#I think about ''your house is a grain silo :)'' all the time

[waitineedaname]

wait. since im on my svsss/hlvrai kick. cumplane as the chuck e cheese debate

[badgertheking]

Riley definitely did not know why the Pentagon was contacting him... His porn was legal, if stolen, and he hadn't hacked the RuneScape servers in years.

He really did not know why the president, specifically, was on the phone asking for him by name. Not just by name, but by full name. The president literally said, "This is a matter of utmost importance, am I speaking with Riley John Westbrook?"

Riley could feel his heart in his ears. Hell, he could see his heartbeat in the pictures he had hanging on the wall he had no idea what in the living hell was supposed to be happening right now.

After admitting that he was, in fact, Riley the whole outside of his house lit up in a cacophony of sirens and lights. His door was knocked in, a black bag was pulled over his head and he left the house wearing just a pair of pajama bottoms he had had the good sense to give the sniff test to before donning and answering.

When the bag was removed he was in a completely white room with a bright light aimed directly at him while he was asked every question from his credit score to all of the state capitals in order of joining the union. Needless to say he failed these questions miserably.

After about an hour of being run through the wringer the light was dimmed and everyone left. He had just enough time to take a sip of the water bottle the men had thrown on the table but not let him open, before the president walked in.

Coughing and spluttering the president said, "you'll have to forgive me, I've always been one for making a dramatic entrance," before tapping on the panel of one-way glass next to the door.

"We have been receiving some particularly odd transitions on our satellites,and for some reason they keep mentioning your name." The president took a seat and sat in it backwards. "We weren't sure it was you they were talking about until they have your home address. Though I should let you know we've been watching you, and you could use less MLP 'fanart' in your life. I think you scarred corporal Jones."

"What have I done?" Asked Riley, taking a much needed slug of water. "And those images are for research purposes. Don't judge me!"

"I'm not, honestly, I don't care. All we know from the transmissions is that you're supposed to be at the water tower, quote, with the big cheese and the moo cows, unquote, at three am tonight, and some extraterrestrials will show themselves. Do you know who or what they are talking about?"

"Yeah, I used to hang out there in high school, when I didn't want my parents to catch me smoking." Riley said. There were only two other people that would know what that meant... Especially since the "water tower" in question was a defunct grain silo with a big yellow top, and the moo cows were goats. Weed makes idiots of us all.

"We have one hour to 3, and are just outside of town. Can we get you there in time?" The president asked, stepping over the back of his chair and spinning it back under the table in one smooth movement. Clearly he had been watching too many '90s highschool movies.

"Yeah, hell, depending on which out of town we are we're possibly pretty close." 'Town' was just a pimple on the highway with about ten streets that branched off of it and was maybe five miles long.

"Alright, let's get you suited up!" The president said, clapping his hands once.

An aide came running in with a suit shirt and a jacket, Riley was rigged up with a bug before the formal attire was applied.

"I'm sorry, we don't have anything with a 30 in inseam and a forty inch waste, you'll have to wear those pants." The aide said before scurrying away.

Riley, just knew, how well this was going to play out. He barely had clothes fancy enough to go into public with... And who pairs a suit jacket with Lightning McQueen pajamas... But he didn't care. If he was who the aliens wanted then he was going to have to be his way through this.

It turns out they were about two farms down from the one he used to "sneak" on to in his youth. "I wonder if this is why I was getting radio transmissions in my braces," Riley thought to himself.

The vans all retreated back to the farm Riley had been taken to first while Riley climbed up the rickety ladder leading to the roof.

He knew the rungs like an old friend. He remembered which ones wiggled, and which ones he had knocked his head against trying to climb down stoned.

As he stood on the top, wishing he had thought to ask for a cigarette, or something, to pass the time, a small but flashy flying vessel descended on him. A spot light almost blinded him for the second time that night, an absolutely illegal amount of lit smoke bombs landed around him and began to obscure his view of anything around him.

He was grabbed at the shoulders by a strange set of hands which removed everything but his pants and was hoisted into the craft.

As it began to fly away the two aliens turned and looked at him.

"I'm getting so fucking fed up with this bull shi-" Riley began, working himself into a frenzy.

The two aliens lifted their masks. "Gabe! Pete?" Was all Riley could say.

Gabe looked at him with a goofy-assed grin on his face. "Hey, listen. We need some help getting the feds off our back."

You soon learn why the aliens have asked for you specifically. They aren’t aliens, they’re your dumb friends and their prank has gotten REALLY out of hand.

[silhouetteofacedar]

When We Drive, Ch. 1: Cornfields, High School, and Sexual Debuts

AO3 - MSR, rated T (for now)

Interstate 70, somewhere in Kansas

April 1995

They’re driving through Kansas after a case and Mulder is about two grain silos away from swerving their rental car off the road into a ditch. If he can even find one; I-70 is long, flat, and utterly lacking in any noteworthy landmarks or reasons to live. Their case was a bust, and they’re heading back to Wichita empty-handed; the entire state feels like a gigantic waste of time in Mulder’s estimation. Why the fuck Dorothy was so eager to get home to this place?

Scully’s been quiet for over an hour; he thinks she might be napping. He can’t blame her; if he could drive with his eyes closed he would, if only to not have to see another mile of endless corn. God, he hates corn.

She stirs, rolls her head from side to side. So she’s awake, Mulder thinks in relief. He’s sick of hearing his own thoughts.

“Tell me something, Scully,” he says without preamble.

“Hm?” she replies, turning away from the window.

“This is the most boring road in the continental U.S., and I’m slowly going insane. Talk to me; I need something to anchor me to reality.”

“That’s an admission I’d never expected to hear from you, Mulder. I never dared hope,” she says dryly. She absently takes a sunflower seed from the open bag in the center console, cracks the shell with her teeth.

“Humor me. What were you like in high school?”

She balks. “You don’t want to know.”

“Oh, I think I do.”

She chews the seed pensively. “You can’t make fun of me later. This stays in this car.”

He glances at her, wiggles his eyebrows. She rolls her eyes.

“Okay, fine,” Mulder concedes. “This car has a Cone of Silence around it.”

“That’s technically not- never mind.” She plucks another seed out of the bag. “I was a good student, obviously. I had big dreams, wanted to make a difference in the world; make my father proud.”

“So you were a nerd,” Mulder surmises. “I can see it.”

“I tried to hide it, though. I went through some pretty outrageous phases in my teen years. You know about the smoking thing,” she says, “But… I didn’t stick to just cigarettes.”

“Dana Katherine,” Mulder says in mock horror, “Were you a stoner?”

“Oh, no. I didn’t do it all the time. Just when I was out with friends. Occasionally.” She picks a sunflower seed shell off the tip of her tongue and places it in a tissue from her purse.

“That’s not that scandalous, Scully. I smoked a few joints in my time.” He glances at her and smiles. She eats sunflower seeds so carefully, and it warms his heart to see her sharing one of his rituals. He takes a few from the bag, in communion.

“I was kind of a punk,” she says quietly.

Well, that was unexpected. “You? Really?” He glances at her in her uninspired beige suit, red hair in soft waves around her face. “I can’t picture it.”

“Please don’t try to,” she groans. “I couldn’t really commit to the full look, what with Catholic school dress codes. Most days I just wore too much eyeliner and didn’t brush my hair. I’d go to local punk shows on the weekends with my friends, though. We’d tell our parents we were staying at the other’s house, and since my grades were good I don’t think they ever bothered to verify that information.”

“That’s the kind of sordid detail I’m looking for,” he quips, chomping on a seed. The idea of teenage Scully - Dana, back then - in ripped tights and boots, lying to her parents, sneaking around, was intriguing. She would have been way too cool for teenage Fox, and the realization makes his stomach flip inexplicably. He clears his throat. “Alright, next question. When did you lose you v-card?”

“Mulder!”

“Hey, we’ll trade. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“This is not an appropriate topic of conversation while we’re on a case,” Scully argues.

“Case is technically over, and who’s gonna know? The only other ears for miles around are on the corn.”

She groans. “If you promise not to make any more awful jokes…” she cautions.

“Scout’s honor,” he replies, raising a hand.

Scully shifts in her seat, turns to look out the window again. “I was sixteen.”

He glances at her quickly. “Really? Wow.”

“Wow?” She prompts.

“That’s… younger than I expected for you.”

“Oh, so you’ve given this some thought?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

Mulder tugs his collar absently. “That’s not what I said. So sixteen, huh?”

“Yes. It was at a party and it was terrible. His name was Andrew and we were kind of friends, kind of more than friends, and very awkward. Not the finest thirty seconds of my high school career.” She sighs. “Your turn.”

Mulder suddenly regrets broaching the subject. “Uh, we can stop playing this game, if you want.”

“Nuh-uh, you’re not backing out now. We had a deal. When?”

He bites his lip. “I was eighteen, at Oxford. I, uh… wasn’t super social in high school.”

Scully hums in understanding. “Who was it?”

He lowers his voice. “You’ve met her, actually.”

Scully’s eyes widen. Mulder can hear her thoughts spinning. She gasps. “Oh! Her!”

“Yup.” He repositions his hands on the steering wheel, suddenly finding the cracked asphalt ahead very interesting.

“Well, that’s… she’s…” Scully flounders.

“It was okay. I mean, I was a teenage boy, I was mostly just glad to be having it. But I wasn’t her first and that made it a little uncomfortable… she wasn’t the kindest person, sometimes.”

Scully nods. “I’ll admit she didn’t make a very good impression on me. I didn’t like the way she talked to you,” she confesses.

Mulder doesn’t respond. The only sound in the car is the hum of the engine, the road beneath the tires.

“One good thing about teenage mistakes,” Scully posits after a while, “Is that you learn from them.”

“It took me a while to learn from mine,” Mulder admits, staring ahead.

Scully, mercifully, doesn’t look at him. She leans her head against the window, watches miles of corn pass them by.

[full-course-identity]

"a hundred ways, a hundred motions" drabble #3: Upgrade

Summary: Time was up, and he had no reason to run anymore.

Words: 575

CW: D[e]ath and su[i]cide mention, a general sense of v[i]olation, unreality, tentacles, hard emotional angst.

Read it here, or on AO3 (@ Sedusa)!

He knew the end had come when the bile he painted over porcelain turned red.

The drive to flee his reality became the first part of himself to shrivel up and die.

By nightfall, the car Jeremy called home for the past several months went abandoned. He left everything with it, stumbling his way, alone, across the road; the snow in this strange space between Ohio and Michigan, empty fields of ice and grain surrounding him, seeped so deeply into his fingers and toes he knew they were unsalvageable. He grabbed the ladder steps of the vine-entombed silo he’d drawn towards anyway, pulling himself to the top, still within sight of the only evidence he lived 6 months longer than he had the right to.

A Squip was already there, waiting for him.

He wondered, as he always did, what it was like for Rich to choose slit wrists over chasing survival. And he wondered also, as he always did, why he’d let Rich make that choice alone.

He deserved this.

“You ran from me,” a voice like clustered pixels burst deep in his temple, pressing against the back of his eyes and clawing against his sinuses. The coagulated glucose that held the world together melted in front of him, fibers dissolving as a void in humanoid form poured out. Atomic blue eyes slid open and locked with his, unblinking. “You prefer death, yet you gave up. Why?”

Jeremy pulled his cardigan closer to himself and chose not to respond.

“... very well.” The primary components of the shape before him began to solidify. An overflow of ink began to pour over the jagged shape of their back, a waterfall that flowed to the ground below and pooled outward, all-consuming, but completely ignored by the empty houses that stood nearby. A grey-white hand and the thousand ink tentacles that came with grabbed his chin, tilting it up sharply, turning his head back and forth. “Inadequate,” their murmur radiated through Jeremy’s skull. “Spineless. Discarded and alone. No one wants you anymore.”

Michael would.

Jeremy didn’t want to think about that, but it was true. Maybe he was angry that Jeremy chose Rich; maybe he was devastated that Jeremy didn’t even hesitate, and maybe he’d screamed for Jeremy to come home and broke apart when he didn’t.

He’d welcome him in with open arms.

But Jeremy wouldn’t let Michael do that to himself.

The abyss purred with amusement, giving way to a sneer. “I’m not the Squip your lover lost, Jeremy,” their words scrawled across his eardrums, “and I’m not the ones that hunted him after, either. The only limit to my power is self-control, and my cruelty will outweigh it eventually. Your status as my bride will be closer to breeding sow than it will companionship, much less equality. You know this, you don’t want this, but you’ve chosen it in your guilt. Illogical. Irrational.”

Flesh parted for sparkling sterling teeth.

“You’re right. I don’t care about your reasoning, because the eternity of suffering ahead of you is still an upgrade from the diseased scourge of a species you were born to.”

Tendrils wrapped his wrists, his throat; they yanked his head back and crawled up his clothes, then broke his mouth open. Suffocating. Consuming.

“Tell me you want this.”

Jeremy’s eyes burned.

“Say yes.”

“Y--”

With a single pop the silo stood alone, the set of lonely footprints left behind soon buried under the midnight snow.

[erics-meep-morps]

House of Memories

A self-ship fic with Lapis and Peridot

As far as the eye could see there were farm fields with a mix of green and yellow, and occasionally the blue of a stream or pond. Farmhouses and barns dotted the landscape, all connected by gravel roads. In this rural area of western Minnesota there was one particular farmhouse we were heading for. 

“We're getting close,” I announced to Lapis and Peridot after checking my phone, which had the coordinates to the farmhouse. Lapis was carrying me as we flew through the warm air of early autumn. It wouldn’t be long before the air became cold and crisp, and the crops below us would be harvested. 

I noticed a familiar set of train tracks that I had crossed many times before in my family’s car, but the only time I ever saw a train on those tracks was when I was five years old. Not surprisingly there wasn’t a train this time. 

As we drew closer I was getting more and more anxious. It had been so long since I saw the house, and there was the possibility it was all rubble by now. I set no expectations for what we would see. 

As we flew over a creek I looked beyond it and could see a small pocket of trees in the distance. “There,” I said and pointed. We descended and landed on a gravel road in front of a driveway. 

“Is this it,” Lapis asked.

I looked around for a moment. “Yep, this is definitely the place.”

We walked down the driveway, which had a lot of vegetation growing on it after several years of rarely being used. Behind some trees I was relieved to see the house still standing. 

“So this is where your grandmother lived,” Peridot asked.

“Indeed it is, plus my grandfather, though I didn’t know him as much as my grandmother. It’s also one of only a few places where I met a lot of my relatives on my mom’s side.”

The grain silo had collapsed, and not surprisingly the flatbed truck that sat abandoned next to it was still there. The barn was completely engulfed by trees, and the shed where the tractor and other farming equipment was stored was showing signs of decay. 

“When was the last time you were here,” Lapis asked.

“Oh man, definitely more than a decade ago. The house has been unoccupied for at least five years,” I said and turned to Peridot. “I understand if it’s too long gone to restore.”

“Well it’s in the realm of possibility, but it would require a lot of renovation, and that’s assuming it doesn’t collapse while trying to restore it. Plus there’s the issue of mold, infestation of insects and mammals, asbestos, and other factors.”

“Yeah, I think it’s best to just leave it as is. It’s nice to see again after so long, and remembering all the good times I had here. Well, mostly good times, but back then I still had a lot to learn about myself and the life I wanted to live. I’m not sure how my grandmother would feel seeing me now.”

Lapis placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure she would be very proud of how far you’ve come.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I- I’d like to think she would be proud of me, though I don’t know for sure. To be honest in the last few years of her life I think I only talked to her once or twice. I rarely see a lot of my relatives actually.”

“How come, if you don’t mind me asking,” Lapis said.

“Several reasons. We live far apart from each other, so gatherings were difficult to plan, especially as I became an adult with a busier schedule. Admittedly social anxiety is definitely a factor, and I know that shouldn’t keep me away from all social interactions, but with relatives I’m very reserved about myself. Also there’s the political divide that grew between us. When my sister and I were teenagers we were good friends with several of our cousins, but they leaned more and more conservative while we became more and more liberal. They and other relatives have said stuff that’s disrespectful to people I care about, like one of my friends who’s nonbinary. And in general I lost interest in family gatherings.”

“Yeah, I understand the lack of interest in seeing them, especially those who have disrespectful views,” Peridot said.

“What do you think they would feel about the relationship us three have together,” Lapis asked curiously. 

I chuckled. “I don’t know for sure since I never heard them talk about polyamorous relationships. At least a few would probably frown upon it, but that’s my best guess. Even though I don’t know what my grandmother and other relatives would think of me now, the important thing is I’m happy with my life.”

Peridot nodded. “Exactly. What matters most is how you feel.”

“How do you feel coming back here again,” Lapis asked.

“I feel like nostalgia hit me like a ton of bricks.”

Lapis and Peridot chuckled. 

“I also feel like taking a closer look at the house, but from the outside of course. I’m sure even just seeing rooms from the outside will make the nostalgia hit me even harder.”

“Sounds good, babe. Where to first,” Lapis asked.

“Let’s go around back, and then one of you lift me up to the second floor so I can see the bedroom my family and I would use when we stayed the night.”

“No problem,” Peridot said and swiftly scooped me into her arms. On her metal lid we floated up and I directed her to the window I wanted to look in. In bright daylight we could see the entire room, and not surprisingly the beds were gone. There also used to be paintings of dogs that my mom made, but those were gone as well. The bedroom door was open and I could partly see into the hallway. The wood floors appeared to be in good shape, though back when I used to visit the floors creaked loud enough for the whole house to hear. 

Next we checked the kitchen, which was directly below the bedroom. The glass sliding door was shattered, so we peeked inside. Amazingly the kitchen table was still there, where we had many meals and various card games together. Some cabinets were open and empty. To my disgust there was a wasp nest in one of the upper corners, which cemented my content with staying outside.

We moved on to the bay window to look at the living room. The chandelier, although broken, was still hanging on the ceiling. A sole rocking chair in the middle of the room gave me both creepy and nostalgic vibes. The wood paneling of the room was broken in several places, with one particular spot appearing to be burrowed by a small animal. 

Around the corner was the indoor porch, though throughout my years of visiting it was always just used for storage. This was still the case, as there were many boxes, plus a freezer and a piano. I was surprised the piano wasn’t moved out, but I guess it was simply too heavy and too difficult to get out of there. Some of the boxes were open, so I tried to see what was in them. One of them appeared to have videotapes, and this caught my interest. 

“I know I said I didn’t want to go inside, but I just need to look at that box real quick,” I said and tried opening the door. With some force it eventually swung open, and I was mentally preparing myself for a bug or an animal to jump out at me, or for better or worse a human. I cautiously went inside, gently picked up the box, and brought it outside for us to look at. 

“Ah yes, portable rolling film storage devices,” Peridot said.

Lapis raised an eyebrow.

Peridot huffed. “Also known as videotapes.”

“I wonder if...,” I began to say and then saw it. “Oh. My. Stars!” With excitement I grabbed the videotape and showed it to Lapis and Peridot.

They looked at it with intrigue and read the title. “Trains Across America: Volume 1.”

“Yeah! When I got bored here, which was often, I’d watch these train videos! I wonder if the others are in here,” I said and searched in the box. After going through all the videotapes I found two other train-themed videos, while the rest were movies that none of us were interested in keeping, so we put them back in the box. My videotapes were a nice way to remind me of the times I had here.

The trip back to Minneapolis, where we would stay the night before returning to our home, would be a few hours. With it being late afternoon we decided to head out soon. Before doing so we checked around the house a little more, followed by the barn and shed. All the important stuff to the family was already retrieved before the house was abandoned, so there was no need to go inside and find any valuables that relatives would want. 

With my phone I took several pictures around the property, including a couple selfies with Lapis and Peridot. Although it was sad to leave this house in the deteriorating state it was in, it had served my family well before we went our different paths. Perhaps someone would eventually takeover the property, build a new house, and make memories with their family.

Before leaving I placed my hand on the house. “Thank you for the memories.”

As we took off I looked back towards the house. Quickly the house faded from view, and then the property mixed in with the landscape.

“How do you feel,” Lapis asked.

“Pretty good, and accomplished. Thank you for helping me make this possible.”

“Of course. We’re glad you got to see a part of your childhood you haven’t seen in a long time,” Lapis said.

“Plus you didn’t have to drive. I remember you saying the trip to and from here was so long and boring,” Peridot added.

I chuckled. “Indeed it was.” 

A few minutes later I noticed a headlight in the distance that didn’t look like that of a car. As we flew closer to it I was surprised and delighted to see it was a long freight train. With some curves along the railway tracks it slithered through the countryside like a snake. We followed it to the crossing where many times I had hoped to see a train but didn’t. More than 20 years later I finally saw one again. 

[wellbelesbian]

time for my daily overanalysing of Carry On!

so i just got my hardback bookshelf edition of Carry On, and i’m a bit confused by these different maps of Watford

this is a completely pointless thing for me to get so hung up about, but i’ll put my thoughts as to why under the cut anyway because it’s really bothering me.

so. all the named buildings like Mummers House, The Cloisters, The White Chapel and the Weeping Tower are in the same places and look the same, as does the building between Mummers House and The Cloisters.

but down from The Cloisters we can see one building on the blue map, and two on the green map. neither on the green map look like the barn-and-silo looking structure on the blue map, they’re more like long warehouses. you do get those on farms and can keep cattle in them like a barn, but they don’t look the same, do they?

the building beside the Weeping Tower looks the same, but appears to be labelled as Ebb’s Place. There’s no way Ebb lives in a huge building like that. i had assumed that it was more student housing, as in Carry On, Simon says there is a new building for students called Fraternity House, which isn’t labelled on the map.

truth be told, i thought that Ebb lived outside the walls, in the hills beyond, since there are little goats pictured there on the blue map. however I scanned the book for any mention of it and it does actually say she lives in a barn near the Weeping Tower. i’m just going to assume that Ebb’s Place is that warehouse beside the Weeping Tower on the green map, and ignore that it looks entirely different on the blue map. even if it’s just the angle making it look different, i should be able to see the tall structure on its side (not sure if it’s a grain silo or a tower)

this building appears to be the same, and the placement shows that there is more space between the buildings and the wall than there appears on the blue map, hence why some buildings may be cut off.

and then there’s these three buildings… on the blue map, the top building is a long building that also looks like accommodation, and then beneath it is a church-looking building to the left, and a castle-looking building to the right. on the green map, the bottom buildings are technically okay, though they look a bit different, but the top building is completely different. it also looks like a huge church now (how many churches and chapels does one school need?!), with a tower at each corner.

so yeah, that’s basically everything covered. all the things outside the walls like the football pitch and the wavering wood are the same.

and look, i understand that the blue map is stylistic while the green one is more like a 3D model, but I can’t understand how you can add a whole other building and make so many others look so different!

i managed to muddle my way through a lot of this while writing down my thoughts here, but i feel like i shouldn’t have to make assumptions and reread parts of book to make the two maps compatible. it takes like 5 minutes to consult a pre-existing map when making your new one, just how exactly did this happen?

uh. i think i’m more invested in this than regular people because i made my own map of Watford based on the blue map for a d&d campaign, and now i’m going to have to edit it.

[trillian-anders]

bewildered

pairing: geralt of rivia x reader

warnings: angst, fluff, smut

word count: 4k

description: part 3 of 3. you’d wanted nothing to do with him, and he respected that. it was deserved. but something called him to you. and he needs to bring you home. 

Spring was coming. The snow finally melting, but the ground just beginning to thaw. Pretty soon Geralt would be able to sleep outside without being uncomfortable. He’d be able to get more done. Make more money. Leave Kaer Morhen for longer than a week at a time.

Truth be told he didn’t think he would make this place his home. The stone walls held bad memory. This was the place his mother had left him. Where he took his trials. Where he became the monster that he was today. But, Vesemir reasoned with him, free lodgings are better than paying for somewhere to stay all winter. And being as though they were the last of the Witchers, this property was theirs after all.

It was also harder to move around now that he had Ciri. The girl was smart, but naïve. Talented, but impulsive. This home would give her stability for training. Something she dreaded.

“I don’t understand why I have to learn all of this.” She would whine, the old tomes and books, memorized by Geralt in his youth, now to be memorized by her.

“You won’t succeed in fighting monsters if you don’t know everything about the monster.” Vesemir would shake his head at her when he wasn’t falling asleep in his chair.

Ciri would use those moments to sneak off, train combatively like Geralt had been teaching her. Running the obstacle course that he’d built for her. She loved doing that. The book learning not so much.

It was one of those days, Vesemir found fast asleep that he found Ciri outside practicing with a dummy in the courtyard. Her form was improving, but still sloppy. Her footwork needed more practice and she needed to build more muscle in her arms to properly wield the sword, but she was improving and that was a good sign.

“Keep your core tight.” He called, arms crossed and standing a comfortable distance behind her. “Focus, precise movements.” She was agile, having learned to flip and maneuver her way around even if her footwork was often a misstep. She’ll get there. “Steady.”

The trees were barren and air crisp. Watching Ciri practice, focused. The wind picked up, a whisper in the air.

Something was wrong.

Geralt didn’t know what it was, but he could sense it. A shift. A change. Something was very, very wrong. His fingers reached into his pocket, brushing against the metal coin there reassuringly. Thumbing it between his pointer a forefinger.

When the ground thaws. He’ll soothe his conscience.

…

He found himself outside of your home. For the first time in a long time. It looks less taken care of, vines crawling up the sides imbedding themselves in the walls. The garden was dry, dead plants, overgrown weeds. The small little pond you’d made for yourself, the fish dead, a layer of scum over top.

The door was open and half of its hinge.

He stepped through the familiar home. Room to room. Cobwebs and dust over every surface, bottles and jars smashed or dark and their contents sour. You obviously hadn’t been here for a very long time, but it looked as though you’d left on your own accord. Your clothes and jewelry were gone. The tiny baubles he’d noticed on your vanity gone as well. But how long have you been gone? And where were you now?

He travelled on. Different towns, villages. Beast after beast, listlessly hoping that the trail of bed crumbs would be you leading him back. The heavy coin in his pocket would put a shadow on that thought. You gave him the thing you used to bring him to you before. He flipped it through his fingers, looking at the shiny metal sides, polished from the constant worrying.

He was sore, soaking in a bath and looking at it. The cuts on his arms and legs burning from the heat, but he can’t focus on that. He’s focused on this coin.

He couldn’t remember the story you told him. You having been just a girl and him handing this coin to you. He’d probably been a new Witcher then. Fresh from his trails, out on his first couple hunts, just having left the nest. He couldn’t pull the memory from his mind. It was so long ago now.

He could feel the magic in it, infused in every little bit of this metal. Your magic. It had given him solace, late nights, long bouts of travel, he rubbed it and it soothed him, pacifying his subdued emotions enough for him to focus. It was when he thought of this that he realized,

He knew how to find you.

The village wasn’t far off from where your old home had been, and he’d felt foolish for it. Small and secluded. Tiny little houses in sporadic distances from the main square. The square bustling with life, vendors selling vegetables and grain from their farm. Flowers and metal trinkets from the blacksmith, behind him an array of weapons and household wares.

He wasn’t welcome here and he could feel it as soon as he stepped into the small village. Their looks odd, their wallets clutched in to quell their nerves. But he paid them no mind. He could see you, just across the way. Thin white linen dress, hair down and soft, holding a woven basket you were slowly filling with vegetables. He grew closer as you switched over to the little flower cart, smiling and charming, talking to the male vendor.

His cheeks red with rosacea and belly round he seemed keen on you. You were laughing at a joke, head thrown back. He’d never seen you so carefree before, so happy. You had baby’s breath in your hair and a rose to your cheeks. He almost stepped away, left entirely. Like maybe getting rid of him was the best thing you’d ever done for yourself.

But it’s gone from his mind when you meet his gaze, your eyes bringing him in, a soft smile on your lips. He stops before you and you turn to him,

“Y/N…” Your brow furrows, lips pulling into a frown.

“I’m sorry, sir.” You step back from him, “But do I know you?” This feeling, he’d only felt it once before, what feels like a lifetime ago now. The abandonment of it. You look genuinely confused. He shakes his head,

“No, I’m sorry…” He sighs, “I’m—”

“Witcher.” A terse voice, men pulling up to his left. “You’re going to have to come with us.” His eyes stay on you as you look upon the men, the tug of your bottom lip between your teeth. You give him a strange look and walk away, leaving the square, and headed to where he would assume your home was.

He turned to the men, their leader jerking his head toward the pub. So it wasn’t a beating, but a job proposition.

“Do you know her?” One of the men asked him, “You seemed pretty keen.” His teeth were yellowed, skin black with dirt. Geralt sipped on his ale, answering, focused in on the man who just dropped down in front of him. “I bet she tastes of honey.” Geralt’s jaw set, a glare shot at the man who sunk into his seat, Cheshire grin dropping.

“Something has been in my fields every night.” He says, “I’d pray you a pretty penny so it would stop hawking my grain.” Missing grain. Geralt was ever the public servant.

How could you forget him? Had you done this to yourself? Erased your mind of him? Or had someone else done this to you? Was your memory lost forever or easily retrieved? He sighs, trying to focus on the task at hand, but he can’t. Should he even try to bring your memory back?

A shift in the night, he could hear it. Noise from the silo. His hand on the hilt of his sword. He walked around to the other side, the moonlight illuminating the open door. He sighs, the grain thief isn’t a hungry beast, but someone from the village. He sheathes his sword, coming around the corner and seeing a dark cloaked figure hunched over and shoving grain into a burlap sack by their feet. He sighs, the noise halting the figure’s movements.

“The man who owns this land isn’t too happy that you’ve been stealing his grain.” The figure moves, turning to face him, cloak hood falling from their face.

It’s you.

“I’m sure.” You huff, “He seems perfectly happy to let those on the outer banks starve though, maybe you should talk to him about that.” He was stunned by you. You looked different, fresher, healthier. You’d been eating more, getting more sun and in the moonlight, he felt struck by you in a way he couldn’t have expected. You looked at him for a moment before tying the burlap sack shut, “You seem to know me… Witcher.” Cheeky. That hadn’t changed.

“You remind me of someone I once knew.” He watched you abandon the sack, stepping towards him.

“Was she beautiful?” You muse, a cheeky grin. A light in your eyes he hadn’t ever seen.

“Absolutely enchanting.” He breathed, missing your heat when you take a step back.

“So you wouldn’t mind carrying this grain for me then?” You laugh at the look on his face, but he finds himself shouldering it and following you down the hill and into the woods.

An enchantress. That’s what you’d always been. A mage, a king’s mage, a mage for the people, no. You were an enchantress and you belonged here. Flitting about in the trees covered with moss and barefoot leading him to a small home. The first stop of many to portion out enough grain for the family to have bread.

You’re their fairy godmother. A blessing. He watches the mother hold you and offer you animal fat from their last hunt, something you decline, but appreciate, nonetheless. He follows you house to dilapidated house, the poor families inside ever so grateful for the blessing of your stolen grain. You mock him for giving up his fealty so easily.

“I should be jealous of this girl.” You jest. “She must get whatever she wants from you.” He huffs,

“I haven’t seen her in a while.” He admits, watching you balance on a log across a small stream, heading back towards town and leading him home.

“You seem smitten,” You jump from the log, landing on your feet and turning to him, watching him cross, “Why haven’t you seen her?” Sorrow burrowed into his chest as he watches you continue onward, the beautiful dress you’d been wearing earlier now mud dipped and you seem so without care.

“I said something in anger,” He sighs, “Years ago, I fear she doesn’t want to see me again.” The edge of the town grows closer and you take him to the left, walking the length around it.

“Did you apologize?” You ask, the stone streets meeting your feet once more. He follows you through the winding road, house pushed further back towards the wood. A miniature version of the home he’d found abandoned, complete with a little pond out front.

“I hadn’t the chance.” You look at him strangely.

“Hadn’t the chance or wouldn’t take it?”

The home is much cozier than your old one. A single room with a fireplace on the far right wall, your bed on the far left. A small table and chair, kitchen area with dried herbs hanging over top of the small butcher’s block counter that had vegetable scraps from the dinner you must’ve eaten before going out to steal and distribute grain.

“Mason, the man who owns that land will surely be wanting a head brought to him.” He watches you take a cloth and wash your feet. You look up at him from beneath your lashes. “Are you going to turn me in?”

He shakes his head, “No.” You shrug, tossing the rag into your basket of laundry.

“Then you better get hunting.” But he didn’t want to leave you. You seemed so happy here, so content, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t leave you like this,

“Do you really not remember me?” He asked, gruff and serious. You look at him strangely,

“What are you talking about?” You ask. “I’ve just met you today.” He shakes his head,

“No, I met you for the first time nearly fifty years ago.” Your brow furrows and you shake your head.

“I’m not even fifty years old…” You step back from him, “I think you should leave.”

“I’m not leaving.” He states, “You’re a mage, you know magic, you did this to yourself?” Why couldn’t he just walk away? Why did he need to tear you from this so badly? You shake your head, hand coming up to hold the side of it. “You erased your memory?”

He could see your eyes moving behind your closed lids. Searching. “You need to leave.”

“I need to take you back to Vesemir, he’ll know how to help you.” Your eyes opened, red and weepy, a drop of blood drips from your nose and you faint.

Geralt rushes to catch your dropping body, saving your skull from clipping into the kitchen bench. He’d have to take you to Kaer Morhen, Vesemir would be able to help him break this spell.

…

This bed was much richer than your own. Comfortable to the point you could sink into it almost to the floor. You’d never felt anything so rich in your life. Your body feels like lead, hard to move, but then again you didn’t really want to. You were so comfortable. Laying on your belly, a hand on your back playing with the ends of your hair, braiding and then taking it out, then re-braiding.

You hum, vision clearing, looking at the drawn curtains. A crackling fireplace in the corner makes the cool summer night a little too warm.

It was a little girl, humming behind you and braiding your hair. Her hair stark white, skin tanned and ruddy from playing in the summer sun, scratches on her cheeks and you’d later notice on her knuckles and fingers.

“Ciri.” A harsh whisper. “Leave her be.” The voice familiar and a deep growl. A quiet huff of annoyance and the bed shifts you can hear her step towards Geralt.

“I’m helping her wake up.” She says in a terse voice.

“She needs to rest.” His annoyed reply. The heavy door behind him closes and you slowly roll over to look at him. He’s staring at the ground, a strange expression on his face.

“I’m surprised you came looking for me.” You mumble into the sheets. His eyes snapping to yours.

“You erased your memory.” A statement. A fact. You hum, stretching your sore limbs. “Take it easy, you’re not going to have all your faculties yet.”

“You weren’t supposed to go looking for me.”

“Why not?” He asked. “I didn’t mean what I said and you know it.” You sink back into the sheets, unable to fully move.

“Is this your home?” You ask. He steps closer, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

“I lived here when I was a boy.” He shrugs, “This is where they trained us.” He hears your sharp intake of breath. “It’s just us here, Ciri, Vesemir, and me.”

“Not Yenn?” He glares at you.

“She’s never been here.” You roll onto your back, looking up at the canopy above you. “Why did you erase your memory?” He watches you for a moment, silent and unanswering.

“It made it hurt less.” You admit, “I didn’t want to live that life anymore.” You look at him, his brow pulled in concern.

“I’m sorry for what I said.” He sighs, “I shouldn’t have—”

“But you’re right.” You scoff, “Both times I pushed you away… the last time you wanted to stay…”

“But it wouldn’t have been right of me to do that…” He sighs, “I wasn’t in a good place to give you what you wanted.”

“Are you ever?” You sit up against the headboard, wiggling your toes to regain feeling.

“No…” He looks at you quietly for a moment, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“Are you ever going to be happy?” He asks, you look at him for a moment. The defeat in his voice.

“Why does it matter to you? Is this your guilt?” You look around the room, a large basin to bathe in, the fireplace growing close to embers, a desk messy with papers, but what would he even need to write?

“My guilt?” Your eyes roll back to his.

“That fuels you to need to make sure I’m happy. Which didn’t stop you from bringing my memory back.” A spell, crudely done on yourself. A nice ten or fifteen years, you’d remember. But you’d get to live life away from it for a while, and you did. “So guilt and selfishness then? Guilt needing to make sure I’m happy but selfish enough to make sure I can’t be happy without you? Why?” You wanted him to say it. This strange relationship the two of you had, if you could even call it a relationship.

This was the third time you’d seen him in nearly fifty years.

“What is this?” You ask him, “Why can’t you let me go?”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head, stepping from the bed, “I don’t know.” Rubbing his eyes. His fingers fumble with something in his pocket, “You’re just so…”

“So…? What?” His golden eyes they’re so piercing. They make a shiver go down your spine.

“Bewitching.” He steps to the edge of the bed and you meet him there, shifting shakily to your knees. His fingers find the ends of your hair, still partially braided from Ciri. “I’m selfish enough to want you here.” He says, “With me.”

You settle back on your heels, head tilted back looking up at his face. “You’re soft.” He rolls his eyes, knowing the subject was far too intimate for you, something to be broached later, maybe once he plies you with mead maybe soaking bath. “I’m hungry.”

…

Geralt watched from under the stone archway. Ciri was practicing, you are standing a safe distance behind her, observing. Ciri seemed infatuated with you, she wanted to show you everything she learned, everything she knew. You helped her focus, Ciri able to sit longer in her studies, explain things to you about different creatures that you pretended not to know.

You braided her hair out of her face and she chattered to you at mealtimes.

“The girl wants a Mother.” Vesemir said to him as they both watched you instruct her to keep her back straight,

“Good posture helps with combat.” You would tell her. Ciri would roll her shoulders back, her footwork improving. Less sloppy.

Your eyes would meet his every once in a while, a knowing smirk on your face before he steps out to join the two of you and you make your exit with a trail of fingers against his back.

“The trial of the grasses.” You whisper by candlelight, facing him in the bed you’d been sharing, your fingers tracing the shape of his cheekbones, “Barbaric, and cruel… it’s fortunate that no one should have to go through that ever again.” Your thumb pressed between his tense brow.

“Ciri will never have to go through that.” She’s powerful, the girl.

“She won’t.” You wrap yourself in further, legs curling up under your nightdress. “She’s strong.”

“She is.”

“I would have never pictured you as a father.” He huffs, rolling onto his back.

“Neither would I.” You hum, looking at his profile.

“She wants to make you proud.” His eyes move to yours. “I have a feeling that she already does.”

“You can’t leave her.” He says, “You’d break her heart.” Your fingers scratch against the sheets between you.

“I can’t stay here.”

“Why not?” Propped up on his elbow, body half hovering over yours. “Make this your home, come and go as I do,” His fingers disappearing in your strands, “Just always come back.” A gentle tug, pulling your face to meet his.

It was soft. Unlike previous kisses. The passion bubbling under your skin, the emptiness you’d felt from the absence of him being drowned by his mouth. The blunt fingernails digging into your spine as you lay above him, kissing.

Those same fingers bunching the skirt of your nightdress up your thighs as you straddle his hips. The hard length of him pressing against you. You gently rock your hips against his, grinding yourself on him, softly moaning into his mouth. He gently rolls you over, pressing your back against the sheets and kissing his way down your neck and to the tops of your breasts, palming them, before sinking his hands under your nightdress and slipping your undergarments down and off. The thin gown slipping off your shoulders to lay open.

His lips meet your belly, tracing their way down, down, to press against your hips, large rough palms tracing down your legs to grip your thighs and part them for his gentle assault. Those amber eyes meet yours, tongue dipping between your thighs. His arms encircle your hips, hands gripping them tightly, letting you rock against his face.

The grind and friction on his tongue making your legs shake. His grunting and moaning, tongue tracing expertly placed circles on your clit. Your fingers unravel his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp as your back arches in climax. Whining with his continued licks, wet tongue overstimulating your sensitive flesh. He lays a kiss on your mons, trailing his lips back up your body to capture your mouth, the sweet tang of you shared between you both.

You pull at his shirt and he allows you to lift it from his body, tossed carelessly to the side, before helping you with his trousers. His skin bare above you, touching yours in comfort. He wraps himself around you, warm and strong. His heavy cock resting on your belly as his lips meet yours again and again.

Your fingers in his hair, he adjusts his hips, the tip of him pressing against your entrance before you feel that familiar burn and stretch, whimpering into his mouth as he breeches you. He’s on his elbows on top of you, chest to chest, connected. Intimate. His face pulls away from yours as he begins to slowly thrust, and as your eyes drift closed, he says,

“Don’t look away from me,” a plea or a demand, you couldn’t be sure, but when you opened your eyes and looked into his it felt so raw, so real. His hips meeting yours in a steady smooth pace. This wasn’t like before. The hurried and animalistic chase towards climax. The rushed fuck you’d gotten from him twice before. This was far more intimate, far closer, far too exposed. “Don’t look away.”

You could feel your eyes watering, body trembling as he ground himself against the most sensitive spot inside you, “I can’t.” You whimper his fingers intertwined with yours, pressing them down into the bed.

“Don’t run from me.” A whisper on your lips as the tears began to run down your face, dripping down your temples and into your hair, “Stop running from me.” He lays a soft kiss to your lips. You were getting close, so close.

Your hands tightened, squeezing his as you tumbled over, a blabbering mess of words leaving your throat, soothed by a searing kiss from him as his hips picked up a faster motion, chasing his own release now. It wasn’t long after that his hips stuttered against yours, his seed painting your womb, but his body staying close. He kissed you, again and again. Slow and soft.

“Tell me you’ll stay.” A whisper into your mouth, he was soft inside you, your legs still wrapped around his waist. His eyes searched yours, thumb coming down to wipe at the tears coming from your eyes.

“I’ll stay.”

.

.

.

taglist //  @msgeorgiarae​ @bookish-shristi​ @saturnki​ @jennmurawski13​ @geeksareunique​ @the-soulofdevil​ @tinmunky​ @gifsbysimplysonia​ @alwaysbenhardysgirl @beck-alicious​

[cupidmarwani-archive]

Dinner Date (Jowen)

Summary: When Owen said he wanted TK to have dinner with the person he’s been seeing, this isn’t exactly what he expected. (Judd/Owen, background TK/Carlos)

WC: ~1.3k

TK sets the table in companionable silence, at ease for once. It’s okay that his dad is seeing someone, especially because Carlos is there beside him setting glasses of water on the table. No wine and no beer, even though Carlos enjoys both and TK knows his father would love to open a bottle of red for this awkward little “meet-the-family double-date” thing that they’re doing. Sure, it’s nice to know that Owen and Carlos get along, and he’s excited for the warm risotto and tender meat, but there’s a part of him that worries about his father finding someone new. What if they hate him, like his dad’s most recent ex-girlfriend from New York? Or worse, like him too much, like his father’s second wife?

“Breathe,” Carlos reminds him, wrapping an arm around him gently and kissing his temple. It’s something small. But it helps. “You’re okay. I’m sure his new girlfriend will love you.”

“That’s not reassuring,” he mumbles as Owen looks up at the two of them.

He’s dressed nicer than usual. A button down, dark jeans. He spent almost two hours on his hair. He must really like the girl he’s seeing, and TK swears he’s happy for him. It isn’t that he doesn’t want his father to be happy, he’s just afraid. When it comes to women, he just doesn’t really have good judgement when it comes to pretty faces.

When the doorbell rings, Owen asks TK to get it. He takes Carlos’ hand and brings him forward too, just so he has something to hold onto. If it turns out the girl sucks, he still has Carlos and the 126. With a deep breath, he opens the door.

For about five seconds, TK just stares at Judd. His hair is combed flat, his clothes actually nice, and his arms full. In one hand, a full arranged bouquet with lillies and other small flowers and whatever else goes into those things. In the other, a pink bakery box with a clear window to a chocolate cake, his favorite. It’s too much at once. Judd opens his mouth.

TK slams the door in his face.

“TK-” Carlos starts.

“What the fuck, dad?”

“Open the door please,” Owen sighs. “Don’t make him stand out there.”

It’s Carlos who opens the door and apologizes, takes the cake from Judd to set on the counter while Owen gets a vase, kissing Judd’s cheek as he accepts the flowers. It isn’t right. TK thinks he might be dreaming, or hallucinating, or something. This doesn’t make sense and he’s barely able to breathe until Carlos helps him sit down and hands him water. He even asks if TK needs his inhaler. If only this was something so simple as asthma and not a meltdown because his dad is seeing someone.

And it’s not like Judd is a bad person; he’s kind and loving and a teddy bear, and he would never hurt either of them. If he thinks hard enough, he’s seen the way Judd looks at his father. He’s a good man. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s dating Owen, didn’t tell TK, and decided that just showing up was a good idea. And his dad hid this from him too, because he knows that TK would be upset by it. They conspired to keep this from him.

Owen serves four plates at the table and smiles at the flowers Judd brought. Carlos holds TK’s hand under the table and shoots him this look like he knows he’s desperate to run fast and far, avoid the pain that rushes through him in a reminder of what it’s been like in the past, even if he knows Judd is a good person and he knows his father loves him.

“This is really good, sir, thank you,” Carlos says a couple bites into the meal.

Everyone else is quiet. 

Judd looks at Owen and Owen looks at Carlos and Carlos looks at TK and TK looks at his food, willing it all to disappear so he can pretend this isn’t actually happening. He eventually gets out that he thought Judd was married to Grace, which earns a sharp rebuke from his father and Judd’s shoulders going tense and angry, like when he shoved TK that one time after the grain silo. 

The next attempt at conversation is Carlos again, mentioning that TK has started a little garden in his backyard that they both tend to on their off days. When Judd asks TK what they’re growing, that’s the last straw.

“I’m not hungry,” he announces, even though he’s practically starving and he’s always loved his father’s risotto and his mouth waters at the thought of the cake Judd brought. “I’m going to bed.”

“TK-”

He stands up, still holding Carlos’ hand, and looks at him. Asking if he’s going to come with or stay. This is what he does instead of looking at the hurt on his father’s face or the worry on Judd’s. If he does, it’ll be about them, and he’ll feel too guilty to be angry.

“Tyler, please sit down.”

The use of his first name actually makes him flinch, as well as reinforcing his decision to leave. His father knows better than to call him that, especially now when they’re with someone he’s seeing, someone TK is seeing- it hurts worse than getting shot, and that had felt pretty shit.

“Fuck you,” he says, staring at his father. “And fuck you,” he adds for Judd, before storming off toward his room.

Behind him, Carlos murmurs an apology and his chair scrapes across the hardwood flooring. His footsteps are quick until he catches up. Then they’re slow, like the hands that cup his shoulders to stop him before he can lock himself somewhere private and safe. It isn’t like he’s going to do something stupid, he just can’t deal with this.

“Take a deep breath,” Carlos says to him. His voice is far too calm. “It’s okay. Do you wanna talk about what just happened?”

“I want him out of my house.”

From downstairs, his dad calls again. “TK, can we please talk about this?”

He doesn’t want to push this to the wayside, but he’s also angry, and TK knows he has a tendency to say things he doesn’t mean when he gets angry. He looks to Carlos and knows what his boyfriend thinks he should do, so he reluctantly heads back down the stairs to where they’re waiting. Judd’s eyes are red and a little puffy, and his father’s rubbing his back.

“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner,” Owen says first. “I didn’t want you to know until we were sure it was serious, but maybe it would have been better to warn you.”

Judd clears his throat and wipes his face briefly. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m trying to- trying to be something I’m not, TK. I love you, kid, and I get that this is weird, but it’s not like I’m movin’ in, or I’m gonna suddenly be your dad.”

Carlos’ face is unreadable. No comfort and no anger, nothing for TK to use to figure out how to navigate this without upsetting him, a response leftover from tiptoeing around Alex all the time. As soon as he realizes that’s what he’s doing, he looks back at the lukewarm plate in front of him. 

“I know this is hard for you, especially because I haven’t dated in a long time. But nothing is going to change, you hear me?”

His dad reaches across the table to squeeze TK’s hand. 

“Nothing is changing. I’m still your dad, and I love you more than anything, and just because I’m seeing someone doesn’t mean that you’re not my priority. If you need time, that’s okay, but I’m not going anywhere, and neither is Judd, alright?”

The best TK can manage is a nod. 

[sloppy-butcher]

Hello! It’s great to see another blog, and I’m so excited to see it grow! For now, tho, please pour me a mug of your finest Hillbilly hcs! I love my baby boi ;w;

bro, I literally have Hillbilly hc’s coming out of my ass. I love Max so so much and I will do anything to make him happy and keep him safe.

I’m going to give some general Hcs for him and then add some fluff or relationship ones as well.

Thank you so much for requesting him and thank you for your support

The Hillbilly (Max Thompson Jr.) HeadCanons

General Headcanons

His name was decided before he was even born. Max Sr. and Evelyn Thompson were very wealthy landowners and therefore needed a worthy heir to inherit their empire. So when Evelyn finally fell pregnant, the two set to work planning every small cogency and detail about their child’s future life. From his gender, what he would do with his life and even to his name, nothing about Max was not already written in stone. What the two could not predict was what Max would look like. They never let anyone see him, lying to their neighbors, friends, and family that the baby had died in childbirth. They were ashamed, disgusted and absolutely repulsed by the sight of the newborn. The flesh of his neck contorting downwards into his shoulder and his face a mass of twisted lumps of skin. They had decided to have a home birth, bringing their legacy into the world by their own hands, a show of total independence and control, so there was no official record of the boy, no legal, outside personal able to protect the baby. It was easier to hide him away, bricking him up in a hole in the basement than to deal with the shame of raising such a beast. What an unworthy, disgusting creature, they would never give over their wealth and name to such a deformed monster.

Evelyn tried breastfeeding Max once but as she watched his mouth latch on her mind screamed and she dropped him before running off and going to scrub her breasts clean from the filth. Throughout it all they never had the guts to kill the child, praying that God would take it back leaving their hands clean from his blood. But he kept crying and they could hear him. Through a cloth or bottle, they would feed him some milk hoping that the little sustenance he received was just enough to keep him quiet until he would eventually stave and die. But he never did and the two never had another child, Evelyn too traumatized by what came out her to ever attempt it again. She didn’t want another to end up looking just as he did. So the Thompsons lived out their lives with their dirty little secret locked up in the basement and growing bigger with each passing day.

Max was scared of the dark, the smallness and the smell of the room drove him to near insanity, but it was all he ever knew. Expect when the big man (his father) would approach him. Light would flood the room and Max would shy away fearful of the man and the brutal hammer he carried. The man would shout and if Max dared to make a move or noise he would be stuck and his food through carelessly over the dirt riddled floor. Sometimes the man would come in with a bucket and douse Max in freezing cold water. Max would shiver and try his best to cling to what little clothing he had for warmth. It was a miserable existence. But one day the big man walked into the room and Max noticed a slight limp to his walk. His head was losing color and the hair around his mouth was a wild, bushy mess. The man put down his hammer for a moment and without thinking Max grabbed it. The man yelled but his voice only seemed to anger Max even more. He raised the hammer high, mirroring the way the man used to hit him, and brought it down hard on the man’s head. There was silence. Breathing hard Max looked into the light and followed the sound of even more noise. He just wanted it to be quiet. As much as he hated that small dark room, the silence it offered him was all he ever took comfort it. He just wanted it to be quiet.

Years later the Adam Family took interest in the Thompson’s land having been abandoned by the owners. However, just like the previous tenants the family was never seen again, their chainsaw stolen and their bodies stuffed into the farm’s large grain silo. They did put up a fight, carving long and deep cuts into Max’s arms and across his face. When the deed was done and the world was quiet again, Max felt tired. There was red stuff all over his body but it was his red stuff, not theirs. He wanted to sleep but something in the darkness called him and promised to make him feel better if he followed. When local authorities finally took notice of the missing people, they investigated the land. And what they found truly disturbed them. In the center of the property was a huge dead tree and scattered all around the base and hung in its branches were the mutilated bodies of hundreds of cows and sheep. They found nothing living on that cursed land.

Relationship Headcanons

Max can’t speak and he barely understands English. It would be incredibly difficult to get through to the boy. The Entity speaks to him on an instinct level, playing Max through his desires and fears not needing to talk using words or concepts. But before you would even try talking to him you would have to gain his trust. Tell him through gestures and patience that he can trust you and allow you to get closer.

You met him by chance, or was it fate? You were searching through the woods, your mind wondering until it noticed the wall of yellow corn stand before you. Without thinking you walked into the maze, engulfed but the silence of it all you were swept away and lost within your mind. He saw you first. You were standing still, hands running up and down the many cornstalks with your eyes closed. You were quiet and small, an oddity to him. Usually, he would attack without think but he felt no urge to. You weren’t running so he wouldn’t give chase. Eventually, you saw him too, a large shadow standing amongst the corn. To say you were scared was an understatement but your feet never moved. Something about him made you stay put, he never moved and never tore his eyes away from you. After a moment you offered him a very soft, “Hey there.” He had never heard such a gentle sound before. And it took him a moment to realize that that sound was directed at him. He raised a shaky hand and pointed awkwardly to his chest. You breathed out a laugh and nodded your head slowly, afraid that sudden movement would trigger him to attack. “Y-yeah. you.” He blinked confused.

You would visit him more often after that and with each encounter, he would take you deeper and deeper into the corn until one day you reached the center. The Thompson House loomed over the field but he leads you away from the building, instead taking you to a large harvester. Max hated the house because it reminded him of the darkroom and he refused to get close to it.

You told him your name, pointing like he did to your chest. His eyes flickered between your hand and your face. You could practically see the gears turning over in his head. It was difficult for him to understand let alone try to mimic you but eventually, with enough patience and time, he did. He said your name through a gargled throat and lips that didn’t seem to work all that well. It barely even sounded English regardless you could have cried with joy when he called you. “Well done.” You praised and clapped your hands lightly. Max saw your face twist into an expression he had never seen before. You were smiling and it was infectious. He saw the light in your eyes and he felt his own face morph to copy yours.

After a while, Max tried telling you his name. He’d point at himself and would moan “MMm”. You would listen attentively, feeling pride well up in your chest. “SSs” he would hiss like a snake. After some guessing, you managed to say his name. Max. He was just trying to remember the name he always heard the shadows under the door say. Yet you were applauding him and encouraging him and for once he felt happy. It was nice. You were nice.

Max is terrified of the dark hence why the Coldwind farm domains are always lit in the haze of yellow light. When the Entity wants to punish Max for a poor job it would remove the moon from his place. The shadows would grow and Max would be consumed with the memories of the damned hole in the wall. So dark. So smelly. He can’t breathe. It hurts so much. You were with him once when he was being punished. He was curled up in a ball, heaving and moaning with building fear and anxiety. You watched him drown in his own mind and you knew you had to move quickly if you wanted to help him. You walked over to him and very gently touched him. He snapped his silver shining eyes to you and, after composing yourself, you offered your smile. “You want to,” you put both your hands together and placed them next to your cheek. “Sleep?” He looked at you and you felt him search you for something. A solution? Comfort? Whatever he wanted you were more than willing to give it all to him.

You sat down next to him and patted your leg. This was the closest you had ever been to the man and it was both a terrifying and thrilling experience. He eyed you warily half expecting some kind of joke or rejection but all you did was wait, your arms open and your expression understanding and warm. He went to you and placed his head on your lap. You lowered your hand and began to lightly run your fingers over his head. He whimpered and clung to you, his hand trekking up your thigh before gripping you as tightly as he could. It was like he was lost at sea and if he were to mistakenly let go of you he would sink and drown. It hurt but you bared it. You shushed him and more forcibly ran your fingers through his coarse hair, letting him know through physical contact that you were with him and that you would stay with him. Suddenly it wasn’t so bad anymore. Max suddenly felt better. If he closed his eyes he could feel you, the hum in your chest and the warmth in your body. You were secure and offered him rest within that shrinking darkness.

[fleetingfigures]

Day 3: Muster

“And couldja perhaps tell me somethin’ while you’re at it, Perci?”

“A-aye... What do you need, Audrey?”

“Oh you know, nothin’ much just WHY, BY THE GRACE OF LEVIATHAN’S SCALY ARSE, ARE YA HIDING BEHIND OUR SILO?!”

Flinching, the Hyur falls back directly on his arse, his eyes darting to and fro, trying desperately not to lock gazes with the irate halflander above him. If his nerves weren’t already fraying at the seams, then now they must have already combusted. “I-I, well… You see, Audrey, I was just uhh… A piece of fabric, yea, this real small piece flew out of my hands while I was preparing something and-” 

“Oh for Llymlaen’s sake,” Audrey interjects, thrusting her hand downwards, and giving the teen nary a second thought before she hoists him to his feet. Pausing, she eyes Percival up and down before groaning, rearing her head towards the setting sun. Perhaps if she blinded herself she wouldn’t have to deal with another one of her brother’s idiots, but, being the great sister she is, that was never an option. “Look, I know yer lyin’, Perci! I just wanted to know why, after me parents specifically invited ya to Sae’s little welcome home party, ya decide to just bolt out of the swivin’ house and plant yer sorry arse by the grain stocks.”

“...”

“Come on, out with it! Hells, what happened to that little shite that would never shut up when he’d come here looking for me lil’ brother?”

“...I’m just a tad scared, Audrey.” He finally responds, knuckles white, clenched around the tails of his coat. “W-what if he’s changed? I heard that Ishgard is basically worlds apart when compared to here. And it’s been what? 2 summers since he’s left? That’s a lot of time! What if-”

“Ah, ah… Lemme stop ya again, Perci, before you end up unravelling worse than that ‘fabric’ you claimed to be finding back here.” She jests, crossing her arms before her. “And what’s so bad about him changin’, hm? Afraid yer gonna be left behind, or maybe…” A grin alights across her face, her teeth a pearly white, but her eyes that of an imp.  “Yer finally realizin’ that the more ya stall confessin’ yer loins are his and his alone the higher the chance it is he’ll find someone else, hmm?”

“I-I… No, that’s not it at all! Not one bit! My loins are not… Not… owned by him!” The teen argues, his face as crimson as the locks upon his head. 

“Uhuh, and I’m the Warrior o’ Light’s mistress.” Audrey continues, “Don’t think I ‘aven’t seen you ogglin’ my brother like a dodo does our crops, I’ve seen ya two interact for years!”

“And so what if I am irrevocably in love with him, huh?! So what if I miss him dearly and wish he never left me here in La Noscea all alone?!”

Just like that, the grin falters.

“Ah, come on now, Percival, ya know yer not completely alone, ya’ve got us. And plus, just because my lil’ brother’s off and studyin’ in that frigid city doesn’t mean he’s forgotten bout ya.”

“But it sure feels like it.” He responds, dejected, his head dangling low, and his gaze even lower. “He was the only one that actually respected me for who I was, and didn’t call me some priss because of what I like to do. He was the best and only friend I’ve made here, and then he just up and leaves, sending a letter once in a blue moon? Hells, Yumi gets one nearly every moon!”

Audrey says nothing, for a moment, instead opting to place a firm hand upon the other’s shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. “...I know it hasn’t been the easiest of times since he left, Perci, but please, ‘ave a little more hope, alright? Who’s to say he hasn’t missed you too, hm?” Seeing a small nod in response, she breathes a sigh of relief. “And plus, yer totally up his alley, err… Based on what he’s told me before, of course, so you’ve got more on yer side than against you!” 

Hesitantly, Percival raises his eyes once again to look Audrey eye to eye. “R-Really, do you think so?”

“I know so. Now let’s get back before-” 

“AUDREY? PERCIVAL, WHERE ARE YOU TWO?”

“...Something happens.” Audrey finishes. After another groan of her own, she clears her throat and responds to the woman by the estate’s rear door.  “YEA MOM, WHAT IS IT?”

“Ah, there you two are! Your father and I have been lookin’ everywhere for you both!” Following the voices, the older woman quickly makes her way over to the pair. “Sae’s just come home, and he’s brought a boy home with him all the way from Ishgard! His name’s Siegfried and he’s very excited to meet you both. Ahh, I never thought I’d see the day when…”

The rest of her mother’s words are lost to Audrey as she stares ahead, feeling as if she can’t muster the strength to break her gaze from her mother’s smile.

[cecilspeaks]

158 - The Battle for Time

Kasper Rhodes: 

The future wants you. The future needs you. The future will have you, whether you want to or not. Welcome to Night Vale.

Kasper Rhodes here, hello. There’s a lot of talk generally and in particular about the future. Everyone’s going on about this or that, rocketships and spires, eternal life and AI, but the future is also soil and leaves. It’s a hand holding a hand, it’s clouds and it’s water and it’s salt. The future is organic as anything. There is still sweat in the future, [chuckles] I’m sweating right now! It’s hot where I am. And I am Kasper Rhodes, president of the Quality Cyborg Corporation, and I can take you away from all this, in the name of the Smiling God. The God that grins down at us all, grinning through our pain and grinning through our joy, just always grinning, just always the smile.

Do any of you believe in anything? I do. I believe in anything at all, I just believe. What a powerful thing it is to believe, to let doubt (--) [0:02:27] off you, [chuckles] just like the sweat.

I have a proposition and it’s also a promise. I will take your brain, and how much were you using it anyway, and I will put it in a robot. And that robot will do wonderful things. That is my promise. And it’s also a proposition. [chuckles] Anyway, we’ll talk more in person, I’m on my way. I’ll see you soon.

[whoosh]

Cecil: (-) am I through? Am I, am I on the air? Am I on the air? I come to you in a time of emergency and panic. We thought we could cheat death. Kasper Rhodes promised to take our brains and freeze them into the future where we could be reawakened into life eternal. But it was all a lie. Kasper is a time traveler here to collect the brains of the past, to power robots of servitude in the future. We were being tricked into an eternal life of manual labor, and now we know the truth and stand against them.

Unfortunately, he has called in reinforcements from the future, and they are those very robots with our brains inside of them. They cannot fight against their programming, and they weep as they crush us, but still they crush us. There are robots patrolling outside of the abandoned grain silo and every other spot in town where the Quality Cryogenics Corporation is storing brains, so we cannot save our fellow citizens from the terror of the future.

(-) [0:04:01]. Kasper worships a Smiling God. I thought we had escaped that cosmic terror but it has returned, and it has come for our minds. Night Vale, I call for resistance. I call for a stand against the future. I muster the present to destroy every moment that comes after. We will never stop fighting, we will never surrender.

Oh, um, ahem, but first. Tickets are going on sale for the Lions Club charity raffle. All proceeds from the raffle will be going of weapons and barricades to be used against the endless onslaught of the future robots piloted by our own brains. So that’s just a great cause. Let’s have a look at the prizes. There’s a package tour to somewhere called Nash-vile. That’s exciting. Uh, the package includes a map showing where Nash-vile is, and a pad of paper on which is scrolled: “You should probably get a hotel room when you get there.” Everything you need for a fun vacation. There are ten free piano lessons from Louie Blasko. He says that piano is a great way to exercise your mind and your creativity, and he promises much fewer injuries this time around. There’s a free haircut and style consultation from Telly the Barber. Uuuuuuuuuugh! Ugh, that vile Telly! Meh, I shouldn’t say that. Carlos has forgiven Telly for cutting his – beautiful hair all those years ago, and so I should too. There are lots of things I should do, and I’m sure I’ll get to them eventually. In the meantime, though: ugh! Vile Telly! Finally, there is the grand prize, which is an all expenses paid trip into the bottomless hole betwixt the dunes, that inexplicable dark pit that appeared a few years ago out in the Sand Wastes. We’re not sure who donated this prize, it just showed up at the Lions Club in a basket that smelled of mud and wet dog. But the winners will have the opportunity, in fact they will be compelled whether they want to or not, to leap into the bottomless hole betwixt the dunes. This is all expenses paid. I’m not sure what expenses there are to jumping into a bottomless hole but in any case, they’re covered. Raffle tickets are only 5 dollars and can be purchased at the Lions Club or by whispering into any crack in any wall. And again, proceeds go to saving us from the robot army, so please do buy a few.

[whoosh]

Kasper Rhodes: There’s a lot of talk generally an in particular about pain. “Oh, I’m in pain,” many say, “Oh, this pain is the worst I’ve ever felt,” many say. Many just scream and that’s understandable, I’d scream too if I could, but you can’t scream with a smile. That’s one of the laws of the Smiling God. I believe in laws. But then, I believe in anything.

Have you ever had rock candy? Who even thought up something so useless as these crystalline sugar lumps? What point is there to any of this, when rock candy is the kind of thing that we as humans apparently are up to? Generally, also in particular. But what I’m talking about is, what point is there to rock candy? And what I’m also asking is, what point is there to you? But I can provide a point, at you anyway. Wouldn’t that be nice for once? And don’t we want it to be nice for once, just once before we go? I’m talking here about purpose, and I have more purpose than I need. You have less purpose than you want. Let’s meet in the middle, and there in the middle, I will take your brain. Believe in the Smiling God and why not? I do.

[whoosh, high-pitched noises]

Cecil: [distorted] Night Vale, we will fight! [normal] Night Vale, we will win! The night may be long, but inevitably comes the dawn. Especially now that time works correctly here. Tamika Flynn has gathered her militia, who have aged to the point where they are no longer teenagers. It was kind of cute, a local friendly teenage militia, but now they’re just a militia, which is less cute. But definitely good to have on our side in this struggle. They are currently pelting the robots with stones but – ah, the robots’ metal frames are impervious to such attacks. Oh, this is so worrying! Josh Crayton, local shapeshifter, has resumed the form of a waterfall in an attempt to short out the electronics of the robot army. Unfortunately it appears that their bodies are water resistant and perhaps even waterproof, and so they are simply walking past him like he isn’t there. Josh, maybe some other form? Oh, OK, OK, Josh has panicked and accidentally taken the form of a 1970’s style avocado green galley kitchen. Oh, Josh, this will not be helpful at all.

“We’re going about this fight all wrong!” said Lenny Butler, who has no official bona fides on military tactics, but considered himself an aficionado of rowdy boys really taking it to each other on the battlefield. Lenny continued: “What we want to do is fight them!” When asked what that meant, he shrugged and (-) [0:09:47] irritably. “I know what it means!” he said. “I’m not gonna waste time explaining it to you, just like, flank them!”

Other towns have been forced to join the fight, as the robots are sweeping through the entire area. The ghosts of Pine Cliff have enthusiastically entered the fray. Unfortunately, of course, ghosts cannot physically affect our world, and so they are just hovering back and forth through the robots. But good hussle out there!

Citizens of the Whispering Forest muttered warm compliments to the robots in an attempt to simulate them into their tree forms, but robots are immune to compliments, as they’re only able to think as highly of themselves as they are programmed to do. Oh no, nothing is working! Ugh. Well, this seems like as good a time as any to talk about survival tips. The first thing to consider is your water source. Now, your body is 60 per cent water, so that seems like enough, let’s move on. Next, you will want to consider food. Stuck up on essentials like canned peas, easily stored grains, and those little bags of baby carrots which are just big carrots carved into small spaces and called babies. Which his not how babies are made. This is not what the word “baby” means. Anyway, if you find yourself in an emergency situation without enough food, consider expanding your definition of the word “food”. For instance, theoretically, you could eat a desk if you tried hard enough. Maybe the problem isn’t a lack of food, but  lack of motivation on your part. Finally ,look for shelter. This one is easy, there are houses and buildings everywhere and you can just go into them. Some of them will be locked, they might even have people inside who say things like: “What are you doing in my house?” and: “You can’t be in here, this is the stock room of an Arby’s!” But don’t let naysayers like that get you down. This has been, survival tips.

[whoosh]

Kasper: There is a lot of talk generally and in particular about triumph. “We are winning,” a person might say. “We will defeat you,” a person might crow as the town falls in supplication around him. “You will all be taken to the future!” that person might continue. “You will be made useful.” And isn’t that wonderful? To be made useful? Isn’t that the best thing a person can be? I think so. It doesn’t matter what you think, [chuckles] it turns out you never did. It’s so impersonal chatting over the phone, es-especially since you haven’t been picking up. It seems rude, your refusal to listen to me, but-but I don’t mind. After all, it’s hard to begrudge you your last minutes of human freedom. Tell you what, tell you what, I’ll head over and collect you myself. Wouldn’t that be nice? For me, I mean, again it doesn’t matter what it is for you, it turns out it never did. OK, [distorted] see you soon, bye bye!

[whoosh]

Cecil: Give me back my radio frequency! Oh, I… Am I, I think I’m back on. Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Well, I’ll talk whether you can hear me or not. More robots are pouring out of the time vortexes. The vorteces, vortes.. vorces.. vort-vortex-eses. Whatever they are. Thousands of robots are coming out and this is too much, we can never defeat all of them! The robots are marching to Kasper Rhodes’ army that was already here and they are… Listeners, they are fighting them. These new robots are fighting on our side. At their head is the one I recognize as containing the brain of Charlie Bair, the dayshift manager at the Ralphs, and he’s [huffing] he is announcing that some of the robots have broken free of their programming, that they have found a way to manipulate the metal body they were trapped in, and they have come back to help us prevent this all from happening. And the present day human Charlie Bair is running up to join his future metal counterpart. Night Vale, out on that battlefield is a robot which contains your brain! Find that robot and help it fight, or fight it, depending o n which side it’s on. Together, with ourselves, we can win this. There is still hope. There is always hope. There is also always The weather.

[“Sugar Neighbors” by Dane Terry https://www.thedaneterry.com]

Together, us and us, our own selves and our robot selves, we rushed against Kasper Rhodes, more and more of his robots broke free of their programming and joined us. Tamika and her militia were now Tamikas and their militias, and the intimidation factor was through the roof. This whole time, we just had to trust ourselves. [chuckles] And also have versions of ourselves that were embedded in super strong metal bodies. That was all it took this whole time to be victorious. Charlie Bair the human stood shoulder to shoulder with Charlie Bair the robot, and both fought valiantly. Josh Crayton took the form of a chainsaw, which was then wielded by Josh Crayton’s brain in a robot body to glorious and gory effect. It did not take long for the tides to turn. Sometimes, once the balance shifts, it shifts as quickly and definitively as a broken elevator plunging down a shaft. And then, Kasper Rhodes himself finally fell. Whether it was the stones cast by the Tamikas, or the fists of the Charlies, or Josh the chainsaw wielded by Josh the robot, I cannot say. In the chaos of battle, individual human action becomes indistinct, but the fact of Kasper’s death is indisputable. And in that moment he fell, every robot slumped into stillness, because time had changed. Kasper never took our brains when we died and used them in robots of the future, and because of that, every one of those robots no longer had a brain in them. They were empty shells. We carried those empty shelves with affection and care to Grove Park, where they would be sorted for parts and the resulting scrap metal used to fix the massive amount of damage done to town by this battle.

We kept one robot, though, just one. The scrawniest one with the most rusted joints and Pamela Winchell, who has been reading books on hobbyist surgery, removed Kasper’s brain from his still warm body and placed it in that robot, and the robot came to life in a panic. “Don’t worry,” we told Kasper the robot, “we’re not going to hurt you! We’re just putting you to work for the Miriam McDonald memorial fund. You will clean up the sand from the Sand Wastes until all the sand is gone. We don’t know how long that will take, it may take forever. Good luck!” And even now, a lone robot with a broom sweeps sand out of the desert. Hm. A fitting end for an unfit man.

[sighs in relief] Now there is only us, and the returned reality of our aging. And our death. I have come to think that Carlos was right. There is nothing more scientific than death. We fear it, reasonably, because it is a thing we can never know, perhaps not even when we experience it. But it is not worth perverting our lives, changing everything about ourselves just to avoid our natural ends. New generations will come. New people will live. And like everyone before us, we will gracefully exit to make room for those coming after. As the old saying goes: “Death is only the end if you assume the story is about you.” [laughs] This is not a story about you! And you were glad, because it would be boring if every story was.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Every friend group has a joyful chasm. If you do not know who the joyful chasm is, then I have news for you: you are the joyful chasm.

[post credits segment]

Kasper: There’s a lot of talk generally and in particular. So many words. Oh man. Oooh maannn. Ugh, oh! [chuckles] This is not how. It isn’t. Was it? But it’s what’s left of me. Oh, it’s quiet in here at least. I can’t feel the smile anymore. (--) [0:25:49] that smile. In here, it is quiet and dark. My metal body moves, but my brain is still. I like it in here. [shivers] Nooo-oooo! That smile!  The- the smile has appeared. Oh, oh God, y- you don’t understand! The smile is in here with me. [distorted noise, discordant music rises, then fades out]

[realm-sweet-realm]

Defining Memories, chapter 4

This one’s gonna get a little weird.

---

The next person to find the spark of light was Norman Polk. It was blue, so he silently slipped it into the pocket of his coat, hoping no one would notice. Trying to look casual, he slipped his hand over it to hide any light that might have appeared through the thick fabric. No one noticed. The scene changed anyways.

The scene changed to a prison-like facility. A man who looked like Norman Polk, but with blond hair, was being restrained by three men in some sort of uniform. Two were holding his arms. The restrained man pulled against them, and the third one took out a baton and struck him in the stomach. “Know what’s good for you and quit your struggling!” the guard yelled.

The arrested man was taken through a door, out of the group’s sight. They turned around to see a boy, maybe thirteen and with dark brown eyes and hair, watching from behind a box. He was nearly at the end of the hall, and slowly, quietly crept out.

As soon as the doors closed and locked behind him, a wave of relief washed over the boy. This was the public area of what passed for a police station this area. If he got caught here, he could get away with sneaking in, or at very least not be arrested. There were two more people in uniforms, a man and a woman, between him and the exit, talking. He casually walked passed them, trying to give the impression that he was doing nothing wrong. The woman grabbed his shoulder.

“What brings you here so late, little boy?”

“My mother sent me here to drop off a paper.” His response was immediate and he showed no signs of lying.

“Your mother is a good citizen. She wouldn’t have you disobey curfew. Now, is there something you’d like to tell us? Lying to a peace keeper is also a crime, so it’s your best interest to be honest.”

The boy forced a guilty look onto his face. “I just wanted to see what goes on here at night.”

“You're old enough to know that that's illegal. But, we’ll walk you home and have a talk with your mother. Again.” She put a hand to her forehead. “I swear to God, child, once you're too old to get away with things...”.

The scene changed. Norman and the woman from the station were outside, in what appeared to be a residential area, although it was the middle of the night, and with no lampposts or really any source of light aside from the officer’s flashlight, it was almost too dark to see anything.

Norman opened the door to the house and went to what he thought was his room, only to find a crib where his bed should have been. Just then, the baby started crying. A complete stranger turned on the lights. “What’s going on?” the stranger asked, confused.

“I swear I’m not up to no good!” Norman said with an uncharacteristic amount of fear in his voice, probably because he wasn’t lying for once. “See, I was having an officer walk me home, and I guess they just took me to the wrong place. That’s it, I swear!”

“Wait, are you Georgia’s son?”

“Yes,” Norman said. It was the truth.

“Oh, I see," the man said sympathetically. "She just switched houses with us. You know, since we’d be moving into a family unit soon anyhow. She didn’t say why she was moving. Is... everything okay at home?”

The boy nodded. “It’s fine. Thanks for understanding.” The look on his face said that was clearly a lie.

The scene changed again. The group’s new location was a residential house. “Where are we?” Susie asked in a whisper. “Whose memory was that?” Something about the room- perhaps the empty white walls, or the house’s eerie silence, or the general plainness of the place- made her feel like it would be a very bad idea to make noise. The house felt very unlived-in. There were no items decorating the walls or strewn on the table. The only furniture was a dark table with four dark chairs in what appeared to be a dining room area, two more matching dark chairs in what must have passed for a living room, and three doors made of the same dark wood. Some of the group wanted to check the doors to try and find the subject of the memory, but it seemed unwise to alter the past like that.

Suddenly, a blue toy car clattered from under the table. Wally nearly picked it up, but Shawn held him back. That same boy, now wearing night clothes, quietly crawled out from underneath the table to retrieve it. One of the doors unlocked, and the boy looked stunned a moment, before darting back underneath the table. He avoided touching any of the chairs to keep from making any noise. The door opened, and a dark-haired woman in her thirties entered. She looked around briefly, sighed, and entered the kitchen, only to return thirty seconds later with coffee.

“I’m not coming to look for you, Norman. Come out when you’re willing to talk.”

Norman suddenly appeared beside her. “You turned him in.”

The woman looked exasperated. “I had to. Your father was telling you things, and I was worried. It’s one thing for him to be poking around where he shouldn’t be, but when he’s encouraging you... And, well... it’s not like I lied, Norman. He was taken away for his own actions.”

Norman stepped away from his mother and faced the wall. No tears. He’d already accepted this the night before. No ‘how could you.’ He knew exactly how much of a sheep his mother was.

“This isn’t easy for me to tell you, but you need to pick up your personal belongings from the old house after school. We don’t need a family unit anymore since it’s just going to be the two of us now. I’m sorry.”

The woman rose and tried to comfort Norman, but he pulled away from her and disappeared into one of the rooms.

The scene faded back into mist. Henry was the first to speak. “Norman... What was that?”

Norman glanced around awkwardly, unused to having to many eyes on him. “I grew up in a cult. That’s all.”

No wonder then, Henry thought, that Norman was so strange.

“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Susie, who clearly didn’t know him.

“No.” He wanted to disappear.

“Can you at least tell us how you got out?” Jack asked.

Norman dug the light out of his pocket as it was changing to yellow. “I don’t think I’ll have to.”

The scene changed. They were in a bigger version of the room they’d been in before. This place looked much homier, however: pictures hanging on the walls, children’s toys and a nice orange rug on the floor, and people sitting at the table. Norman was there, looking to be in his mid-twenties. He was holding hands with a woman about his age. Three older adults, a man and two women, plus two teenagers and a child, were gathered around the table.

“It’s so nice of you to come out here and visit us,” said one of the older women. “I know that they don’t allow visitors too often. I was worried you’d forget about us.”

“Forget about my own sister? No...” the other woman cooed.

“Well, I know how busy it is out there. But anyhow, my Elizabeth has an announcement to make.”

The girl holding hands with Norman smiled. “We’re getting married. And they’re letting us move right into family housing because I’m so fertile.”

Her aunt made a face. “Right. Uh, congratulations,” she said, before turning back to her sister. “Would you mind if I took a walk with these two after dinner? Give them some marriage advice?”

Norman wondered why she was so bitter about marriage.

The scene changed. Norman, Elizabeth, and her aunt were on the outskirts of town. “Can they hear us here?” the aunt whispered.

“We should probably go a little further. But keep the curfew in mind. We should go into the woods.”

The trio walked through the woods for a good fifteen minutes before stopping.

“Alright, I’m cutting straight to the chase,” the older woman began, “Do you kids want to live here?”

Norman’s eyes drifted side to side. “No.”

“What?” Elizabeth asked the older woman. “You don’t mean...”

“I do. Now look, I don’t know why my sister chose to come to this crazy cult. But she was a fully-grown adult, so she deserves to have a choice. Well, so do you. I need a ‘yes’ from both of you before I say more.”

Elizabeth looked nervously into Norman’s rather blank eyes.

“Yes!” she whispered excitedly.

“Alright, here’s what’s going to happen. Tomorrow night, you need to sneak out. Two miles down the road from the outskirts of town, there’s an abandoned grain silo. Meet me there at midnight, and I’ll pick you up. Got it?”

The scene changed. Norman and Elizabeth were walking down the street, talking about the weather, trying to look as casual as possible. Elizabeth’s eyes were full of excitement, and Norman wanted to tell her to stop, to calm down, but he didn’t know how to without looking suspicious. It was already dark, and they couldn’t see anyone else on the street, but Norman wanted to take every precaution. Whether they were caught or not, it would be the last time they would have to.

After reaching the outskirts, they followed the road, going through the woods to feel less detectable. Both knew it was probably overkill. Still, they both let out a sigh of relief when they saw the grain silo.

“What time is it?” Elizabeth asked after a moment.

Norman checked his watch by the light of the moon. “9:55,” he whispered.

“We have over two hours, then. Why don’t we, y’know...” Elizabeth took off her sweater, “pick some lemons?” She did not whisper, and her voice seemed very loud and very exposed against the quiet of night.

“That’s not a good idea. If they come for us, we need to be able to get down and hide as quickly as possible.”

“Norman, we’re two miles from town. They aren’t going to check here. And you don’t have to whisper.

Norman hesitated, but saw no way to argue with his soon-to-be-wife’s logic. Slowly, he got up and put his arms around her waist, passionately kissed her lips, and then boosted her up the tree to pick the lemons.

“It’s a miracle!” she exclaimed, “a fruiting lemon tree in mid-February!

Norman nodded. “Almost like we’re in a fanfiction made by an author who wanted to convey intimacy without writing an actual sex scene!”

Two hours later, their clothes were strewn in every direction and their backpacks were filled to bursting with lemons.

“I bet the real world is great,” Elizabeth said. “You can think or say whatever you want and not get arrested, you can pick your own career, pretty much don’t hurt anyone or steal and you can do almost anything. And it would be so weird to have to be the only one out there who didn’t know how it works. I’m so glad you’re coming with me, Norman.”

Norman nodded. He’d always been strange. Showing emotion and dealing with people weren't his strong suits. This transition was probably going to be twice as hard for him as it was for most. He had no idea why Elizabeth had chosen him, but he was glad she did. “Me, too. I love you, Elizabeth.”

Just then, a car pulled up.

“Oh, shoot,” Elizabeth said, scrambling to find all her clothes. Soon, the two were in the backseat of the car together. This was real. They were going to escape.

[matildainmotion]

On Staying Put in the Pot of Life as Far as Possible

No, I don’t have a cure for the Coronavirus, though I hope there may be something helpful for our collective health in here. The virus was not the bug that started this blog. It was something, someone else.

Recently a woman, six years younger than me, mother to three children at my son’s school, died of cancer. I did not know her. I do not know her husband or her children, but I know plenty of people that do. Such a loss is felt across the whole community. I think of her, and of her family, daily now. Alongside the love I send them silently, is the thought that it could have been me, that it could be my husband, my children, left behind.

This is not a new thought. I have heard other mothers talk about it too, the sudden sense of responsibility they had on becoming mothers to do their level best to stay alive. “When I go to cross a road,” a new mother once said to me, “I now tell myself I mustn’t mess it up.” For me the thought pre-dates even motherhood because my maternal grandmother did not make it across the road – she died of Lupus when my mother was eight years old. The night after her death my grandfather committed suicide. As children do, I absorbed this story in my mother’s milk, in the smell of her, the sound of her. My father was a jewish refugee from Nazi Germany, so I had a dose of loss from him as well. Consequently, despite the fact that I have lived an incredibly privileged and protected life to date, I have a hidden ‘loss alarm’ inside me.

My loss alarm is like one of those annoying, over-sensitive smoke detectors that goes off every time you burn a bit of toast, as if the house were on fire. Except toast is not the trigger. Every time I hear a story of untimely loss, it goes off. Panic follows. There is no handy ‘re-set’ button on my loss alarm – it can sound out, keeping me awake, for weeks. The stories that trigger it can be newspaper headlines: terrorist attacks; aeroplane crashes; gun men; refugees who lose their lives as they attempt to flee. Or they can be more personal: a friend of a friend I knew who died in a fall at work; a boy near our village who slipped into a grain silo; someone’s sister hit by a car – each of these sets off my loss-alarm.

Let me be clear, the kind of panic I feel is not the same as that which is currently sweeping the world and causing the shelves in shops to empty of hand sanitizer and ibuprofen. I am not afraid of death. I feel nervous about death, but in the way I feel nervous before stepping on to a stage – a slight excitement about not knowing what is going to happen. At the moment bath bombs are all the rage in our house, and my latest fantasy of death is that it will be like fizzing away until there is nothing tangible left of me, whilst the ether around where I was turns a funky, joyful colour. The panic I feel is not about death, but loss – what those left behind will have to undergo. Before I became a mother I was afraid of the grief that I might feel. Now, whilst that still scares me, the loss-alarm sounds loudest when I think of my children, left bereft.

I have tried many different tactics over the years to shore up against this loss, different ways to try to muffle or mute the wailing of the alarm. Obviously, the best way to avoid it is to do what I can to help myself, and those I love, to stay alive. Just looking both ways and crossing the road with care does not seem good enough. There is still the risk of error, of bad luck, of reckless drivers, misplaced banana skins, or thunderbolts out of the blue. I am making light of it because it is hard to write about – it feels unbearable. I understand why the king and queen in Sleeping Beauty did not want to invite the thirteenth fairy to their baby’s christening, and then, after the fairy had gate-crashed with her curse, wished to rid the kingdom of all spinning wheels, to make misfortune, as far as possible, impossible. No needles allowed anywhere, so that their daughter may stay forever safe, awake, alive.

How to live with the knowledge that survival is not guaranteed? In fact the reverse is true – death is definite. Life, not so much. When I was younger I felt that if the facts were against me, I would have to resort to magic. ‘Magical thinking’ is a strange phrase – it sounds rather wonderful but it can refer to a form of mental disorder. On Wikipedia it is defined as “the false belief that one's thoughts, actions, or words will cause or prevent a specific consequence in some way that defies commonly understood laws of causality.” If I burn all the spinning wheels in the land, my daughter will be safe. If I count to ten and touch wood twice before I cross the road then I won’t get run over. When I was eight, in the mornings before school, I would ask my mother to promise me that she would not die that day. I knew she could not do this – there are dangerous roads to be crossed every day - but I hoped the promise had a magical power that might ensure her survival. As a teenager, my years of anorexia were another magical-thought practice, a way of starving to stay alive: if I can control my weight, eat impossibly little, then loss will never touch me. In my twenties I moved from magical thoughts to magical acts, training as a circus aerialist. Often aerialists are aligned with angels, people perfecting the art of flight. Not me. I was training in the art of holding on hard, with hands, toes, backs of my knees, neck, the fold of my hips. If I could get magically good at gripping, I would never have to lose myself, or anyone else.

The problem is, it doesn’t work. These are frightened magical practices. They put you under a spell of fear. The part of me that still engages in magical thought, believes that writing a blog like this is tantamount to suicide, that if I admit the possibility that loss could happen, then it will. It feels like signposting Sleeping Beauty towards the spinning wheel. But there are plenty of stories in which the protagonist’s very attempt to escape the feared fate, brings it about. Banish the fairy and she is sure to haunt you forever. Such a haunted life is not much of a life. I know - I’ve lived it. It’s not very magical. So here I am, a mother in my forties, still aware of that loss-alarm, wondering what better ways I could respond to it than by self-isolating, trying to avoid the many spinning wheels, sharp and whirring, in the world. And there is so much danger and loss around these days, loss of people, animals, entire landscapes, loss of life as we know it. So much loss that my alarm has been sounding almost constantly for months now and I have not been sleeping. I am tired. I’d love to sleep for a hundred years. But I can’t and anyway it’s not the answer. What’s to be done?

As ever I think the answer is right here, beside me. My daughter is on the bed, scribbling on my notebook as I type this. My children are beginning to teach me some other, more helpful responses to loss. Motherhood is fraught with loss. It comes with the territory. I don’t think you can make a life without becoming intimate with the possibility of losing it. Infertility, miscarriage, childbirth, still birth. I have been very lucky. I remember looking over my midwife’s shoulder as she filled in a form, after the birth of my daughter: ‘Infant born 10.08pm,’ she wrote in one square, and then in the next square, she noted down the word, ‘alive,’ and I thought at once of how it might have been a different word. One of our first jobs as mothers is to give birth. If we survive and the children survive, I think our last job is to die, to make way for them to step into the role of being the generation in charge. From start to finish motherhood is a glorious, dangerous business, not for the faint-hearted, which is not to say you need to be tough-hearted. It is, I hope, slowly teaching me instead to become more whole-hearted – to be able to hold the whole lot.  

A passage that has always helped me accept the spinning wheels and their sharp needles is the one in Kahil Gibran’s The Prophet on joy and sorrow, in which sorrow is framed as a creative act:

“The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?....”

Carving, containing, holding are the verbs used here for understanding and processing loss. An alarm instructs you to leave the building, evacuate the vessel. Here is a different response: stay put, Gibran says, create a container, to hold the joy and the sorrow. I think good art is just this - a container. Be it a story, a painting, a poem or a pot – each is good at holding things. At bedtime my daughter listens to the teachings of another great spiritual poet: Winnie the Pooh. In one Pooh story the sad, grey donkey, Eeyore has a rare moment of joy when Pooh gives him, “A Useful Pot to Keep Things in” for his birthday. “You can keep anything in it,” Pooh explains, even sad things, like Eeyore’s other present, a burst balloon, and Eeyore is delighted. So that’s what I need then. Not an alarm, but a pot. A pot, not only for loss, but for the lot. Spending my life, however much I have of it, making that kind of pot feels like something I can do. That is what the novel I am writing is meant to be. And when I have finished that one, I will start on another totally impractical, utterly vital pot, a holding vessel. This is a braver magic. 

I wonder also how I might integrate such a pot-making process consciously back within my mothering. Most evenings, as soon as it gets dark, my son declares that he is sad. He starts a count down, “By the time I get to ‘one’, I will have sadness overload,” he says, “You have to do something before that happens!” He starts the countdown, “Ten…nine…eight…seven….six….”  What can I do? I only have six seconds left! I am tempted to rely on frightened magic, to pretend that I can keep all the bad things away, banish the beasts and the viscous fairies. I can’t. “Two…one…zero.” My son collapses on the floor.

“How are you doing?” I say.

“I’m so sad I can’t move,” he replies.

“Can you move your toes?”

“No.”

“That’s bad. I’ll have to carry you upstairs.” And, for now, I can still carry my great long-legged eight year old, and he rather enjoys it when I make groaning noises to show how heavy he is.

“Can you make it up the last two steps?” I say.

“Just about.”

Bit by bit, day by day, we practice our pot-making, bearing the things that seem unbearable, overloading with sadness and discovering that actually we can hold the load. This is not a fire drill. We are staying in the building. I am grateful for every day we get to practice.

I am still determined to do what I can to stay alive. But I believe that actually writing a blog like this, letting loss come to the party, inviting the thirteenth fairy, leaving the land whirring with spinning wheels, is my best chance at surviving. Not because my words will immortalise me, but literally, that my writing helps me keep on living, just right here, sitting on the bed, after another sleepless night, with the sun falling over my left hand typing this, and my right in shadow. So by all means wash your hands for twenty seconds, the current advice for the prevention of the spread of the Coronavirus, but as you do so, also for twenty seconds, ask yourself this: What helps you not just stay alive, but stay put in life? How do you hold it all? What useful pots do you have or are you making?

Mothers Who Make is itself meant to be a pot – a place for women who already hold a lot to come together and help hold one another. We have, in turn, put out a ‘pot’ to the world recently to ask for help in our work as we are currently unfunded. I’m busking here, online. If you like this blog and want to support me, and other MWM-ers, to sustain us in our pot-making, then please go here, and for £3 per month, become a ‘Matron Saint’ of our cause. And ultimately, for me, the cause is as grand and as simple as the need to practice holding everything - both life and the loss of it.  

[depressed-chicken-man]

Cooped Up

Shane x OC

CH1 CH2 CH3 CH4 CH5

Summary: 

After failing to start her dream in the city, the fashion designer turned farmer tries to cope with her new life in the last-ditch effort to make a happy home for herself. She has so many concerns for her new life. How much of her identity is stuck in the city? Will she even make a difference?

Even if she doesn’t think so, it’s undeniable that she will make a difference for a certain depressed coop keeper.

Chapter 1: Fake it

Chapter 1 on Ao3

To say that Jennifer’s world had done a complete 180 was spot on and in no way an exaggeration. Her new environment so harshly contrasted the life she had been living since she began college and graduated two years ago.

From studying to work in fashion design to being locked in at Joja Corp as a social media supervisor for their online accounts to being elbow deep in fertilized soil and beyond winded was as different as she could feel.

Having been on this new plot of land for only four days, she felt she had done well. She wondered if her grandfather would be proud of the way that she had cleared the weeds and drug all of the overgrowth and fallen trees from the choice plot in a short time.

In all honesty, this would never be her first pick nor was it something that she could ever see herself doing. It was the total opposite and she would be lying to say that she wasn’t concerned for herself and beyond doubtful. How could she ever do this successfully? When she cringed at the dirt that covered her? When she heard the call of a rooster and was startled and left uneasy by the prospect of being a victim to being flogged? When taking it easy and slow was already so difficult? She was deeply concerned and hoped that it wasn’t too obvious. She had always been somewhat hopeful and optimistic, even in the toughest times. She would always be okay.

She was even more determined to make it as she considered her other options. The day she decided that she couldn’t bear to work at Joja Corp anymore, she knew that she couldn’t turn back. The deep aversion to turning back now or years down the road was something that she knew wouldn’t wane. She couldn’t go back and with her dream of becoming a fashion designer, she wasn’t sure it would ever go forward. This plot of land, which she had never knew existed until a month ago, was her saving grace and she hopped it would continue to be.

She would have to fake it until she made it.

The dirt that coated her to her elbows was anything but fake, but the google search she had to make to learn how to till the soil and plant the parsnip seeds she had been gifted was more than enough to prove that she had no earthly idea how to run a farm or maintain crops. She had spent the majority of her free time absent of clearing the land in an exhausted state of watching tutorial after tutorial on how to do the basic things. Jen prayed that the videos and articles that she read held enough truth and experience for her to get through the season.

As she tilled the soil, breathing heavily and trying to ignore her aching bones, the farming podcast she was listening to mentioned something that she hadn’t considered before.

“…And in the spring is the perfect time for baby chicks! If you want eggs by summer, then this is the time to begin choosing the breed. Brown eggs come from…” she cut it short as she scrambled to pause the leave her tilling. Eggs would be great and would help her a lot in bringing in profit. She didn’t have as much faith in the parsnips as she did eggs and she was certain that she couldn’t pass the opportunity up. She wondered if there was anyone around in Pelican Town that sold livestock and could maybe give her some advice.

Setting the hoe down, she dusted herself off as much as she could and made her way into the small, drab house that accompanied the plot. She wondered how on earth her grandfather managed in it. There was no stove and only a fireplace, which she couldn’t imagine cooking on. For the past few days, she was living off ramen that she made with an electric kettle and cans of tuna. She was determined to get the place in working order as soon as she dealt with the stack of unpacked and nearly forgotten boxes that cluttered the small area. It was so small and disorderly, she couldn’t even bring her pet with her yet for fear of the move being too much for the old feline. Her dad kindly let it stay with him until she settled.

Scanning the box filled room, she spotted the small envelope that Robin and Mayor Lewis had emphasized as important. Pulled the paper out, her eyes lingered over the handwritten list of businesses in the town and she quickly found what she was looking for.

Marnie’s Ranch: Livestock and animal supplies

Jennifer nodded and took a look at the map she was also given. Lucky for her, the ranch was just south of her farm. She took a look at the time and it was only half-past noon. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to visit and ask a few questions, maybe get some advice?

Any advice would be good advice.

“Hey, are you Marnie?” She asked, her timid voice low. She had gotten herself a little spruced up, still wary of making good first impressions. The last thing she wanted was a lazy reputation when she was so new. She had opted to put on a full face of soft glam makeup and wash all the dirt from her before picking out a cropped shirt and high waisted jeans It was quite strange using the bathhouse due to the lack of shower in her new home, but it did the job. If there was one thing she could showcase to the town, it was her fashion, even if it wasn’t necessary.

Still, good style or not, she was still careful and timid as she shut the door to the ranch behind her, the older woman at the front desk raised her eyebrows and nodded. This would be the only person in the town that she had talked to yet besides Robin and Lewis. The woman gave her a knowing smile, her eyes creasing in the corners and her kindness was shown in the way her light wrinkled folded. She smiled a lot and her face showed that. Her red hair curled down and hung loosely, touching her faded overalls.

“Miss Jennifer, I was wondering when you would come to meet me! It’s so nice to meet you! Robin told me how lovely you were but I can see she under-exaggerated.” She cooed and made her way around to the front of the front desk, which upon further inspection, was just as much a part of her house as the kitchen to the right.

“Oh, that’s so sweet. Thank you.” Jen gushed and waved her hand. “I was hoping I wouldn’t bother you but I need to ask some questions. I hate that our first meeting has to have a little bit of business thrust into it, but I need to know how I should start raising chickens on my farm.”

“Oh, you’re so polite. I don’t mind answering your questions a bit.” the elder woman said and began to muse, “Let’s see, now the first thing you need is a place for them to stay. I don’t know if Robin told you, but she can build you a coop that will suit the chickens just fine. Second, you need to have a way to feed them. I recommend a silo for grain, but you can always buy it from here. After that, then you can come back and buy the chicks that you want. You can pick them out and everything.” Jennifer took a page of mental notes and nodded along.

“Get a coop, some feed, and come back later? Got it.” She stated aloud, more for herself than for Marnie. The elder nodded and added something else.

“Yes, just come back and either Shane or I will help. We’ll even deliver the chicks to your coop after you pick them out.” She added and Jen released a breath of relief. She wasn’t sure how this was going to go with her not so hidden fear of chickens, but it was nice to know that she didn’t have to bring them home and have to worry about losing them from the ranch to her coops.

“That’s a relief. And Shane is…?” she asked and Marnie took a moment to be surprised that she hadn’t elaborated.

“Oh right, he’s my nephew. He helps me out around here with the cows and chickens. You haven’t seen him around yet, have you?” she asked and Jen shook her head.

“I haven’t seen much of anyone yet. I’ve been so busy getting the farm started that I’ve only been into the town once.” she admitted, a small laughed punctuated her statement.

“Oh gracious honey, you need a rest. A little bit of socializing and meeting the townsfolk will do your farm no harm, I promise. Have you been to the Stardrop Saloon yet?” Jen shook her head and looked down.

“Ah, no. I haven’t. I’m not much of a drinker.” She gave and Marnie laughed.

“There’s not just drinks there. They have coffee and Italian food as well.” the redhead explained and Jennifer perked up.

“Oh coffee… I guess I could take the evening. Besides, I think I might go nuts if I have to eat another cup noodle dinner.” She posed and Marnie reached out and patted her shoulder, much like a grandmother or very friendly church woman would do.

“There you go, you poor thing. Get your belly full and meet some people. There’s a girl your age you may take to, her name is Hailey and she might be there. She sometimes gets a bite to eat. You both would make great friends.”

Jen gave an embarrassed laugh and felt like a kid for a moment, being set up for a playdate.

“Okay, I’ll go. Thank you so much Marnie! I’ll be back when I get a coop up.” She promised as she took the doorknob in hand.

“Don’t wait too long! I wanna hear about you and your farm every once in a while.” and with that, Jen was out and walked along the fence to head over to the Saloon, determined that she would have a peaceful evening and eat well for the first time all week.

Inside the fence, a chicken clucked and startled her, her heart jumped and she immediately felt silly after a moment. Her concerns resurfaced in the back of her mind.

How was she going to cope with a coop full of scary chickens?

The Saloon was cozy and dingy, warm and rundown. The cushioned barstools were comfy enough and after a few short conversations with Gus, the bartender, Elliot, some writer, and Abigail, an odd yet kind girl, she should be feeling better.

But she did not.

With her acquaintances gone, if she could call them that, she stared down into the black coffee and still felt out of place. The spaghetti she had ordered was a nice contrast to the ramen she had been stuck with, but it only served to remind her of the amazing Italian restaurant back in the city. The coffee was, however, not delicious and she had trouble bringing herself to take another sip of the watered down and stale liquid. Out here, there were no fancy cafes or specialty restaurants. This black coffee was good enough for most people and it was her fault for being so spoiled, but she found herself extremely repulsed by the lack of espresso, steamed milk, and caramel sauce that she ordered every day.

She was more homesick than she realized.

She was silently mopping about her lack of familiarity with her surroundings and the absence of her favorite coffee. Not sure what had caused her sudden shift in mood, she suddenly wasn’t up to continuing “social hour” and wanted to go back home and watch more online classes about farming. If she began to slack, she would fail and she was terrified of admitting she was an absolute beginner in a new place.

Her identity was a caramel latte and now she was trying to be a plain black instant coffee. Was it safe to say that it was hard to identify with the farm type? Was it their differences or her own reluctance to understand that would fail her? She didn’t know. Maybe she was the plain black coffee and everyone else was the caramel latte?

She muttered a small thanks and good evening to Gus, who hummed in acknowledgment. With her coffee forgotten, she hopped down from the barstool and turned to leave but went nowhere. Instead, she slammed into something solid and was drenched with cold liquid. She gasped and stepped back, the coldness shocked her. She found herself in the midst of a big mess, and it only took one whiff to realize that she wasn’t drenched in water or soda, but beer.

The victim, though she wanted to believe it was her, stood and stared at her in disbelief, his dull green eyes narrowing. The man scowled at her, his five o’clock shadow only added emphasis to his disappointment. His dark hair was messy and his appearance even more so. Gus looked from her to the man in his surprise.

“Oh my-…I’m so sorry.” she covered her mouth in her shock and embarrassment. She should offer to buy him another one, it was only fair. She was going to jump to action to make it up to the stranger before he spoke up and interrupted her decision.

“You should be. Try watching out next time. You don’t own this saloon.” he growled out and shoved his now empty glass to the bar top. “You cost me my beer.” he glared and she could stop herself from snapping back.

“Oh, your beer is the concern? What about my shirt?” she snapped and the man rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“Your shirt? Looks like I did you a favor,” he smirked and turned away to order what he lost.

“Wow…” she started and mentally reevaluated the situation. Arguing wasn’t going to help and this was a bad enough first impression. Instead, she turned to the bartender.

“Have a good evening, I’m so sorry about the mess.” she apologized, shooting the angry man a glare. He didn’t seem to notice at all. A favor , yeah right. He looked like the type to go to Buffalo Wild Wings way too often, and that was not a compliment in the slightest.

The door to the saloon swung shut behind her and she took a deep breath. Any residual anger resided and she was left with the realization that she could have handled it differently. Although she knew she was justified, she was better than that. Her reputation was better and she knew her she would regret it. Even if she hadn’t said it, she still thought it.

Still, she needed to calm down. She didn’t know the town as much as she wanted to and the sun was beginning to set. Taking a walk wouldn’t hurt.

“That was a good girl you just ran off, you know that?”

Shane took the beer and handed over the appropriate amount of cash, before grumbling his response.

“Good. The less I see of her, the better.” He took his beer and shrugged off anything that Gus would have said, stepping over the mess that the woman had made. Served her right, he hoped that the encounter would warn her enough to stay the hell away. He didn’t want anything to do with the “new girl in town” that everyone was so curious about. It wasn’t like the arrival of anyone new would bring anything good to him and he knew that. All she would be is another face to pass by and ignore.

The gossip that everyone passed around is that she inherited some large plot of farmland and came from the city to give it a shot. A city girl like her wouldn’t make it a season, he decided, taking a large sip of his beer. The way she complained about her shirt. She wouldn’t last another few weeks.

The hearsay, not that he listened, was that everyone was excited and hoped she could help everyone out with her farm. No one wanted to rely on JojaMart and farmer’s markets in Pelican Town were greatly loved and anticipated. He would almost root for her if it meant taking money from the hellscape that was Joja Corp, but he knew she wouldn’t make a difference. All of the rumors and hopes were false. Everything that the townsfolk said was wrong.

Except for one thing. The rumors that she was nice looking were true.

The beer wasn’t doing it for him. He needed something stronger.

Venturing out into the dark, he stumbled along his path home, his light buzz only enough to smear his thoughts. This evening, he left the saloon just shy of nine, rather than his usual close to midnight departure. The atmosphere of the bar was a little more dense and uninviting this evening and he wasn’t about to hang around.

No, he would board himself in his room and get the whiskey he had stashed away.

The outside light of the ranch came into few and he took a deep breath. Jas and Marnie would still be up at this time and he really just wanted to sneak in unseen. He didn’t want to feel that lingering guilt if Jas saw him like this, but it wasn’t like she didn’t know. In his limbo, he thought he heard a distant voice. Maybe he was finally going crazy.

Moments later, he heard it again. It was too far away to decipher. Who would be out in the forest this late? He struggled between deciding that it was none of his business and checking it out. He wasn’t sure if he was curious or just delaying walking into the house, but he quietly followed the direction of the voice.

A faint glow of a phone and a voice came into view, at the end of the pier that stretched over the small lake. He could barely make the outline of the figure out in the darkness. The voice was both familiar and unfamiliar to him, but he immediately knew who it was. He frowned and wondered if he should yell out to her with something that will make her leave, but he opted to stand silently, his arms folded. Her conversation continued on, her half was all that was needed to understand what was being said.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, dad. I don’t know if I’ve made a mistake or did something right for once?” Her voice echoed over the lake.

A mistake

“I realized how much I miss home. How much I miss Greg. I miss…” she took a breath “The cafe I always visited every day.”

Good, go home, he thought. Go back to Greg , he thought, assuming that was her partner or boyfriend.

“I’m sorry, I know I’m complaining. I’m not giving up yet. Today has just been awful.” she paused and continued, “It didn’t start awful, but it ended awful. Long story short, I smell like a man cave carpet on Saturday night.”

Shane was sure she did and did he care? Not a bit. He had heard enough. He wouldn’t be seeing her much anymore and he took great satisfaction in that. Without much more of a clouded thought, he slunk away and tried to ignore the last thing he heard her say in favor of returning to his whiskey for the night.

“I just don’t know what to do.”

CH1 CH2 CH3 CH4 CH5

[avenuecanyons]

Living/Working/Learning by Example: Visiting Bauhaus, ‎Dessau, Saxony-Anhalt, Germany I nearly missed the train departing Berlin Südkreuz at 9:30am for Leizpig. Once I was aboard and had caught my breath I could calm down and appreciate the countryside, flat open pastures, framed by rows of deciduous forest and small grain silos. It felt exotic to me, and so picturesque. The clouds over Berlin have been huge billowing cumulonimbus. Each day at 4/ 5pm they gather and grow dark until they violently rain over the city. It felt incredibly humid today and the sun blazed and it was difficult to imagine the impending storm that was brewing. I arrived in Dessau-Roßlau at 11am and made my way through the quiet streets toward the university campus. It’s quite modest as far as campuses go. What struck me was the open space around the structure that gave it a certain gravitas/breathing space from the traditional housing surrounding it. The building appears as a series of grids operating at different scales and on different axes. It’s definitely not a foreign idea, as it has been employed in design and still is to this day. It gives the starkness of the building a familiarity. The iconic lattice of windows has a fabulous translucent effect, allowing light to pass through, whilst students can their exhibit work. They strike me as performing like the gills of a fish, filtering air, light, sound and information in different directions. The building appears a lot lighter than anticipated, in feeling but also with the use of windows and rough plaster texture on the walls. There is a crafted quality and softness to the building that makes it feel warm and humane. This is accentuated by the exposed utilities like central heating radiators and noticing re-bar in structural concrete elements. This contradicts my prejudice around modernism, and the more I explore the campus more is revealed. These designers are inventers on all levels and their notion of design is all encompassing. The use of materials and attention to detail feels modest and humble. The school incorporated tangential practices of what we would call product/industrial design today. It contained flexible use spaces for textiles, furniture design and many more interdisciplinary fields. This kind of fusion of thinking is what really calls it a renaissance and its something that I see us struggling with today. As job titles change and fragment we become specialists within our fields to produce the most effective and streamlined design. However I think there is weakness in that, because we lose oversight for direction. I think about international design movements that were sweeping the western world in the early 20th centaury as a response to industrialization and mass production, the Arts and Crafts Movement for example. These Bauhaus modernists were apart of that but in the within the context of the German identity and the effects of the Great Depression and WW1. I can only ponder what the cultural climate might have been like, I imagine they would have been very resourceful, problem solvers, hence the stripped back/compositional aesthetics. And then to see beauty in that? Was that something one learned/unlearned (to deconstruction the ornate) or was that the progressive trait of the new generation of designers and thinkers? The two upper stories of the main building have clear programs, studio space and staff offices. The two portions of the structure are connected by a cantilevered walkway. It could be mistaken as just another wing of the building, as it contains classrooms, the director’s and administrative offices. I find the use of cobalt blue on certain surfaces interesting, as it symbolizes the use of color beyond a functional purpose. I wonder if it’s to highlight what they consider ‘compositionally aesthetic’ or if it does serve some kind of way finding requirement. This is seen throughout some of the rooms, balconies and stairwells in the Master’s Houses located nearby. All designs were by Gropius and they were testing the same principals and thinking as the main campus building. The rigidity of these designs feels more evident, as they are residences, not institutional spaces. Your attention is drawn to color and geometry. In the Kandinsky residence, the walls are painted exquisite colors as opposed to white/grey that dominates the other domiciles. Some of these structures were bombed/destroyed during the war, after the whole Bauhaus school had been shut down by the Nazi regime in 1933. I read a locale new paper article from the time, saying that the Dessau community regarded the housing with suspicion, observing its strangely shaped windows and building façades, it appeared as an alien spaceship or spy residence. After visiting the master’s houses I go to explore some of downtown Dessau-Roßlau. I don’t want to stray too far from the train station but I walk down to Stadtpark and observe the vastly different master planning. Buildings seem to frame the outside of city blocks, creating small, contained cell-like forms with green gardens in the middle. I cant quite fathom the differences this has with Los Angeles (where I have been working these past few years), where private built spaces encompass the entirety of the block and public space is squeezed out to the periphery of the side walk. I see a few Bauhaus/modernist buildings and admire them. I can tell they are built later, with different technology and maybe a little less inspiration, but seeing them through a slightly different lens.

[the--blackdahlia]

This Life Chapter 18

Title: This Life Chapter 18

Summary:  Dean Winchester is the Vice President of the motorcycle club The Hunters. After almost 7 years in prison, he's free. But things have changed and Dean has to figure out how to put things back together.

Warnings: Language, violence

AN: Thank you to my beta @sams-serialkiller-fetish. And to my “Support team”, @anathewierdo and @flamencodiva and @i-would-die-for-woodland-demars. The song for this chapter is Run Like Hell by Pink Floyd.

“Do you guys have anything?” Dean asked hours after Gordon left, walking into the office. There was a pizza on the table, separating Charlie and Ash as they worked. Charlie was biting her lip as she stared at the screen behind her glasses. And Ash was typing a mile a minute.

“Reports of Horsemen activity about…” Ash started.

“Two hours north near Waco.” Charlie finished up. Ash looked at her. “And that’s how we do it in Gielinor.”

“Wait, you play Runescape?” Ash asked.

“Damn right I play Runescape.” Charlie laughed. Dean rolled his eyes.

“Okay, okay. You can finish this out nerding later. You said Waco?” Dean asked. Charlie nodded. “Got an address?”

“No, but there’s been a string of house fires. And from what Jim told me, the Horsemen like to watch things burn.” Charlie told Dean. Dean nodded and left to go tell the others while Charlie and Ash chatted about Runescape.

****

“This is what Charlie told me.” Dean said, sitting at the table with Wayward Sons and Hunters gathered around. “There’s been a string of house fires in Waco that seem to point back to the Horsemen.”

“Stupid pyro fuckers.” Caleb growled.

“I’m assuming you have an idea.” Bobby said.

“I think a couple of us should head out there and check it out.” Dean said. Sam nodded.

“I’ll go.” Sam said, arms cross over his chest.

“Which means I’ll go to.” Gabriel said.

“Sammy…” Dean started, but the look that Sam gave him made him stop in his tracks.

“I think Caleb and I might join you.” Bobby told Sam. “I never got to hit my Horsemen piñata like I wanted to.” Bobby dismissed the meeting not too much later. Him and Caleb went out to get their guns and bikes ready. Gabriel went off with Lucifer to talk to him for a bit. Dean stopped Sam as he went to leave.

“What?” Sam asked. Dean sighed.

“You come back.” He said. Sam smirked some.

“I always come back.” He said before he left, leaving Dean standing there alone.

****

It had been hours since Dean had heard from anyone. He didn’t expect them to call or anything, but he expected them to be back by then. He was busying himself, but that could only go so far. Finally, he was too antsy to stay anymore.

“I’m going out.” He announced. Andy looked up from the car he was helping Cas with.

“Where are you going?” Cas asked, not looking up from the engine.

“Beer run.” Dean told him. “I’ll be back. I just can’t sit here and wait.”

“Sam’s not five anymore Dean. I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Jim told him. Dean turned to look at the older biker.

“What makes you think this is about Sam?” Dean asked. “I just want beer is all.” Jim nodded, not believing him, but he wasn’t in the mood to argue with Dean. “I’ll be back in like an hour or so.” With that, he got on his bike and drove into town. Did he want to go to the bar or did he want to go to the liquor store and park out at Crosshurst Canyon for a little while. Watch the ducks that swim down there and all that. He pulled in front of the liquor store, decided that the second option sounded better.

He made his way inside and browsed the beer aisle. So much of it sounded good today. But he decided on Dark Star Black from a local brewery based out of Austin. He headed up to the counter to pay for his beer. It was a little expensive, but it was a craft beer and they were popular. He paid for it all and was ready to head out.

That’s when he looked up and saw Alastair sitting on his bike just down the block.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean growled. He reached for his phone, hoping to call and rally the troops, but it wasn’t there. He didn’t use it that much anyway, and he rarely kept it on him. That’s what payphones were for after all. Alastair looked right at Dean then and smiled before speeding off. Dean didn’t have time to get to a payphone and hope that someone would answer quickly. So, against all logical reasoning that was going on in his mind, Dean took off after Alastair, leaving his beer on the counter and a very confused cashier.

He followed him for awhile. He wasn’t even making an effort to shake Dean. Just a few twists and turns here and there that were really easy to figure out. Dean was getting suspicious, but he was determined to find out what was going on. He needed so many answers. And he really wanted to beat the everloving shit out of Alastair for everything the Horsemen had put his family through for most of his life.

That’s when Alastair suddenly did a U-turn so he was facing Dean. Dean braked hard, coming to a sliding halt in front of him.

“What are you doing here Dean?” Alastair asked.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Dean said. Alastair laughed and took off again, Dean giving chase once more. Alastair pulled into some old farming land and jumped off his bike, heading into an abandoned grain silo. Normally, Dean wouldn’t have willingly walked into danger like this, but being blinded by revenge would do a lot of things to people. He got off his bike and grabbed his gun. He was ready to end this once and for all.

He quietly crept into the silo, looking around for Alastair. It smelt of mildew and stale air. He didn’t see Alastair and was starting to think that he had ran out before Dean got in there. But Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end then.

“That was stupid of you following me in here alone.” Alastair said before hitting Dean from behind, making him lose his balance and fall forward some. Dean spun around and pointed his gun at Alastair. “Dean, Dean, Dean.”

“I’m here to end whatever this is.” Dean said. Alastair started to laugh.

“You think I was coming here without some sort of leverage?” Alastair asked. He tossed something to Dean’s feet. “Go ahead and look at that. I won’t try anything funny.” Dean kept his gun trained on Alastair while he crouched down to pick up what was thrown. It was blood covered, but it looked familiar.

That’s when it clicked in his head.

It was Sam’s bracelet. A good luck charm from Dean to Sam after Sam gave him his amulet he wore faithfully. Sam very rarely took it off.

“Where did you get this?” Dean hissed, holding the bracelet up.

“One of my men took it off of him after he killed him.” Alastair announced proudly. “He fought hard, but even a Winchester can’t handle eight bullets to the head and chest.”

“You’re lying.” Dean said. Alastair shrugged.

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. But I’m taking it you don’t have your phone on you since you came alone. So you couldn’t even call him to see if he’s okay.” Alastair told him. He had a smirk on his face that Dean would’ve normally just shot off.

Instead, Dean lowered his gun in defeat. His nightmares had finally come true. Except now, he couldn’t wake up from it. Alastair gave him a curious look.

“What are you doing?” He asked. Dean looked up at him, his green eyes showing all the pain and sadness that he was feeling.

“I give up.” Dean said. “Take your best shot.” Alastair rolled his neck and cracked his knuckles. He couldn’t believe how easy it was to bring down the mighty Dean Winchester. The smile on Alastair’s face was almost like a child at Christmas.

“I’ve been waiting for this for a long, long time.” Alastair laughed before he hauled off and punched Dean square in the face.

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