket. Perhaps the British Museum wasn’t too far off after all. That and the London libraries. It would be too brief a visit for anything more extravagant than what Lucy referred to as his and Mina’s ‘academic holidays,’ but it would make an interesting exercise just the same. Plotting the trip was a pleasant enough distraction to eat to.

He finished just as he heard the tell-tale grunt and shuffle that meant Hawkins was hefting himself up to trudge around his desk. Jonathan flew to the door first, only just recalling to swat his knuckles against the wood before opening it. Hawkins looked up with a shock before gratefully flopping himself back into his chair.

“You have a dog’s hearing and cat’s feet. Ought to have a bell on you to give an old man some warning.”

“Apologies.”

“Nothing to apologize for. Saved me dragging myself around unduly.” Hawkins thumped a hand on the desk as if patting a horse. “I suppose I need to throw this out and trade desks with you. I can make it past that little square of yours in no time.” He thought further on it. “Less than a minute, anyhow.” He made a face that couldn’t decide itself between a smile or a grimace. “My doctor, who only seems to tell me what I already know, declares that I am not fit for any arduous travel. In his terms, that includes going further than the street corner on foot. Even a train ride is apparently a gamble, being that I should be in bed resting and rotting like a good patient rather than hobbling my way to and from the cab to work. Already I press his orders and my luck. Which means this,” he held up an envelope, “is out of the question for me.”

Jonathan recognized the torn envelope and scarlet seal. What held him up was the recognition that it was the first of the two packets. The February delivery.

“That’s unfortunate. Who was the client?”

Hawkins grinned in earnest now, purposefully turning the envelope so that the address was hidden.

“You tell me.”

Jonathan offered half a smile back. It was an old game that had begun years ago when he was still just a bookish boy underfoot, helping around the office for whatever could be spared for a child’s wage. Even then his eyes had been hungry things.

“Count Dracula, from the castle of the same name, of Transylvania. The address is from a Bistritz postal service situated in the Carpathians.”

“True and true.” Hawkins set the envelope on the desk and tapped it with a thick finger. “Curious taste in property, this one. Likely has the cravings of a renovator. No trouble on our side but for the hunting. But the esteemed gentleman is so damnably far into the Continent that I couldn’t rightly offer myself up in the way he’s asking. I ought to say, the way he insists upon buying. The way our Count puts it, he would rather pay every fee of travel for his English solicitor to and from his keep in the mountains, and play host on top, rather than, he says, ‘Suffer bartering land through stationery.’ In short, he’s willing to ship a solicitor to his door rather than play at this back-and-forth for all his questions, all out of his own pocket. He wants someone who’s not just going to find and sell the manner of place he’s after, but someone who can play encyclopedia if he’s unsure of something.” 

“Hence him being prepared to rent out the owner of the firm for an in-person visit,” Jonathan finished. Hawkins gave a nod.

“And the owner might have been up for it a decade or so ago. But time marches and gout outweighs gold. So I fear that leaves me out of the picture.” Jonathan watched Hawkins fold his hands with a calculated laxness on the desk. “Your examination is coming up.”

Lightning flickered outside. More danced across Jonathan’s brain.

“Yes, sir. It is.”

“You have been my clerk since you were old enough to rent a flat,” Hawkins went on. “My apprentice and professional living plaster to this place well before that.”

“Yes,” Jonathan breathed more than spoke. He feared his vocabulary was leaking out both ears while his heart tried to climb his throat.

“And,” Hawkins half-leaned over the desk, “you have been holding onto her ring since last year. Haven’t you?”

Heat rushed up to Jonathan’s face as he got out, “…Yes. I have. Sir, are you—,”

Hawkins brandished the packet Jonathan brought through the door an hour ago. This he laid beside the February envelope so that the pair of them seemed like strange square eyes staring up at him.

“I need you to understand: This is not an offer as much as a prayer. If there’s no chance with you, that means Bentley is the next choice. He’s my longest running man here and is liable to set up his own firm before the decade’s out. But for all that, and for all that he is a trustworthy one to patter with most Englishmen, I would sooner trust a cat with a lame canary than Bentley to not choke on his own tongue with a foreigner. Clients of noble lineage included. The man can barely toe his way around an Irishman let alone anyone from across the Channel. And, since the door is shut and no one is around to cry nepotism, I can speak the unvarnished truth.

“You could do with one week what anyone else here could manage inside a month and have it done better. That is not me being rosy about the past or present, that is me having eyes that work and a basis of comparison between how things ran before you began working here and after. The after is smooth as silk compared to the pre-Harker gravel. Stable gravel, I allow, but not nearly as easy a burden as things became once you were attacking the paperwork. And the footwork.” Hawkins raised a caterpillar brow at him. “Any good finds in the local bookshelves?”

“Not as many as I hoped,” Jonathan thought he heard himself say. It was hard to tell as he seemed to have relocated to some remote island in his skull and could only register what was happening as if from across an ocean. “I wanted to stop by the options in London if I had the chance. Just to gather some background on the client’s location if it was needed.”

“I’d say it is,” Hawkins hummed. “Supposing you can tell me you have your schedule open for some traveling come May.”

Jonathan told him it was. Hawkins told him to go to the corner cabinet and move the bust of Alexander off the high shelf. Then to bring down the bottle and two tumblers. There were toasts and there was talk and there was a laughing chide from the older man as he shooed Jonathan’s pocket notebook back from whence it came. No notes today, young man. At least not right now. Actually, perhaps one for later. Did he have time open to visit a tailor? There was a travel budget that was about to go unused if the Count was to have his way. It may as well go toward a good cause. Hawkins could hardly send his best solicitor to a noble’s door without looking his best, and it was for the firm’s image, really, so it could hardly be helped, and the doctor couldn’t grudge him such paltry exercise as going to harangue a suit seller…

Jonathan’s eyes burned and his face ached with smiling. He was mortified to find himself close to a sob before turning the sound into a coughing laugh. Hawkins told him to drink, not inhale. That turned the next sound into a true chuckle. He couldn’t tell whether it was an effect of the liquor or his own imagination that made it seem as if the thunder was laughing too.

“Transylvania,” Mina said for the dozenth time.

“Transylvania,” Jonathan echoed. He turned to face her rather than cling to the charade that either of them were focused enough to continue their mutual study. His pile included the texts that had come to haunt his subconscious with its rules and rites of property law, now with the hypnotic temptation of the library books waiting just an arm’s length away. Mina, who Jonathan knew was as much or more a pillar of solid focus than himself, had not a mote of attention to spare for the papers taken from the realm of educational etiquette or her personal project of mirroring and translating his shorthand. The latter made a certain gleeful anticipation turn over in his stomach. It left him floundering between elation and anxiety with equal force until he thought he might lose his last meal on the floorboards.

Which would be a shame, as he and Mina had combined their efforts into a delightful result in Jonathan’s narrow kitchen. Jonathan had only half-jokingly implied that they were making a child’s ideal feast because he was, in fact, giddy as a boy who’d just shaken hands with Father Christmas. Mina had declared this was nonsense.

“A supper made of breakfast is an entirely sound culinary decision.”

“Yes, Miss Murray,” in his best schoolboy tone. “Did you want crêpes or toast?”

“Crêpes. Extra cream.”

They had giggled like children over their respective plates. Just as they did over the rapidly ignored chores they had planned for themselves after. It was the frightful intoxication of feeling the future unrolling into a new smiling mystery before them. One that whispered, yes, yes, this is real, this is coming true. A future that might include…

Jonathan gulped down a heavy lump of air as his gaze flicked again to the sheet of shorthand messages he had scribbled out for her to translate. She had stopped halfway through. Close, close, close. But he didn’t let his stare linger. Instead he found her face again, still glowing. Jonathan was forever surprised that he had not dreamt her up as a boy and continued dreaming her until now. It surprised him more that he had managed to earn her love and dumbfounded him entirely to think that she regarded herself in the same terms. More, that she insisted she was the luckier half of their equation. He did not follow her meaning then, nor did he think he ever would.

“Mina, anyone with a sliver of sense in their head would feel the same for you,” he had insisted more than once. Each time she had smiled and shaken her head. Her eyes forever bright with a sweet-somber knowledge he couldn’t decipher.

“There is plenty of sense to spare. Loving hearts as well. But there is a different lens that women see the world through and it shows things men shall never have to see. It shows so much to watch for. To be wary of, or to hope for, or to know not to expect because life has made it clear that so much of what’s dreamt of only exists for a few, while the rest make do with storybooks and stage plays.” Her hand had held tight in his. “You were not meant to exist outside the borders of a fairy tale, Jonathan Harker. That you cannot see as much for yourself makes me wonder if someone really did peel you off a page and if you will vanish back to a fair princess somewhere when I wake up.”

“That implies I am either a prince or some clever farmhand. I’m cut out for neither. I am a squire at best. Though I would not settle for a mere princess either way, however fair.” He had dared a grin at her. “Or have you already forgotten Mrs. Westenra’s unique stance on the matter?”

Memory had nettled Mina out of her glumness with a sputter that tried and failed not to turn into shamefaced laughter. She had improved somewhat in the years since the incident itself, back when the whole ring of persons involved had flamed with embarrassment over the misunderstanding of Jonathan’s presence when spotted with Miss Lucille Westenra and her companion Miss Mina Murray now that all of them had stretched out of childhood and into the far end of adolescence. Followed by the ensuing inquiry as to why Mr. Harker had been baffled at the very concept of seeking to gain Miss Westenra’s affection as anything more than a friend.

Jonathan remembered sitting in one of the gilded rooms of the Westenra estate, sat across from Lucy’s increasingly rose-faced mother as she came to the belated realization that Mina Murray’s young man was not trying to court anyone other than Mina Murray. Worse, it had been left on his shoulders to steer the conversation out of potential wreckage by thanking his hostess for clearly being concerned on Mina’s own behalf, as there were too many people in the world who took the notion of seeking out a secret paramour behind another’s back as a matter of course. He was heartened to know that Mrs. Westenra cared enough to be mindful should an actual cad come into the orbit of her daughter or her friends.

Still flushed, Mrs. Westenra had chased agreement in this, poured on apologies for the mistake and had thankfully never brushed the topic since. Though Lucy had words enough to spare on the matter for months afterward. She had languished at them in the garden about it, the image of woe in peach blossom tailoring.

“Jonathan, I fear we must become enemies,” she’d intoned gravely. “You must walk with a cane in hand and I must brandish my parasol so that we keep our distance and never risk breathing the same air. We cannot even deafen poor Mina’s ears with the Bard or eavesdroppers will take us knowing the lines of Hamlet and Ophelia as proof of a tryst. Perhaps we should go around with our hats pulled down over our eyes, lest we give into temptation and acknowledge each other’s existence while being the opposite sex. It is our only chance of salvation.”

“Miss Lindon again?” from Mina, her smile placid. Jonathan knew she wore the same callused shell he did when it came to the patter that trickled down from higher tiers than theirs. Those tiers were many and their squabbles almost alien in what they deemed worth sniping about behind their fans and cigars. The infamous Miss Lindon was apparently a thorn too serrated even for Lucy’s compassion to withstand.

“Very much Miss Lindon again. ‘He would just do for you, Lucy.’ As though she thought I would be doing a charity by going behind my friend’s back and she were doing a charity by her sneering compliment. At least nature was kind enough to spare me having to think of a similarly charitable rebuttal, as a beetle helpfully flew into her hair a moment later and she went running. One must take silver linings when they come. Unrelatedly, Jonathan, when you do become a solicitor in full, should Miss Lindon and her future beau ever approach you for a house..?”

“I shall do what I can to find them a lovely estate,” Jonathan assured. “In Northumberland.”

“Next door to an entomologist?” Mina asked over her cup.

“Of course.”

Jonathan blinked the recollection away, wondering whether it was the dizziness of the day or the ticking of the clock between Mina and the final line of shorthand that was making his mind slosh. Perhaps it was simply the subconscious’ effort to dodge the weight of the evening and what it might promise. His thoughts were fleeing to hide from hope and worry. But Mina knew him too well. She caught him with her eyes before pulling him back into the headiness of the present.

“You will do fantastically, Jonathan. Tell me you know it as well as I do.”

“I will not say I know it. Too much confidence risks laziness. I will only say that I shall give all of myself to the task. It must be done so it will be done. If I think any further than that simple fact, my head will burst.”

“If you do, I promise to sweep you up and put your pieces back in order.” Her smile softened an increment as her hand settled in his. “I mean it.” She squeezed. He squeezed back.

“The same goes for you. We are neither of us allowed to hold ourselves together with string and brittle smiles once the door is between us and,” Jonathan flapped his free hand at the rain-streaked window, “all of that. No acting when it’s us alone.” He flashed her a decidedly less-than-brittle smile. “I promise not to tattle to your girls.”

“You were bad enough today, Mr. Harker. Half the classes were watching.” Her voice tutted, but the grin showed in her eyes. Jonathan had arrived at the school with the umbrella in one hand and a bouquet in the other. A bundle of her beloved lilies that he’d used as a screen behind which to steal a kiss and drop the announcement of Hawkins’ assignment in her ear. Forgetting her audience, Mina had kissed him back, forgetting to mask herself behind the petals. They had absconded to the cab to the sound of a dozen girls cooing their farewells, Miss Murray, see you tomorrow, Miss Murray, has he got a brother, Miss Murray?

“Hardly a terrible thing. If you are one of their examples, mustn’t they have something to look forward to at the end of all their practice?” He assumed a pose of scheming innocence, lashes batting. “I could be especially nefarious come Valentine’s Day. Take a holiday from Hawkins and show up toting chocolates and train tickets and a florist’s worth of flowers.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“I can hire an orchestra to follow us around. Have them play waltzes the whole day.”

“Jonathan.”

“No, of course, an orchestra would be too cumbersome. A singer and a violin, perhaps. I can hire a paperboy to throw rose petals after us. Or else I could send them up to the classroom to follow you in procession out of the building…”

The typewriter hammered back to life. Its keys were struck with more force than they needed.

“Sorry,” Mina sang above the din, “no hearing you over this. You will have to be a foul minion of Eros a little louder.” Jonathan bit his tongue against a reply. Yes, she was typing again. Yes, she was reading the last of the shorthand. Tap-tap-tap, clack-clack-clack. So far it was all the lines of a love note—a common enough surprise, if one that fished more than the usual dimpled grin out of her tonight—and she had not caught on yet to the conclusion. “How long will the client need you over there?”

“Between the travel to the estate, the stay, and the return trip, the whole thing should be over within early May. I shall have time to hoard you a while before you and Lucy have your summer escape to the coast. Was it Whitby?”

“Yes, quite near the landmark Abbey. I mean to harass the townspeople with demands for any ghost stories they might spare about the place. Perhaps Marmion is but a single drop in a sea of waiting legends.”

Tap-tap-tap.

“Then I shall try to collect what I can abroad in turn,” Jonathan said from behind a fan of notes. He kept only the corner of his eye pinned on the swimming lines. “There should be spirits in abundance along the route.” 

Clack-clack-clack.

“I would think so. But don’t settle for ghosts alone! I shall happily adopt any devils or revenants or folkloric fiends the locals can share—,”

Her voice died mid-key.

Jonathan looked over the top of his pages. Mina sat frozen as a sculpture. Her hands still hovered at the typewriter, lax and immobile. But her eyes were in motion. Flicking back, forward, and back again between Jonathan’s shorthand and the five words they had translated to in plain ink.

Will you marry me, Wilhelmina?

By the time she finally turned her head back to face him, he was already on the floor, swift and silent at her hip. The box sat open in his hand. Set inside was a petite gold band whose stone gleamed like a fleck of starlight.

Mina looked from the ring to its holder with eyes that were already spilling.

“Yes,” Jonathan heard a dozen, a hundred times in the ensuing night. Yes, yes, yes, a thousand, a million times, yes. Between kisses, between tastes, between touches and takings that skirted the furthest edge of propriety between unmarried bodies. Yes.

“We are engaged. We must prepare for the wedding night as one must study ahead of an examination. Isn’t that right, Miss Murray?”

“It is, Mr. Harker.” Then, furtive despite her position over him, she grew a smile both shy and sly. A lure surrounded by the hanging curtain of her hair, “…Can you say it? For practice’s sake.” He did not have to ask her meaning.

“Mina Harker.”

Her teeth bared in a white moon.

“I didn’t quite hear you. Say again?” As she asked, her hand moved. He gasped in the trap of it.

“My pronunciation must be off. How is this?” His own hand moved. Her eyes went wide and dark. “Mina Harker. Mina Harker. Mina Harker.”

More practice unspooled. Harker, husband, wife, I do, I will. Around and around again until their tongues ran dry and they were left folded into the tangle of each other, their last fig leaf still reserved for the nuptial night itself. As midnight rolled past, the storm slipped off with it and left the moon to throw its rays through the edges of the curtains. Mina’s ring trapped its glow on her knuckle. He almost wept to look at it.

Real. This is real. I am awake and this is real. God, God. Thank you.

“Thank you,” he murmured into the top of her head. Her hair massed into a perfect curling cloud under his chin. The cloud tickled there as she lifted her gaze to him.

“For what?”

“You know.”

“If I must say, ‘You’re welcome,’ so must you.” Jonathan held his tongue. “Exactly.” Her hand cupped his cheek as she went on, “I feel much the same. Like a lottery was won and the prize is an unfair gift by dint of how precious it is compared to the recipient. By how that prize refuses to acknowledge their own value. But there is time yet to filter that all down into something better. We will have our vows to smother each other with and neither of us will be able to shush and insist, no, no, I am the luckier one. All while the pews roll their eyes. For tonight I ask that we have a truce. No deprecation, no hoisting onto pedestals. Just for now, we will pretend we each feel equal to the blessing of the other. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Good.” Mina lifted herself high enough to find his lips with hers. “I love you, Jonathan.”

“I love you, Mina.” He mouthed the words to himself long after she had fallen asleep atop his heart. I love you, Mina. I love you, Mina Murray. I love you, Mina Harker. I love you. Thank you.

Jonathan faced the covered window and the sliver of pane visible at the cloth’s edge. He spotted the moon hovering in a split among the breaking rainclouds. As sleep finally found him, he could not shake an unpleasant certainty that he was looking at a great glowing eye. And that it was staring back. 

Jonathan discovered Carfax Abbey on a clear blue day. His immediate impressions of the place ran in quick succession. First, that the location was so precise in its accommodation of Count Dracula’s specifications that it might have been commissioned. Second, that it looked like a place meant only to exist after dark on a sinister moor. This remained true despite the brilliance of spring stubbornly budding along the edge of its high stone fence.

He sent back a late thanks to himself as he’d been that morning, when he had tossed a coin on whether or not to bring the Kodak with him for the day’s hunt. Though the cab would be trusted to take him to the general area, it would be down to more literal footwork to inspect the properties he hoped to survey as far as he could without increasing the fare. Which would not bother him too much if he were going light. He did have a fondness for a run when it could be gotten away with sans pedestrians. But there would be no jogging with the camera to mind. Only a steady trudge.

Yet even that predicted march was trimmed down to a mere amble by dint of the cabman’s suggestion. He had heard out Jonathan’s description of his ideal quarry and first assumed him to be a tourist who’d gotten lost in a search for haunted houses.

“The area hasn’t much in that way, lad. Only place that comes close is old Carfax. Used to be an abbey, but looks more like a hideaway for the Dark Ages’ ghouls.”

“Do you know if it’s for sale?” This had earned him an odd look before the cabman admitted he had seen a sign staked out front that might have claimed the place was available. Supposing one cleared away the accumulated grime.

“I have to wonder if your buyer will bother with such a place. Ghosts can be dealt with, but it has more unsavory living neighbors to deal with.”

“Who are they?”

“Can’t say I know them personally, thank God, but I know for certain they’re perfectly mad.”

“Really?”

“Well, they’d not be in a private madhouse otherwise.”

The cab passed said lunatic asylum en route to the site. Jonathan was happy to note that it was at least a stately building, clearly a former domestic estate that had been expanded into suitable proportions for the inmates and staff. Better still, it was so far from Carfax as to be invisible through the facility’s wall of tended trees even when standing outside the latter’s stonework border.

Seeing the composition of said fence’s rough stones had plucked at Jonathan’s boyhood itch for play. If it were not for the cabman as a witness, he might have clambered his way up and walked along the edge as he’d done around his aunt’s home before he was declared too old for such nonsense. Still musing, Jonathan thanked the man again for the find and paid for the ride, promising another fare if he would return in an hour’s time. The cabman hesitated even after he had taken the first half of the pay.

“You’re certain you’d rather not go up the whole road first? There aren’t many houses, but they’re each of them empty and all far less a stain on the eye than that evil heap of rocks.”

“Do any of the rest have a chapel attached?”

“Don’t believe so. But if your buyer’s so keen on his prayers he ought to make do with a trip to church like the rest of us.”

“I imagine he means to refurbish it for that very purpose.” Jonathan offered a smile. “I’m certain whatever spirits might be lurking will have to clear out once he’s put the place in order.”

“Or torn the bloody thing down,” the cabman muttered not quite under his breath. He huffed and checked his watch. “An hour, you said? Just to wander around the place?”

“To wander here and across the neighboring grounds. I need to take note of the full landscape as well as the estate.” The cabman snorted at this in time with his horse.

“I hope your buyer is paying what you’re worth, lad. Any more on his list and he’d have you mapping out all of Purfleet to be sure it suits his fancy.” When the cab pulled away Jonathan began the photography. As much as he could manage from outside the fence. But then, because there were no witnesses, and because there was no way of opening the gate without ruining the rusted lock, and because it really wouldn’t be a thorough survey of the property without a glimpse of things on the inside of the towering stone walls, Jonathan shouldered his bag and scaled the rock as blithely as a spider.

He landed in the shade under one of the sundry trees that crowded the interior grounds. Jonathan marveled at how the trees’ shadows and that of the hulking abbey combined to hold a permanent dusk in place. So much so that it was a challenge to find any well-lit spots in which to take pictures without losing details. Up close the chapel was no less imposing than the abbey. It stood apart in its overgrown gothic solitude while the abbey puffed itself out with late additions to the structure. Jonathan made a note to reserve some pictures for Mina once he’d set aside an album for the Count. Sadly there was no letting himself indoors without becoming a full intruder, and so he satisfied himself with touring the rest of the land. A tour he was happy to make at a run.

The camera and his bag were set carefully aside with the chapel to manage this—for he must manage it, seeing as the grounds seemed to cover no less than twenty acres—and sent another belated thanks to his morning self for donning more active shoes than his workplace pair. While the place was no forest, it was an easy enough copse to imagine as such. A private patch of woodlands in which he had no one to be mindful of on a trail or blush over as they gawked at him, wondering what his hurry was. Here the exercise even bore fruit in the form of revealing a pond set at the estate’s southern end. A pool clear with spring water and trickling a faint stream through a grate into denser growth beyond the rear gates. Another run and a returning walk ensured this too got its photograph.

It was as he took these pictures that he saw the place even had some refreshment in the way of brambleberries snarling their way along the masonry. They were still some months away from being in season, but the desire to steal a piece of their thorny nest to plant his own shrub gnawed. At least until he reminded himself it would be hopeless with his current lodging. A mint tin of a flat slotted wall-to-wall with the rest of the street. Mina’s was worse still, he knew. When they married, they would pool their funds to find somewhere with a little girdle of a garden around it. Or else they would have window-boxes to grow things for the kitchen. Or both. Just a wedge of greenery to tame and taste for themselves.

 For now, he satisfied himself with adding it to the marital itinerary and took out his notebook to jot the impressions of Carfax Abbey as he had for half a dozen other estates, all of them falling short on one preference or another. Too new, too near to the hub of a city, too compact, too bright, and, most damning, not a single chapel to spare among them. At least, none that were not in use by the general public. He would likely run around for another couple weeks to check on other prospective options, but he held little hope for a finer match than Carfax.

Carfax, Carfax. I wonder…

The notebook was tucked away in exchange first for his watch, which showed he’d somehow burned only twenty minutes, and then a compass. A minor note from the Count had mentioned a desire to have, ‘an open sky with which to see all the night and day, the dusks and dawns, without men’s brick and smoke in their way.’ Jonathan could not fault such a wish and so had brought the compass to see if he might happen upon a house with the view clear for the east’s sunrise and the west’s sunset. The compass revealed he had done even better with the abbey.

‘Carfax.’ Quatre Face. A four-sided house with its walls facing the four cardinal directions. All clear of any rooftops and their belching chimneys. I’m sure it will please you, Count.

The thought sank his joy like a stone. Jonathan looked again at the abbey. Haunted and a relic of dead centuries, true, but a place of dignity and grand dimensions all the same. A voice rose up in him with smiling malice as he stared at it.

You will never have such space. You will never have a home so broad that Mina can have rooms all for herself and more for the daydream of children. You will live close to all the fruits of a metropolis, as near as the gutters themselves, and only ever know what it is to skim them, to borrow them, to daydream without laying your lesser hands on them except to use them for another. You will have neither the sprawling beauty of nature or the boons of modernity. Not for your entire life, Jonathan Harker.

And, because he could not stop the flow once it was running:

She should have found someone better. Someone with more than your scraps to offer.

He ground the heel of his palm against each eye until they dried.

“What would she say?”

Something kind you do not deserve.

Jonathan shook his head and marveled at the paradox that still found its way to nettle him even with the ring on her finger. Perhaps because of it. It was the miserable uncertainty of the hours preceding his examination turned up a hundredfold. Time, experience and evidence all stood in favor of him passing his tests on the professional and romantic fronts, yes, yes, he knew it…

…But what if he didn’t? What if he had somehow fooled himself and Mina and Hawkins and peers and the world itself into thinking he was more than what he was? What if?

What if you stop wallowing and get out before the cab returns?

Jonathan stopped long enough to skip a stone across the pond before following his route back to where he’d clambered over the wall. With half an hour to spare, he began walking at a healthy gait across the spread of land between the abbey and the asylum. If only to say he knew how many paces it was between the properties. One, two, three, four, five…

The pacing turned irregular once he had to cross through the border of trees that stood for a property line between Carfax and its company. Jonathan was stunned to discover there was no proper fence hidden behind the picturesque rows. Only a walled and gated section at the rear of the asylum that suggested an area for outdoor excursion or perhaps a private kitchen garden. He hoped it was the former. Even the insane needed leave to stretch their legs beyond the borders of a cell. As he mulled this, he heard a shout. It sounded like it held the weight of every expletive known to the English tongue and several more beyond it.

Following this was the same livid voice grating seemingly out of thin air, “Idiot! Fool! One damned page and you do this?” Jonathan heard a clatter of hollow things against a wall. “Imbecile!” He stepped fully beyond the wall of trees and saw the voice’s owner pacing back and forth inside a barred window set at the foot of the asylum’s wall.

“Sir? Are you alright?” Jonathan was almost as surprised as the man in the window to realize he had not only spoken, but come closer. There was an instant in which the man tensed. The picture of one who’s realized someone of influence has caught them in a bad moment. Yet upon actually seeing Jonathan and recognizing his lack of import, he relaxed enough to smile. Albeit sourly.

“Apart from this most inconvenient stint of homemaking, courtesy of concerned friend and kin, I am quite fine, young man. Ebullient, ecstatic, elated.” The polite rictus hardened. Jonathan thought queasily of wild dogs. “Apart from the fact that I have lost the last of my stationery to an overfilled glass. My cup runneth over. My cup ruins days of work and turns the remaining space to so much waste. Just look!”

The man thrust something up to the gaps in the bars, stopping just short of throwing the spoiled pinch of paper out onto the grass. For it was spoiled. Jonathan saw the stationery was really little more than a large cut of butcher paper folded and refolded until it made a sort of accordion-book. The whole thing was so waterlogged that Jonathan could barely tell tally marks from letters as the crayon bled together and the pages sagged.

“Ruined,” the man punctuated with what was either a sneer or a sulk. “At best I can try to mash and dry the thing out as a new sheet. But the stuff was already muddy enough to write on and I shall have to reduce myself to the penmanship of an infant with the bluntest marks just to make anything legible. And I had just started to make progress.” He cocked his gaze more fully at Jonathan. His look was one accustomed to giving brisk appraisal. “If you are a journalist, you are quite tardy with your pen. You’ve not even set up your camera’s tripod to record the travesty.”

“I am no journalist, unfortunately,” Jonathan admitted as he unearthed his notebook. “But at least that leaves some of this to work with, if you’re amenable.” Covering the shorthand of the last full page, he showed the man in the window the remaining blank sheets. Not a great many pages left, and certainly not of impressive size considering it was a pocketbook, but it would be a fair amount of writing space for a careful script. The man’s expression did not change, but his eyes brightened.

“I may be. Supposing I know the price at the other end of such a trade.”

“No price, sir. You would do me a kindness in taking it as I shall have to start a fresh one for another project soon. The predecessor would be left unfinished and forgotten in the meantime.”

“Ah, a worse fate than a journalist. An author. How many poor diaries have you left abandoned in their pretty bindings for the sake of a new volume?” The man clicked his tongue through a grin. “I jest, of course. You do not seem the sort to waste what he has.” The grin, still genuine, flattened an increment. Bloodshot eyes gleamed. “I fear I wasted a great deal of what I once thought mine on the other side of these delightful accommodations. Never make such a mistake as mine, young man. Do not doubt for an instant that what you trust today cannot turn on you tomorrow.”

“I won’t, sir.” Jonathan thought of adding that he had lived under that knowledge since the day he attended the funerals which ended his childhood. He swallowed it back. “May I..?” He held the notebook up, his shorthand sheets pinched between thumb and forefinger.

“I would be most grateful.”

Jonathan tore his filled pages neatly out. The remaining clean pages were barely thicker than a pamphlet, but clung sturdily to the little spine. Jonathan knelt low enough to lay it within reach on the grass. He noticed a small dusting of white powder at the window’s edge. A crowd of ants whittled away at the mound.

“Ants,” the man scoffed as he followed Jonathan’s line of sight. “Pitiful company. I had hoped the thaw would bring in something heartier. Flies, ladybugs, perhaps some early butterflies. But the real trouble is keeping them around. Ah, apologies, might you bring it a little closer?” The man raised his forearms into view. “I haven’t the best angle from where I stand.” Jonathan scooped up the notebook and brought it an inch nearer.

The man’s hands were abruptly out through the bars and clapped around Jonathan’s. Tight. Short of hurting, short of breaking, but locked as firmly as a vise. Jonathan tensed without pulling back. Again he thought of wild dogs. Of things that only seemed to be dogs until they closed in. Creatures that chased once they saw something run.

Jonathan was still. The man was still. Grasping Jonathan’s hand and the notebook in a pantomime prayer.

It’s my left hand. Smart enough for that, at least. I can still do my paperwork with the right intact and the other broken. Will the fingers heal in time for Mina to slip the band on? How mortifying to have to explain it all to her. I wonder if the asylum would make up a cast without charging for it…

“There is no need to shake upon it, sir,” Jonathan heard himself say. “The book is yours.” The man regarded him with less of a smile now. His lip still curled, but it seemed only to hold on by sheer will. It dropped entirely with the gust of a sigh.

“The book and a lack of tact, I fear. Even if I were not mad, I would still be a churl.” The hands relaxed and a set of fingers drummed once on the back of Jonathan’s wrist. “Though I suspect you are a soul used to them. I would tell you to be more wary on your way, but it is only a simpleton of a preacher who would bother teaching his flock wariness in a world where they must interact each day with wolves. Though I will advise that it is rather foolish to go around making conversation with confirmed lunatics up close. I am confirmed, you know. The facts are printed and signed all over by professionals. I saw the document myself.” The man’s look floated away from Jonathan and into a distance he couldn’t guess at. “Printed on far finer paper than what we settle for.”

One of the gripping hands came away, leaving only the one folded over the notebook and Jonathan’s palm. They shook. The notebook was collected in the same gesture.

“My thanks,” from the window.

“Quite welcome,” as Jonathan righted himself. He surprised himself with his own steadiness. The rote pitch of the office and a life’s worth of reflex steered his tongue while mind, heart, and stomach rattled where they hid. Because he had to do something with his freed hand rather than clasp it in its brother, he fished out his watch. Only now did a ripple of worry manage to rise to his face.

“Some trouble?”

“I fear I may have lost my ride.”

“You came from the by-road, yes? It hardly sees traffic. If your driver’s gone on without you, go around the front here and see if you cannot bribe our beloved head doctor into lending out the wagon. Just say you have managed to wring a whole quarter of an hour’s worth of nattering from his friend R.M.”

“R.M.?”

“Short for Mr. Rig R. Mortis.” The man chuckled at Jonathan’s look. “Pseudonym, young man. Can hardly have the family being shamed under my real title. He will know who you mean. Though I do hope you manage your ride instead.” With that, the man ducked back from the window and was gone. Jonathan had made it three strides away when the voice called behind him, “Here!” Something small struck the back of Jonathan’s heel. He turned and saw gold winking up at him. A sovereign. “It is not payment. You are merely ensuring the attendant who lost it when I had my last room search never gets it back.”

“Sir—,”

But the window was already abandoned. Jonathan picked the coin up. It was partially obliterated on one end, erasing part of Victoria’s face and the rider on the reverse. This was because the edge had been ground to a sharp edge that nicked his thumb open as he turned it over. Blood smeared Saint George, his steed, and the dragon hissing up at the sword and hooves.

Cold fingers seemed to walk up his spine as he examined it. Shaking the chill away, he tucked the coin in his pocket alongside the notebook’s harvested pages and dashed back the way he’d come. He made it to the waiting cab just as it was pulling up to the gate.

“Well, lad? Is it what your buyer’s after?”

“I believe so.” Jonathan smiled as he said it and held the expression admirably until the cabman turned his gaze back to the road. He gloved his hands despite the balmy weather, sheathing his thumb as it traced the thin impression of the cargo sitting against his breast.

“If you keep up with that you shall tear the whole cheek off,” she said at his shoulder. “You are awake, I promise.”

Jonathan stopped pinching at himself and split his attention between Mina’s face and the clock’s. The magic circle of Roman numbers seemed to shake a phantom head. No, it said, not yet. But soon.

“This is happening, then?” he asked as he turned fully to Mina. Mina, here at the last moment together until mid-May. Mina, wearing the ring he had saved a year for on her finger. Mina, who had clasped and kissed and kept him from collapsing outright in stupefied relief upon the announcement that he had passed his examination, her fiancé now a solicitor. Mina, who held his hand and kept him from floating off through the ceiling and into the sky. “This is really happening? Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.” Jonathan’s eye traveled to her neck and the glimpse of a cord peeking from her shirt collar. She caught him and spared her free hand to tuck it out of sight. “Just as I am sure you will not fly off with my treasure, you magpie.”

The treasure being Jonathan’s own plain gold band now worn as a necklace. He had been the one to slip it over her head the night before, mesmerized by the soft shine as it landed over her heart. It was done by mostly mutual agreement. Mina wished to hold a scrap of tradition close and leave his hand bare until they reached the chapel. And, though Jonathan suspected this was mere theatre, she said she wished to hold onto it as proof to herself that she was awake and that the engagement was a reality. Besides, it was practical! If he were wearing the cord on his trip, what if he should lose it in any number of countries as he traveled? It was one thing to risk forgetting it at the office or leaving it at home. Quite another to imagine losing it in a hotel in another nation. Even with all this logic at her disposal, Jonathan donned his best moue. Mina covered it with her hand.

“That is unfair.”

“I am not above unscrupulous tactics, Mrs. Harker.”

“Like trying to break me by calling me Mrs. Harker?”

“Possibly.”

“Well, you are foiled. My will is too great.” She brought her hand away to brush a strand of hair from his brow. “There is no need to scheme anyway. You shall have the thing back soon enough.”

Jonathan pretended not to hear the slight tremor at the word ‘soon.’ Yes, it was only a few weeks’ separation. A month at most if there were delays in train or coach. But even in this zenith of excitement, knowing unequivocally that this was where their future began—a future where they were taking their first steps up rather that walking the same flat circle in the dust—it felt strangely like waiting to leap into a chasm. A gorge that required endless paperwork to keep track of, plus what was required for the travel itself. Documentation, letter of credit, passport, polyglot dictionary, and, carefully packed, the first new suit he’d had in three years.

Mina had insisted on his modeling it before packing it away. After, she declared she must send a letter of gratitude to not only Mr. Hawkins, but to the tailor. They would have to see him again about the suit for the wedding. Lucy had already written back in response to Mina’s last letter with the announcement, erupting with insistence that, while she was not the sort of girl to live and die by fashion plates, she wanted to know the very instant she began hunting for a dress.

In the present, however, the only new attire was the coat Jonathan wore. A companion piece Hawkins had insisted join the suit before Jonathan could escape the tape measure. Jonathan’s hand drifted up to one of its pockets now and found it unexpectedly light. Worry spiked for a moment before his mind caught up to what it was he’d been feeling for. He almost laughed. Mina canted her head at him, searching. She never missed even the most minute shift behind his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Only I’ve realized I was so adamant about packing everything for the needs of the trip and the client that I forgot the one item I meant to bring solely for me.”

“Your books?”

“No, the law texts are there. A bit of Dumas as well. But I have forgotten my book.” He offered a bashful smile. “Ours, I mean. For your assignment.”

Her brow furrowed a moment before she recalled, “The journal?”

“Yes. I meant to grab one of the spare pocketbooks from my desk, but it’s not in its place. Maybe I bundled it in the case without thinking.” If not, he could shave out a little of his emergency budget for something en route to the castle. But Mina was beaming at him.

“An ordinary pocketbook might suffice for a clerk, but not a solicitor. Especially not when I’ve held onto this since you turned your back to peruse the dictionaries two months back.” She brought out her reticule as she spoke. From the reticule came a slim leatherbound volume with supple pages made to resist the traitorous smudges and tears of its precursor’s flimsy leaves. The whole thing was tied with a white ribbon that pinned a matching pen to its cover. “All shorthand. Promise?”

“Promise,” Jonathan nodded as he took the book gingerly from her hand. It fit so perfectly in the coat that it failed to even dent cloth. “Though I don’t believe the same applies to the recipes. Which I shall collect in abundance and inflict upon us both once I return. Is there anything specific you want me to bring back?”

“You know my tastes already.”

“Other than the cuisine, I mean.”

“Nothing comes immediately to mind. A good story or two would be nice, but,” again her hand found his face, cupped against the angle of his cheek, “as long as you come back, I will be satisfied.”

“I suppose that can be managed.”

The clock tolled and the call went out to the station. All aboard, come along. Mina’s eyes flicked with brief wonder to the train itself. Locomotives and their railways had been one of her chief interests for as long as Jonathan had known her. She regarded her copy of Bradshaw’s Guide with the same reverence as some did their Bible, to say nothing of the clipped articles she had collected concerning new routes and models being laid out within various countries. In sum, Mina loved the practicality and potential of trains. To her they were proof that their world was not limited by whether or not they could hail a hansom or how far it was willing to take them. But now her smile dimmed.

“It had better bring you back on time,” she said as they walked arm and arm up to his car. “I shall be standing in this very spot with my watch out.”

“I’ll warn the conductor.” Because they were among strangers, she had allowed him to hold her arm rather than the reverse. He gave a gentle squeeze first to her arm, then her hand. The lump of the stone stood out under her glove. “If it runs late, I will simply run ahead.” Her laugh did little to hide the dew in her eyes. It matched the mist in his. Their hands held tight.

In that moment, an absurd impulse leapt up in him. An animal-twitch of fear that went deeper than mere anxiety, deeper than love, deeper than concern of career or separation or wandering in unknown lands. It was the needling of a sense he had no name for. A thing that smelled or heard or tasted some imperceptible sign that bodily and mental awareness refused to acknowledge. It whispered:

Do not go. Do not do this. Go home. Go now. Before it’s too late.

The whisper froze him. Mina appeared to freeze with him. Her eyes reflected a feverish glimmer of his own disquiet. They stood locked in that second like a hart and doe with their ears pricked toward a huntsman’s tread in the wood.

But then they blinked. Mina’s gaze lightened and the uncanny sensation left Jonathan as quickly as it came. Only a shudder of nerves disguised as a portent. Really, he could hardly bow to it even if it had meant anything beyond a hiccough of his own fretting. Fact outweighed fear and the fact was he had a job to do. A job that began here, now, with the release of Mina’s hand so he might grab his other bag from her.

Thus unburdened, Mina abruptly trapped his face between her palms. Jonathan bent down until his mouth met hers. Here was the plush press of her lips on his, feeling so much like a reverie he thought once again that he must be asleep. He would wake any moment and the fantasy would fall away into foam. Now. Now.

“Now, I don’t mean to intrude, but there is a train waiting. I’m afraid you must save the rest of the young man for his return trip.” They both snapped up at once to see the uniformed man at Jonathan’s back. He was eyeing them with a look that spoke of a career forever encumbered with similar scenes. The man peered at Jonathan over his spectacles. “You are boarding?”

“Yes, sir. Apologies.” But an apology not even fractionally meant. He turned back to Mina who now steamed from the neck up as she avoided the gawking of an older couple taking in the show. The wife gestured at the sight of them, muttering something in a tone of mingled mirth and query in her husband’s ear, to which the husband rolled his eyes. Jonathan spared them only a mote of attention. “Mina.” She looked to him. “I love you. I’ll be back soon.”

“I love you, Jonathan. I’ll be right here.”

He found his seat at the window and did not turn his head away from the glass. Not while the train idled. Not while it pulled away in its hiss and puff of turning wheels. Not while Mina stood there waving after him, her feet tugging her forward a few unconscious steps so that she might see his window longer while he craned his head to keep her in view. Only when the station itself was a speck in the distance did he turn back around. Off to the future to lay an invisible track for them both. To collect countries as keepsakes and bring them home on paper like pressed flowers.

Jonathan tried to imagine what he might cross on his travel to and from the castle that would be a worthwhile souvenir. Images of books and baubles were conjured as he traced the edges of his journal. So he went on musing until excitement burned out to exhaustion and the first doze of his trip dragged him down into sleep.

A dream came and went.

He was still on the train, still at his window, but the seat facing his was no longer empty. A face he knew was there. One harvested from the far end of his school days and the nascent career as a clerk. So he believed.

It was a familiar countenance in the way that the sight of a stranger always seen in the same place amounted to vague acquaintance. Known enough to nod at in passing. Jonathan had nodded at this one and been given a nod back in student years. He’d thought of introducing himself once or twice, only for the young man to flush and hurry off like a frightened stray. Jonathan had never quite understood it.

Now here was his anonymous acquaintance again, finally sedate in his seat and hidden in his newspaper. While he was not Jonathan’s senior by more than a year, he looked to be in a more professional state of dress. Pressed and tailored and relaxed in that way men can be when they know they have a wardrobe full of similarly fine ensembles waiting at home. But it was his choice of accessory that gave him away as being on a similar pilgrimage to Jonathan’s. The unoccupied portion of his seat was taken up by the paperwork of a sale, carefully weighted by a discarded hat. His companion spared it no attention, having his gaze pinned on the newspaper open in his hands. It blocked the view of him from the whiskers down. Jonathan was still wondering whether to announce himself when a voice came from behind the newsprint:

“My way goes through Munich. Yours as well?”

“Yes,” Jonathan said. “Though I fear there will be no real stop there. At least, the Count did not pencil a hotel stay in the route.”

“Hm,” his companion nodded. “I suppose he would not gamble it twice. Even if he did set it right the first go around.” The newspaper rustled and the young man’s eyes finally lifted above the print to find Jonathan’s. They were bottle glass-bright. “What all have you packed?”

“Necessities, mainly. Everything for the sale, some changes for the overnight stays and—,”

“And what haven’t you packed?”

“I…” His hand traveled again to his chest. “Mina saved me at the station. I forgot a notebook, but she had one ready. I should be fine.”

“No. You are still missing something. Rather, I expect you will be missing it quite soon.” There was a sigh behind the paper. “All that practice and you go and leave the damned thing under your bed.”

Jonathan straightened in his seat. His right hand clamped reflexively, as if palm and fingers were dreaming of a hardwood handle. 

“I’m not going to the jungle.”

“There are worse things than animals to worry about. If you cannot cut them down, what will be left to you?” Another page turned. The bottle glass eyes slid to look out the window. Jonathan followed his gaze and saw that the world had gone black and white under a skull-faced moon. “But then, you might make do without the steel. You handled the worst of our schoolmates well enough back then without even raising your voice. Whatever you may lack as a full-blooded Englishman you make up for in softer stuff. Enough that one or two of the lads confessed over drinks that they wished you were a girl. I was not one of them. You gave me trouble enough as a boy. 

“All that said, you have skills that will help. Appealing attributes. Ones I could have used myself.” The unblinking eyes slid back to Jonathan. It was a greyer stare now. Almost filmy. “I had nothing to sell. Neither in English property or my personal wares, so to speak. I could not even muster charm enough to be worth an extra hour’s chat.” Jonathan watched his companion’s hands crumple the paper in two fists. He saw for the first time that those hands were red. They left dry maroon stains across the gazette. “Who is waiting for you, Jonathan Harker? Who at home? Your Mina, old Hawkins, and who else? Any names come to mind?

“Of those friends, are there any who will know to worry when it goes wrong? Anyone to ask questions? To watch the calendar and the post and wonder how you are? Because I thought I did. I even knew the difference between friends and amiable acquaintances, unlike you. Fellows in and out of my firm. Even a girl who understood my needs and was willing to play her part. They all said they expected letters from me. Said they’d be on watch if I was not back within half a month. That was a year ago. And still they do not know where I am. Nor have they cared enough to look.

“But you would have, I think. If I had ever gotten over my cowardice. If I hadn’t wasted boyhood cringing, so afraid I would give myself away. If I had not made a ghost of myself rather than a friend. I was so proud of myself for not daring at the time—I fear I would have made a wretched scene when I first realized you and the pretty schoolmistress were serious. Instead I took my wine and my pain in silence. Told myself how wise I had been not to try. Ha.” Jonathan watched pallid lips peel open on a smile glazed pink with bleeding. Red rivulets trailed out between the young man’s teeth and into the trimmed beard. “Not that it would have mattered in the end. If we had been friends, if we had been more, if we had been anything at all, there wouldn’t have been much for you to find.”

Jonathan leaned forward. It took an effort. A growing stench was starting to waft from the opposite seat. The stink of copper and rot.

“Please, just tell me what this is. Tell me how to help. What’s happened?”

His companion’s grisly smile wilted. The bottle glass eyes ran like his mouth.

“What’s happened is you have climbed onto the same train I took. You will ride on plenty more. The same coaches too. Perhaps that will help. They never caught on to the truth of things when it was me. After all, he does have work to do, being what he is. People must have made it to and from that place before in official capacity. They must have thought it would be the same for imported goods. Hopefully they will know better now. But then, so will he. Soon all you will have to rely on is yourself. Use what you have. All that you have. Play the game as best you can. As long as you can.” Red tears and dribble flowed in a thickening cascade. “I could not last a week and so lost everything. Or nearly so. I am restless, true, but it could have been worse. Much worse.”

“I don’t understand,” Jonathan almost rasped. Fear choked him like a noose.

“I know. And I am very, very sorry to say that you will.” His companion sighed, releasing a crimson haze of spittle into the air. “Well. This is all I can manage as I am. I suppose I shall not need this anymore. Here.” The newspaper was shut and held out for Jonathan to take. “Somewhat out of date, but well worth the read.”

 Jonathan spared barely a mote of attention for it. There was no headline or story that he could make out. Only a flash of what looked like the stanzas of a poem, though he couldn’t say for certain. He was too gripped by the sight of the young man below the neck. Seeing the fullness of it hooked something in Jonathan’s stomach and drew it up to the very edge of his teeth. He wasn’t sure if it was his breakfast or a scream.

That was when the hand fell on his shoulder.

Cold. Just as cold as the lips now pressed at the side of his neck.

Whatever sound he might have made was cut off as something sharp drove into his throat and the train went as dark as the world beyond it.

“Sir?” Jonathan fell against his seat as if thrown. The uniformed man started back himself, taking his hand away from Jonathan’s shoulder as he did. “We’re coming to the station soon. Can’t have you sleeping through your stop.”

“No. No, of course. Thank you. Sorry.” The man glanced at Jonathan’s lap with a look possessed by every father who has ever known better than his progeny.

“You could pick lighter reading to nod off on. You’re only setting yourself up for sour dreaming if that’s what you skim beforehand.” He didn’t loiter long enough to explain what he meant. Jonathan looked down.

He had picked a gazette to stuff into his things before he and Mina reached the platform. He’d had an idea that he was reserving his books for the far end of his travel and so would make do with some final updates from his native soil. At some point he had turned all the way to the obituaries. His hand rested on one describing the tragic loss of a young man at sea. A sailor fallen overboard in a storm, presumed dead.

They could be wrong, Jonathan thought with sudden desperation. Perhaps he lived. He made it safely to an island or some distant beach. They could find him alive and well. Couldn’t they?

The newspaper was shut, folded over twice, and tucked back in his luggage. Jonathan did not touch it again until he left the final station that spat him out by the shore, feeding it to the first wastebin he saw. He almost laughed to himself when it came time to board the ship. It would be May by the time he cracked open the journal and wrote anything of interest.

“I shall do better on the return trip,” he promised the naked pages. “I’ll record a view of the sunrise on the water, I swear.” And he meant it. But for this first voyage across the water, Jonathan stayed shut in his room. If he dreamt of a black tide coming up to swallow him, he was happy to wake without recalling it. 

[ofmdrecaps]

09/20/2024 Daily OFMD Recap

TLDR; Call To Action: David Jenkins; Samba Schutte; Con O'Neill; Hugo Pierre Martin; How To Help; Other Cast & Crew Sightings: Rhys Darby; Rosie Carnahan Darby; Taika Waititi; Samba Schutte; Leslie Jones; Guz Khan; Damien Gerard; Kristian Nairn; Hugo Pierre Martin;

Well folks. It sure is wonderful to be honking loudly with you again! (Clown or Goose, however you prefer to consider it!). This morning, David Jenkins started us all off with a very specific tweet that set off a chain reaction!

= David Jenkins =

It APPEARS that David is telling us, the fans, that OFMD is "available", and that Netflix is the streaming service to woo. Now, does that mean it's just being bought and streamed? Or perhaps being picked up by a Season 3? There has been some discussion that Netflix sometimes likes to stream a cancelled show before they greenlight another season-- and well, who knows, maybe that's what OFMD is in line for!

Source: David Jenkins' Instagram

= Samba Schutte =

Then a little later in the day... Samba started us up with a new #, #supnetflix!

Source: Samba's Instagram

= Con O'Neill =

Con joined in on the sharing!

Source: Con's Instagram Stories

= Hugo Pierre Martin =

Our "one-line" friend, Hugo Pierre Martin is back at it! He's supporting OFMD in every way he can!

Source: Hugo's Twitter / 2

The fans took David and the Crew's call to action by starting up a tweet storm! Our friends over at @adoptourcrew also kept the momentum going by putting up prompts!

Source: Adopt Our Crew Twitter

Some of our crewmates reminded us, and Netflix, we had the numbers :)

Source: Florence aka single_cat_mom on Twitter!

As of the time this post was put together, the trends got up to the following! Thank you to APurplePatch on Twitter for captureing them!

Source: APurplePatch Twitter

And a little schadenfreude for today's festivities! Thank you Ashley!

Source: Ashley aka Seven_Sugars on Twitter

Well there we are-- great job today crew! Sure is feeling good in the fandom today! If we can, let's keep the momentum up through tomorrow! Are you excited about the possibility of an s3? Well, feel free to join in the manifestations from our friend @xray-vex!

Source: Xray_Vex Twitter

== How To Help ==

I can't believe I'm saying this again-- but hey! Wanna help out with the renewal (or at least selling OFMD) effort? Please consider some of the following!

Sign the Petition if you haven't already! (Change.org DOES clear out non-confirmed via email signatures every once in a while, so be sure to check your email.)

Request Our Flag Means Death on the Netflix form!

If you're interacting with social media, use these hashtags: #OurFlagMeansDeath #supnetflix #AdoptOurCrew #SaveOFMD

== Other Cast & Crew Sightings ==

= Rhys Darby =

New Bill Napier Weather Update from Rhys today on his Substack! There was even a shout out to some of our crewmembers you might recognize! Give it a listen!

Source: Rhys' Substack

= Rosie =

More Kitten Content from the Darby Household! (why yes, I will use my one movie allowed per tumblr post to add kitten content, I regret nothing).

Source: Rosie Carnahan Darby's Instagram

= Taika Waititi =

Taika's back to his "influencer" phase again!

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Taika Waititi (@taikawaititi)

Source: Taika's Instagram

= Damien Gerard =

Damien's finally getting to get some relief! Congrats sir!

Source: Damien's Instagram

= Kristian Nairn =

Kristian catching up with one of his old co-stars, Issac Wright!

Source: Kristian Nairn Instagram

= Samba Schutte =

I realized I shared Samba's pics last time, but didn't say much about the new campaign! Samba's new Shop Stands campaign is benefiting the LA Regional Food Bank! First up, you can get a hoodie version of the Crew For Life T-Shirt! - Crew For Life Hoodie

Next up-- Samba is back with another cooking class! This time it's Death By Cheese! Death By Cheese Class

EVENT DATE: NOVEMBER 9 EVENT TIME: 10AM PT/1PM ET EVENT LOCATION: ONLINE

Source: Shop Stands

= Guz Khan =

New season of Man From Mobeen! Not sure if there's a date yet...but looks like Guz is sharing some pics!

Source: Guz Khan's Instagram

= Leslie Jones =

Leslie was on the Jennifer Hudson Show a couple days back!

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by The Jennifer Hudson Show (@jenniferhudsonshow)

Source: Jennifer Hudson's Instagram

= Hugo Pierre Martin =

In case you haven't heard, Hugo is doing a Spotify Audio Series! Wanna check it out? Visit: Spotify

Source: Hugo's Twitter

== Articles ==

Source: Adopt Our Crew Twitter

== Love Notes ==

Alright, lovelies. I have so many things to say and yet no stamina to do so. I'll try to pick up tomorrow-- I just wanted to send this your way, I hope you find the ones who make you feel like you're basking in warmth and love, like the sun.

Source: StayCloseToYourself_ Instagram

[adickaboutspoons]

Happy sexual Sunday. In honor of Rhys announcing his upcoming substack by pointing at hand-written bulletpoints on a chalkboard with a screwdriver, I want to share the OnlyFans Stede idea that has been in my plot bunny pen for ages, but prolly isn't going to go anywhere. Stede's OF account was set up for him by Lucius, and is completely neutral content of him demonstrating basic auto maintenance and, like, how to tie a fishing lure, and a bunch of other Dad things, and he's completely oblivious to how unintentionally suggestive he's being. Like, he's filming himself working in the garden when it's super hot out, makes a "it's not the heat, it's the humidity" dad joke, strips off his shirt and uses it to mop his brow. He's on his hands and knees, pulling up weeds, and when he manages to pull up a particularly stubborn one, roots and all, kind-of-whispery/grunting-to-himself, "Aww, yeah. That's what you want, baby." Then he sits back and takes a deep drink from his water bottle, and accidentally holds it near his crotch while encouraging his watchers to stay hydrated. Ed is one of his subscribers and finds the whole thing just brain-meltingly hot. Eventually, they accidentally meet IRL, and Ed is trying to be SO COOL and not let it be known that he knows this guy and where from. And then they keep running into one another (by total coincidence - Ed hasn't become a convert to going to the farmer's market instead of just picking shit up from the grocery store on the off (likely) chance of running into Stede while he's there. Not at ALL.), and start becoming friendly. It's during one of these meetings Ed accidentally slips that he's a subscriber. He's mortified. For a moment he thinks Stede is going to get all weirded out. But Stede is just like "Oh! You like the feed? Why didn't you say so?! Always glad to meet my Only Fan!" (Stede has a v. healthy subscribership, but he thinks making the Only Fan joke is Hilarious) Stede asks for his username, and when he tells him, Stede is all "Oh! I know YOU! I can't tell you how much your feedback means to me. Always leaves me feeling all glowy for days!" Ed is all blushy and stammery and, "Uh... yeah, man. Me too." He offers Ed a hug, and Ed is internally combusting. Stede is all "If you've got any ideas for the feed, I'm always open to suggestions. Is there anything you'd like to see me doing?" There are MANY things Ed would like to see him doing. None of which are appropriate to give voice to in a crowded open-air market. Eventually eventually, after many instances where Ed is going crazy trying to figure out if it's a date or just a hang, there would be a v. thorough railing wherein Stede whispers all the tender, affirmational things Ed could ever have wished to hear. So! here's the only bit of it I've actually bothered to write:

The man on the screen smeared a little grease around the tight little hole, then inserted the cylinder into the gap in one smooth, gratifying motion. "There we are," he said, his voice a low, self-satisfied hum, "A nice, tight fit. And doesn't it feel good to do it yourself?"

Ed's breathing picked up pace a little.

"And that's how you replace a spark plug. Nothing shocking about it." He smiled a charming, little shit-eating grin and winked at the camera.

Ed's breath caught in his throat.

"So that's it for this one! Thanks, as always to my subscribers, and a special tip of the hat to this week's new friends," he looked away from the camera and put on a pair of gold wire-rimmed glasses. Ed swooned a little as he read out the names from an actual printed page.

At the end of it, he took off the glasses and looked directly into the camera again, his eyes soft and his smile genuine and kind. "Thank you for sharing this time with me. Lots of love!"

There was nothing explicitly sexual about the CapriSun_Erotica OnlyFans page. In fact, the most shocking thing about it was how roundly wholesome the content was. Just a man and his phone camera and a world of practical advice and dad jokes. An intensely hot man in the tiniest shorts or tightest jeans Ed had ever seen, who seemed allergic to doing up the top three buttons on his shirts, and that radiated so much DILF energy Ed was a little astonished the videos didn't just melt his phone screen. It was the most intensely arousing thing Ed had ever seen.

He eased himself out of his boxers and hit the replay button.

When he had cleaned himself up, he tapped out a quick reply. "Hey DaddyStede, great vid as usual. Really got my motor running. 😘"

[stagefoureddiediaz]

the lack of physical intimacy of any kind between buck and tommy is certainly a choice let me tell you....

Hey Nonnie

Choices were made and I find them fascinating!

It would’ve been so easy to show intimacy in simple ways that would’ve been sweet and lovely and shown the relationship being in a good place - and I don’t even mean full on kissing - gentle caresses can do so much work in terms of showing intimacy or even a kiss to the forehead etc if it’s done well - the kind of gestures and physicality that show longevity and comfort and love! Hell the hand squeeze buck gave tommy in the cafe scene in you don’t know me is the perfect example - intimate and sweet and tender - and hopeful - without needing to kiss etc!

The thing I enjoyed most about the fact buck and tommy have gone back to covid social distancing rules is that it says so much more about the reality of their relationship - which we’ve been saying from the get go - that it’s all about sex - that there is no intimacy between them because they still - 6months ish later - don’t know one another beyond surface level because there isn’t anything to the relationship beyond awkward sexual innuendo and them having sex.

So to have them not be able to connect on a sexual level because of physical limitations and issues getting in the way (because shoulder injury first and Tommys hang ups about the boils later) they then had to try to connect on a non sexual level - and there was nothing there!

That was all so very intentional from a direction and script point of view - it gives so much away. that tommy clearly hasn’t, up to this point, seen or experienced wiki buck doing substack deep dives or dealt with a buck who spirals out when confronted with something like being cursed is really telling - because by all accounts they’re the kind of things you’d be seeing a bit of by this point.

We’re supposed to pick up on the fact they aren’t intimate in any way on a non physical level and I am excited to see how they make use of all of the things they’ve been showing and telling us as we hit the hurdle!

[goodluckclove]

Stop Calling Yourself an Aspiring Author: A Proposition

So this post is dedicated to @dreambigdreamz, who asked me a question about when you can stop calling yourself an aspiring author. I had to wait until I could go to sleep to properly answer, because this is going to be a long one, probably. I'm actually doing this before I get to work for the day, because if I could get one goddamned person to stop labeling themselves like this I will feel success for at least three days.

It's a question for new writers - the difference between a writer and an author. If you Google the difference it appears there are two camps:

Writer and author are synonyms

You are only an author if you publish your work/write as a career

This is odd to me already. It's odd and it's immediately gatekeep-y, and it's so fucking surreal that ours is the only artistic field that has this strange distinction. For most other outlets there's still a separation between hobbyist and professional, but that's considered optional as far as I've seen.

Someone who paints or does digital art isn't likely to call themselves a hobbyist artist, even if they aren't doing it as their main source of income. They're just an artist.

If someone practices the piano but isn't actively in a performing band or symphony, they probably don't call themselves an aspiring pianist. They're already doing it. They're a pianist.

I briefly considered cook versus chef, but in that context cook doesn't necessarily mean amateur. There are line cooks and prep cooks and fry cooks and sauté cooks who work professionally. I have the qualifications of a prep or line cook, but I'm currently only cooking meals at home. So does that mean I'm an aspiring cook? That's weird. That doesn't sound right.

So by this point it should be clear that I find it deeply reductive to say that you can only call yourself an author if you've professionally published a work of writing. Maybe that was the case, like, a hundred years ago? Even then, though, one of the definitions of author is a verb describing the act of writing something. You could author a scientific paper. You could author a poem.

It's 2002. The scope of what it means to publish is infinitely vaster than it was in the days of Virginia Woolf or Ernest Hemingway. You could traditionally publish your novel - that's still an option. But you could also indie-publish. Or self-publish. Or produce your own zines or chapbooks and distribute them online. Or send our newsletters on platforms like Substack. Or serialize through websites like Wattpad, Tapas, Itch.io, Patreon, AO3, or even tumblr.

I never called myself an author, but my reasons have nothing to do with whether or not I've been published. I prefer writer, as it has a more versatile feel that tracks whether I'm working on a novel or a poem or a play. But that's beside the point.

Personally, I'm in the first camp. Writer and author are essentially synonymous, only in my eyes an author is someone who writes fiction or nonfiction prose. That's it. Have you done that? Cool. Good job no longer being "aspiring".

If you have the words aspiring author in your life somewhere, there's a good chance you're actively gatekeeping yourself from feeling good enough to do your own thing. Why not replace it with something like the following?

future bestseller

soon-to-be published

new author/writer

growing author/writer

developing author/writer

practicing author/writer

author/writer in training

just author/writer

If someone does the whole "you're a writer? what have you published?" welcome to the conversation that all writers have to tolerate at some point. People are dumb. People typically don't know our industry and how it functions, and that's fine. Just smile and nod and shrug your way out of the conversation.

Yes, there's infighting within writers who should very much be spending less time arguing who gets to wear the nametag and who doesn't. Those people are lame dipshits who should shut the fuck up and get back to writing. If you have a passion for writing, be it fanfic or scripts or short stories or novels, you are my peer and colleague. I might not like the structure or content of your writing - which is fine, by the way - but I would never even say that you aren't a writer holy shit.

I don't care if you use every genre and trope that I find trite and excessive. If you genuinely care about the stories you tell and you still present yourself as an aspiring author, you have a duty to take yourself more seriously than that.

You are a writer. You are an author. This should not be a question.

We need to move past this and start asking ourselves the real questions that come after you answer "Am I an author". Am I a safe author? Am I an advocate and an ally? Am I a supportive member of the community? Am I still learning? Am I a capable author? Am I adaptable? Am I resourceful? Am I determined?

I'm running out of steam here. I need the writers here, especially the younger writers, to move past this stage of their creative careers as quickly as fucking possible. I was there too. I get it. And I'm telling you it's time to soak the label of aspiring so as to loosen the adhesive, gently peel it off, and throw it in the trash forever. Don't even keep it for sentimental reasons to look back on later.

Toss it. Burn it. Eat it. It is not helping you.

Okay that's all. You should close this now and write three hundred words of whatever the fuck you want. I love you.

[krittikasurya]

Some thoughts on Krittka Nakshatra (originally posted on substack and twitter)

Krittika at its best really understands how to both simultaneously enjoy and appreciate things while also being able to give critical commentary and feedback, and I think a lot of people have a hard time wrapping their heads around this level of multifaceted behavior. In a world where black-and-white, all-or-nothing thinking is common and encouraged, people often forget that two things can be true at once. Krittika natives have the creativity and flexibility to understand and implement this “two truths at once” concept into their everyday lives. People think Krittika natives are being insolent or abrasive when the native is just simply speaking on what they’ve learned, gathered, observed and experienced and being straightforward about it…taking the data they’ve accumulated and turning it into something that’s easy to digest. Absolute truths rarely exist, and Krittika exposes the complexities we experience on both a collective and individual level.

Krittika’s goal isn’t to trash things necessarily. I think the goal Krittika natives have is to help themselves and others see things in a different, profound way. Offering refreshing perspectives on many different aspects of life is something the natives take pride in. The Martian influence of the Aries portion of the nakshatra makes one very analytical and strategic. Observing and learning through action and expeirnce, the Aries side of this nakshatra knows how to take things back to the drawing board. They understand that trial and error are some of the best teachers, and that there is always room for change. The Venusian influence of the Taurus portion gives the native discernment and good taste. The discriminatory nature of Venus leaves little to no room for indifference, especially when it comes to connections, arts, and culture. Venus appreciates excellence, and Krittika will accept nothing less. Krittika serves as the bridge between the sun’s (Identity) and the moon’s (Mind) exaltation points, giving both signs vast intelligence that manifests slightly different, but one thing remains the same: The sharp, quick witted nature of the nakshatra that seeks improvement within themsleves and the world around them. In today’s society, echo chambers are growing increasingly common, creating less nuance and mental flexibility, and more groupthink. From arts to politics, the effects of all-or-nothing thinking seems almost inescapable. Mediocrity is the acceptable normal, and Krittika is on a mission to change that.

When not channeled appropriately, Krittika natives can be high strung individuals, hypercritical of both themselves and others while forgetting to appreciate the beauty of life, and the beauty within themsleves. Some constantly feel the need to “shake the table” or say what they believe others are afraid to say, not fully realizing the implications of making ego driven “critiques.” Some “critiques” can be so ego driven, that they are dowright incorrect, mean or hateful in nature. They can be prone to tunnel vision and extreme anger, especially when they feel like their way is the only way. Krittikas can be demanding, exhibiting dictator-like control over their communities which can lead to a “walking on eggshells” feeling for the people around the native. It is imperative that Krittikas don’t lose sight on what’s important: not crossing the thin line between enlightening analysis, and downright negativity.

Krittika natives experience a lot of pleasure from giving critique as well, because they believe that there’s something really cool about being able to get others to think in ways they may not have before, and introduce various perspectives on any given subject. Krittika’s shakti (power) is to purify or burn away impurities, and sharing thier critical thoughts and assessments is one of the best ways to do it in today’s world. If we as a collective are going to consume things, Krittikas believe we can and should evaluate and question what we consume. Things should be questioned more. “Impurities” should be pointed out. The status quo should be challenged in all aspects of life.

Krittika isn’t scared to point out things that are flawed and it infuriates some individuals that Krittika natives don’t just sit and “go with the flow” all the time. Krittika has a burning lust for awareness of the world we live in. Krittika knows that sometimes there will be conflict, they’ll ruffle a few feathers and invoke certain emotions that make others feel uncomfortable, but when done tactfully that has the power to change the world (however big or small you consider your world to be).

[biomaterial]

This is hands-down, one of the most solid and well supported pieces I've read on substack in ages. The premise, by drag queen Kochina Rude, surrounds what community means in the present era of queer visibility, the state of politics, and the reliance on businesses as queer third-spaces. It's a SF specific lens, but I feel it rings true for a large swath of the US, and beyond, with frustration and fatigue surrounding language vs action, individualism, and everyone being broke. While I recommend you read the entire piece, here are a few meaningful excerpts.

The current nightlife business model can no longer support those tasked with creating the culture San Francisco is known for, and our workforce has been paying the price for years. (Ask any bartender or security guard how many jobs they have.) The abundant, cheap labor the nightlife industry relies on to sustain itself is no longer possible within city limits; workers have moved across the bay or out of the area just to make ends meet, even if San Francisco remains the center of their social world. The drag queen supply has also just straight up exceeded demand; not just locally, but on television, as indicated by former reality TV contestants reporting fewer opportunities and empty schedules. (I’ve given up on keeping track of these girls, and I work with them.) On top of that, we’re living through a period of inflation and income disparity in the most expensive region in America, and anyone with a stake in the entertainment industry would be hard-pressed to deny what we’re seeing with our own eyes and in our bank statements. To sum it up: we’re down bad, divas.

...

As a queer person, I no longer believe that identity politics will save us. Unity and hybridity (separate parts that comprise the whole; or, intersectionality) come to roost in affinity: a commonality of characteristics suggesting a relationship to shared interests, causes, or circumstances. On paper, I may have next to nothing in common with my heterosexual friends in tattoo shops or hardcore bands, but we possess a unified outlook on life based on shared experiences from our youth. In contrast, I find that I do not typically share affinity with most other gay people I meet at the gay club. (Ooh, she’s “different.”)

...

It’s true that I’m sick of talking about community. But I’m entering the new year with the understanding that sometimes we must take a step back and re-examine our relationships to things to remember why it’s worth doing. One must never forget that we—me, you, and everyone we know—are all worth it. A Jewish proverb attributed to Pirkei Avot from the early common era (first and second centuries, CE) states: “you are not obligated to finish the work, but neither are you free to desist from it.”

[covid-safer-hotties]

a newsletter some of y'all may be interested in subscribing to

By John Dupuis

Welcome to the latest issue of the Covid-Is-Not-Over Newsletter! A couple more issues during December before I take a little break from regular issues and publish a couple of filler “Bonus” issues. I’m definitely looking forward to a couple of slower weeks of holiday movies and fun books. I’m thinking of a Lord of the Rings rewatch this year. LotR are holiday movies, right? Right?

Mini-theme this week seems to be librarian-friendly, with a couple of colleagues writing about Information Literacy and the pandemic and how we’ve gotten ourselves in this rather amazing fine mess. How can all that good information be available to seemingly smart people, and yet it doesn’t seem to sink in? How can Long Covid fly under the radar, ignored or psychologized?

One thing that I want to remember from last week is that appalling Lisi Tesher article. You may recall that Lisi Tesher is the Toronto Star agony aunt who gave a horrible response to a letter about how to accommodate a Covid cautious person at a wedding. Tesher basically called the person mentally ill. Appalling.

Anyways, clear air advocate Ryan Tennant wrote a fantastic response as a letter to the editor at the Waterloo Record, which republishes Tesher’s column. Here’s a little bit.

In the context of COVID-19, we should respect and support individuals who make choices to protect their health and the health of those around them, especially when science justifies it.

For weddings and similar gatherings, a compassionate response would have offered creative ways to understand and incorporate evidence-based health protections against COVID-19, ensuring everyone feels valued and safe.

I urge this publication to ensure its contributors are equipped with accurate information and an appropriate tone for readers seeking support.

If you are the grudge-holding type of person, perhaps it’s not too late to encourage Ms. Tesher to read this week and last. The Star’s Life section email is life@thestar.ca, the city editor is city@thestar.ca and Ms. Tesher herself is at lisi@thestar.ca.

This week I also highlight some more on Trump and public health, not to mention some revolution-making, rabble-rousing, high-energy jazz.

Like! Share! Subscribe!

As most have probably noticed, there is no paid subscription option for this newsletter. However, Substack does have an option where subscribers can pledge to subscribe “just in case” and a few kind subscribers have made that pledge. I very much appreciated the vote of confidence in what I’m doing here. What I’ve decided to do on a trial basis is to set up a “tip jar” on the Ko-fi platform. I’m not anticipating a huge surge of income from using Ko-fi but whatever revenue I do end up with, I plan to spend on supporting artists on Bandcamp.

Be my secret Santa!

It’s not about information literacy: Why people’s risk calculus around COVID has changed by Meredith Farkas / Information Wants to Be Free: The Newsletter I don’t think information literacy is the issue here. Most people I know are quite smart, well-read, and adept at research. I don’t know if they read things about COVID anymore, but if they’re not, it’s not because they don’t know how to find it. I think a lot more is happening with people who avoid COVID information and ignore risks and I think it’s a mix of personal psychological factors, privilege, the absolute disaster that was public health messaging around COVID, and social pressure to align with the dominant narrative that COVID is over. I know we like to distill things down to a single cause (“they’re selfish!” “It’s Biden’s fault!”), but this is considerably more complicated.

Many of us are dealing with pandemic fatigue, which is a lot like burnout and leads to a “demotivation to engage in protection behaviors and seek COVID-19 related information” (Haktanir, et al., 2022, p. 7315). Ford, Douglas, & Barrett (2023) describe pandemic fatigue as “a complex set of emotions comprised of anxiety, hopelessness, depression, and anger.” There are a few of reasons people become fatigued in this way. The biggest is simply the length of time we were all expected to stay in a state of emergency and hypervigilance. Living in that state with no clear end in sight can easily lead to burnout as many of us who have worked in high stress jobs can attest. You can’t stay in a state of hypervigilance forever without eventually becoming exhausted and desensitized (Koh, Chan, & Tan 2020). Chen et al. (2024) found that even when they controlled for pandemic severity at particular points in time, pandemic fatigue increased in study participants an average of 5.8% every six months of the pandemic. Instead of vilifying folks who experience pandemic fatigue and decrease their precautions, the WHO portrays it as “a natural and expected reaction to sustained and unresolved adversity in people’s lives,” (7), an approach which I personally appreciate. Shame is not a motivator and these are very normal psychological responses.

Advice for U.S. Government Scientists: Lessons Learned From the ‘Muzzling’ of Their Canadian Counterparts by David Shiffman / The Revelator Step One: They Can’t Delete What They Don’t Exclusively Control

For scientists working at government agencies, they suggest making copies of everything so it can be stored somewhere else — and to do that as soon as possible, certainly well before the next administration starts.

For example, does your agency have a publicly funded database, report, or educational website that has anything to do with climate change, conservation, diversity, equity and inclusion, or public health? It’s very likely that the next administration will try to suppress or delete at least some of it. A nongovernment partner, such as a university or large nonprofit, can host copies of these important documents and data if they’re shared in advance.

These efforts are already underway, but it’s vital to spread the advice as far as possible, as quickly as possible, so no data is left vulnerable.

New Zealand Covid inquiry finds vaccine mandates were ‘reasonable’ by Australian Associated Press / The Guardian A royal commission into New Zealand’s Covid response has largely accepted the need for vaccine mandates, while accepting they harmed a substantial minority of New Zealanders.

The first of two inquiry reports on the pandemic was released on Thursday and also called for broad investment to plan for the next pandemic.

A headline finding is that New Zealand had one of the lowest rates of Covid deaths for each head of population among developed countries.

The most contentious of the issues surveyed was the use of lockdowns and vaccine mandates, which helped to curb the spread of the virus, but at the cost of social cohesion and trust in government, according to the report.

“Contentious public health measures like vaccine mandates wore away at what had initially been a united wall of public support for the pandemic response,” commissioners Tony Blakely, John Whitehead and Grant Illingworth wrote.

“Along with the rising tide of misinformation and disinformation, this created social fissures that have not entirely been repaired.”

Another finding was “it was reasonable to introduce some targeted vaccine requirements based on information available at the time”, but the case was weaker from early 2022 when the Omicron variant took over.

The COVID inquiry report is an excellent guide to preparing for the next pandemic – health cuts put that at risk by Michael Baker, Amanda Kvalsvig, Collin Tukuitonga, Nick Wilson / The Conversation The report concludes that New Zealand’s adoption of an elimination strategy was highly successful, but had wide-ranging impacts on all aspects of life.

The strategy required early use of border controls, lockdowns and other restrictions which helped prevent widespread infection until most of the population was vaccinated. This response gave New Zealand one of the lowest COVID mortality rates globally.

The report also found that as the pandemic progressed into late 2021, the negative impacts increased. Controlling the pandemic was focused on mandates, including restrictions on public gatherings, quarantine and isolation, contact tracing, masking and vaccination requirements.

The effects included declining trust in government within some communities and loss of social cohesion. Vaccine hesitancy emerged as a growing challenge to the vaccine rollout, fed by exposure to misinformation and disinformation.

The prolonged pandemic and lack of a clear exit strategy from elimination added to the difficulties, according to the commission’s report.

Almost a third of preteens, teens with long COVID still not recovered at 2 years, study shows by Stephanie Soucheray / CIDRAP A new study from UK investigators shows that—while most COVID-19 patients ages 11 to 17 who reported long-COVID symptoms 3 months after the initial infection no longer experienced lingering symptoms at 2 years—29% still did.

The findings, published in the journal Communications Medicine, come from the National Long COVID in Children and Young People cohort study, which followed up on thousands of young people after their COVID-19 diagnoses. …

Overall, 20% to 25% of all infection status groups reported three or more symptoms 24 months post-testing, with 10% to 25% experiencing five or more symptoms. Not all who reported symptoms, however, met the formal criteria for long COVID. In fact, five or more symptoms were reported by 14.2% of those who never tested positive for SARS-CoV-2, and by 20.8% of those with at least two infections.

Older teens and females were most likely to meet formal definitions, the authors said. "We did not find that symptoms or their impact differed by vaccination status," the authors wrote.

Independent Long COVID Journalism as a Lens for Critical Information Literacy: Conversations with The Sick Times Founders Betsy Ladyzhets and Miles W. Griffis by Andrea Baer / Communications in Information Literacy The realities of COVID-19 and Long COVID and their ongoing impacts are unsettling. In a world of information overload, when we face numerous wicked problems that have no simple or complete solutions, it’s understandable that we may sometimes want to simply look away or may, at times, feel paralyzed and throw up our hands. Some readers may, like me, ask themselves to what extent to engage with wicked problems like COVID-19 in the realm of information literacy, given how polarized and taboo this topic has become and given that most discussions about COVID-19 place it in the past tense (e.g., “postpandemic,” “post-COVID era”). Some readers may also, like me, ask themselves how examining reporting on complex topics like COVID-19 might inform their teaching practices more broadly. I would like to do more of the latter along with others, and do so with critical reflection, care, and an ongoing practice of perspective-taking. …

COVID-19 and Long COVID, similar in many respects to climate change, are not going away, and they affect us all, albeit to varying degrees and in different ways. The Sick Times is a concrete example of people and communities making a positive difference for many in the short term, while also growing connections and efforts that necessary for larger and more systemic change over the long term.

Long COVID is becoming a serious social and economic issue for Australia by Jason Murphy / Crikey Among the current generation of kids, many are growing up with their mother or father confined to bed or confined to bed themselves. According to a study by ANU, long COVID is hitting up to an estimated 20% of Australians three months after they contracted COVID — mostly women, but also men and children. In the current COVID wave, that means a lot of people coming down sick for a long time.

Long COVID is keeping people from their jobs and their lives, and as COVID cases continue, it is unclear whether the rate of new long COVID cases is increasing faster than the old cases recover.

‘I was in denial about it’: actor Matt McGorry on having long Covid by Estelle Tang / The Guardian What does risk mitigation look like for you, and what did you want people who don’t have long Covid to take away from the video?

The risk mitigation in my life is very high. When your health is taken away from you, you realize how important it is. There’s not much that feels worth the risk of another Covid infection.

I don’t necessarily expect that everyone does or should do what I’m doing, but the number one thing is having a very well-fitting respirator. For maximum protection, you need something that forms an airtight seal. While you may get some protection from a surgical mask, if you’re already taking that step, it makes sense to find something that seals to your face. I wear the Flo mask, which is a reusable mask. People definitely look at it, and I have all sorts of feelings about that. I used to love to people-watch, and now I don’t any more, because people are watching me. …

My asks are very simply masking, at the very least, in places where disabled and immunocompromised people have to be: grocery stores, medical settings such as doctors, offices, pharmacies, hospitals, and transportation like planes, trains and buses.

Even as an act of solidarity, picking a couple of those places, making a commitment to that and making that known is incredibly important. As someone who feels extremely isolated and abandoned by the rest of society, I don’t have the capacity any more to ask individual people in my life if they will take this on. That’s what the video was for.

Long COVID pandemic in the aftermath of the acute phase / Centre for Pandemics and One-Health Research Why is this topic important?

It is important for many reasons, but I would say the main reason is that this is a problem that affects a large fraction of those with acute infections or certain acute infections. In this COVID study with adolescents, we found that approximately 47 percent had long-term sequels, and quite a high percentage of these would fulfil the criteria for chronic fatigue syndrome, which is a debilitating situation. That is quite similar to what we have seen after other infections. For instance, with kissing disease, six months after the infection, you are left with 10 to 15 percent with a chronic condition and with functional impairments.

The good news is that the majority, especially in the younger age group, will recover spontaneously. However, this can take a long time, and in adolescent medicine, this is one of the major causes for functional impairments in adolescents. So, it has a significant impact on people´s functional capability. It is necessary to understand the details of the pathophysiology for treatment, prophylaxis and prevention. The first step is, therefore, to understand what is going on. The next step is to conduct clinical trials in order to try to treat this phenomenon. This is something my research group is doing as part of the research.

For the love of God, Covid isn't over - so can people please wear masks? By Sam Williams / Canary A week ago, my wife and I went to John Lewis to look at air fryers. As we entered the store, I put on an FFP3 mask because of Covid. My wife looked at me in disgust and said, “Oh, you’re wearing a mask?” I replied, “Yes. There’s a lot of Covid around, and I don’t want it. Do you?”

She responded, “Well, the trouble is, I’m not wearing a mask”.

I said, “Yes, I can see that. I wish you would. The trouble is, every time I’ve caught Covid, it’s been from you. I’m disabled with long COVID, and every time I get reinfected, it makes me really, really ill”.

So here’s my question: does my wife not care?

I want to use this piece to spark a debate about who we are as people. Are we kind and virtuous, or are we selfish and indifferent? Writing an article about what stops people from wearing masks, while I live with the pain caused by my wife not masking, feels like an oddly meta activity.

That’s right, folks: it was probably my wife who gave me Covid in the first place. Although, to be fair, neither of us knew about masking or long Covid back then.

Want to Limit Respiratory Virus Infections? Mask and Test in Hospitals by Rachel Robertson / MedPage Today Stopping universal masking and SARS-CoV-2 testing in hospitals led to a surge in hospital-onset respiratory viral infections relative to community infections, a cohort study found.

After these safeguards were removed, there was a 25% jump in hospital-onset respiratory viral infections compared with the preceding Omicron-dominant period (RR 1.25, 95% CI 1.02-1.53), reported Theodore Pak, MD, PhD, of Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston, and colleagues.

When hospital staff began masking again, the rates of hospital-onset respiratory viral infections decreased by 33% (RR 0.67, 95% CI 0.52-0.85), they wrote in a JAMA Network Open

Testing and Masking Policies and Hospital-Onset Respiratory Viral Infections by Theodore R. Pak,Tom Chen, Sanjat Kanjilal, et al. / JAMA Network Open In this study, stopping universal masking and SARS-CoV-2 testing was associated with a significant increase in hospital-onset respiratory viral infections relative to community infections. Restarting the masking of health care workers was associated with a significant decrease. Limitations of our analysis included a lack of concurrent controls, possible variations in compliance, difficulty disentangling effects of testing vs masking, and potential case misclassification. However, medical record reviews suggested most hospital-onset cases were true acute cases.

Nosocomial respiratory viral infections remain associated with increased length of stay and higher mortality in hospitalized populations. Our data suggest that masking5 and testing were 2 potentially effective measures to protect patients who are hospitalized, particularly when community respiratory virus incidence rates were elevated.

Long Covid-19 Weakens Immunity In Children, Increases Risk Of Infections: Study by Himani Chandna / News18 Children experience weakened immunity and bacterial infections after suffering from long Covid-19 syndrome, a study published in the medical journal Nature has revealed.

Persistent fatigue was the most common symptom in children with long Covid syndrome, while the majority of children often complained about anxiety.

Is H5N1 (Bird Flu) the Next Pandemic Causing Virus? / LIL_Science One critical aspect of H5N1 becoming a pandemic causing virus is developing person to person transmission, this has not yet been reported for the virus. However, research published December 2nd, 2024 in Nature Microbiology makes a strong case for increased virus shedding and hence airborne transmission being a key component of increased infectivity. The researchers found that increased viral shedding in H5N1 found in an infected dairy farm worker but not in H5N1 that infected the in cattle themselves. This means the virus in that person had changed in a way that allowed for improved airborne spread. This supports prior research published October 28th, 2024 in Nature showing that the same virus strain (A/Texas/37/2024 (huTX37-H5N1) had acquired a mutation that improved the virus’s ability to infect human cells and increased lethality in animal models.

Repeat human infection gives the influenza virus more chances to develop mutations. Within the last month several reports have indicated that H5N1 is moving closer to person to person transmission while maintaining it’s highly pathogenic nature, exactly what we don’t want.

I have gotten hundreds of questions on social media about this so I will start with some of the basics to help everyone navigate what might be coming next. Let’s dive into where H5N1 came from, why is it more concerning than annual influenza strains, and what can we do to protect ourselves?

'Mistaking Covid as a cold may put people at risk' by Nikki Fox / BBC An NHS matron said that too often people were mistaking Covid for a common cold and a lack of testing could be putting vulnerable people at risk.

Lana Goodwin, who works in Covid services at Mid and South Essex NHS Foundation Trust in Billericay, Essex, said she believed people who were not high risk "feel that Covid has gone".

She added that statistics showed many vulnerable people were also not aware they were eligible for anti-viral drugs.

Ms Goodwin said: "I feel the public see [Covid] symptoms as a cold and it doesn't trigger off a response to test."

Ms Goodwin said that her clinic had people testing positive for the virus every day and vulnerable people were "unfortunately still dying from Covid".

[imahgined]

the rosy blog project - episode 2:

꒰ঌ pt. 2 on how we made 2024 actually feel like 2014 ໒꒱

hey there, honeybear! ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১

i loved doing this series so much, i literally couldn't end the year without writing even more ways our beloved rosy blog era got its way into 2024. you can check out part one here!

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. my take on how we made 2024 really feel like 2014, part 2

| section 2: movies, trends, and nostalgia

ig dumps feeling like the og instagram posting style: omg, literally all i see on ig nowadays are people's photo dumps in so many different ways. this feels so much like the carefree vibe we had for posting when we first opened our ig accounts. i love the way it is slowly turning into a more relaxed and casual app.

reading and bookstagram came BACK: even though this has always been around, 2024 really brought back reading as an it girl hobby, like it was back in 2014. i feel like booktok blew up—there's a creator for every type of genre and style! i have been watching recommendations nonstop and started buying so many books, secondhand or new, to fill my shelves.

book-to-movie/tv show adaptations: also, there were so many book adaptations coming to the cinema, from it ends with us to uglies and the idea of you. i love that we're going to the movies again, dressing up, and being excited to see our favorite stories on screen. last year, we had the ballad of songbirds and snakes in theaters, that was the IT comeback from 2013 in 2023. we also had a teen wolf movie??? that is actually my fav show ever.

the sofia coppola obsession: there is literally nothing better than watching a sofia coppola movie. in 2024, i saw people all over pinterest and tiktok acclaiming her (which is absolutely necessary). and can we talk about the bling ring? it's THE most 2013-2014 movie i've seen. the story is crazy—i was so invested in it, i kept reading about it weeks after i saw the movie! also, not related to coppola, but i would recommend watching spring breakers if you like the 2010s look and feel in movies. it's not much of a good story, but i promise the visuals are insaneee.

actual romcoms slowly becoming a thing again: we had movies this year like we live in time, one day, and turtles all the way down (a john green novel adaptation, so 2014!). i think the industry is trying to bring back those romantic movies we girlies love so much. last year, we even had anyone but you, which became really popular!

substack being the go-to platform for bloggers: this is actually SO cool. everyone these days is writing articles, reflections and overall just sharing their thoughts on substack. this is such a cool way to bring back the blogger era from the 2010s in a modern way. let me know what you like to read on the app! i personally love twirl magazine by @i-miss-2013, go check her out!

girly content trending everywhere: this year, it felt like everyone was posting aesthetic cute vlogs, pink hauls, girly fashion, and beauty tips! i'm SO here for that. i feel like girls are becoming more confident and comfortable embracing their femininity on social media, and i love that for us. so much like the rosy blog days!

quizzes on tiktok: i don't know about you guys, but i LOVED taking quizzes on books, magazines or even buzzfeed back in the day. this year, i saw so many tiktoks with these type of relaxing and cutesy tests, but in a more much visual way, with themes such as "plan your dream wedding" or "plan your dream vacation". this is so 2014 girly magazine coded—i loved it when these popped on my feed!

source: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMkSuhfyN/

"challenges" on social media: this is what i mean when i say that social media is getting back on track with actually being fun and giving us a good laugh! we had such funny "challenges" like the hear me out cake trend, the we listen but we don't judge videos, and even the pretending our DOG got into harvard for no reason trend. ugh, i loved these so much—they were giving the same feel as the challenges we did back in the day in 2014 on social media.

i hope you liked the second post from the series! part 3 will be up tomorrow as my closing for 2024  ೀ hope you're having the lovelist day/night, sending you warm wishes! xx

[drdemonprince]

Hi Devon, anon from awhile ago who was taking the escitalopram but wanting to come off it.

I did taper off. Albeit far too quickly and without doctor input, which is generally how I roll once I’ve made a decision.

Felt ok for the first few days then full withdrawals hit me. Spent a week feeling disassociated, exhausted, very fragile and getting “zap” sensations in my body and mind. Especially with any kind of sensory input, my body interpreted it as a kind of threat. A hair across my face, breeze, anyone talking to me…

It’s been pretty miserable. My daughter who I mentioned who was also put on it told me when she tried to come off it felt that way for months (and she’s not even autistic) and in the end went back on it because she couldn’t cope.

But I’m determined to get off them.

I haven’t gotten the Sam e as you recommended yet, firstly because they’ve told me taking both while the escitalopram is still in my system is a bad idea, and also because I want to kind of feel what it’s like to be on nothing for awhile.

But anyway last night something awesome happened. I was watching Bluey with my nephew (highly recommended haha) and something really sweet happened in the episode. I felt myself get teary, then immediately started crying because I got teary.

It’s been such a long time since I’ve had any real emotions. And a big part of wanting to come off the meds was that I missed the Intense Good feelings and reactions that I had. Life was entirely dull and neutral.

This morning a story about a couple adopting a baby came on tv and I cried again. It was awesome.

I feel like shit, I’m not sleeping and I’m still super disassociated and in sensory overwhelm.

But it’s worth it.

I read a Substack piece around SSRIs which said “the period in which one starts or stops an SSRI is extremely dangerous. Your brain chemistry is adapting. And your suicide risk actually increases, not least because you have taken steps and expect to be cured but aren’t. This proves especially challenging in volatile adolescent brains, but is an issue for us all.”

That’s not ever talked about and certainly not cautioned by my doctor or pharmacist.

I guess my whole point here is a word of caution around going on them on the first place, especially for Autistic people who might be more sensitive to the effects. I know there’s a place for them. But I wish I hadn’t started them and I wish my daughter hadn’t been put on them at 16.

Life is meant to be a mix of emotions and killing all emotions is just too much of a sacrifice to make. Definitely a lesson learned for me.

Thank you so much for sharing this!

[beltway-insider-komeradlurkr]

They don't give up, we should not either. I wrote those two things after reading a substack about why all those people didn't turn up in november, long story short despair and disheartenment. In addition to that I've heard of and myself been one of those people that disengaged in frustration and sadness after the orange bastard won.

But we cannot do that as a movement, as a party, as people, and as a society. The way the Republicans got to holding the Supreme Court, the Senate and the presidency in addition to having a vast propaganda machine was through determination, tactics , and work over decades. To take our country back and make a world better than the one we entered we must use those three things. It won't be easy, and it won't be without defeats and set backs but it is an effort we need to wage if for nothing else than to be looked upon favorably by history. Do not submit to them, it achieves their goals and makes the fascists feel great. Organize locally, teach others critical thinking, expand the membership of unions and of the party in addition to other organizations for us, and most importantly Resist and Persist.

We did beat people like this before , and I know it is within bare minimum possibility that we can beat them again.

To people like minded to me, see this and reblog it. There is a lot of dooming and despair going around and before we can reclaim our society we must reclaim our spirits!