#I was thinking that if mark was a woman named Marcie then he wouldn’t have acted like this

[nikkiruncks]

Ross accusing Mark of just wanting to fuck Rachel instead of being happy that his girlfriend is doing something she cares about. Clown behavior.

[eldrai]

Not Worth It

Whumptober 2021 - day 3 - prompt: insult

Character: Reid

Warnings: ableism, r-slur, brief/mild homophobia

Words: 2.2k

Summary: Spencer isn’t naïve. He is young and he looks young but he isn’t stupid. He hadn’t graduated with the expectation that because he was older, had qualifications to back him up, the world would collectively mature in kind. After all, he’d gained his relative immunity to insults because it hurt less to let them taunt him than it had to confront them and end up shoved in a locker or tied up on the football field.

He had hoped things might be different. Not expected. Not assumed.

Just hoped.

ao3 / masterlist

“—were actually invented in the early fifteenth century, though the first versions were, uh, significantly more spherical and made of a wood like beech. It’s also highly likely they used cows’ hair inside leather—”

The cop – Maciewicz – nudges the officer beside him. “Does he ever stop talking?”

Spencer is fairly sure the jab is intended to be audible. It’s an interesting social convention, that sort of insult, where everyone including the target hears it but the person who said it can’t be called out on it because they supposedly directed it at nobody in particular. Interesting, and very high-school of them: Maciewicz is closer to forty than thirty and beginning to bald, and the stale remnants of cigarette smoke follows his colleague wherever he goes.

It doesn’t offend Reid these days. Attending a public LA high school is its own distinct circle of hell but doing so at nine? University at twelve? He’s been called most names under the sun and petty insults don’t get under his skin like they used to.

Which isn’t to say they aren’t annoying.

What he hates the most is the variety of people who insult him: they all have different reactions, different sore spots, and getting them to go away isn’t a one-size-fits-all situation. Reid has dealt with enough bullies to understand that ‘ignore them and they’ll go away’ is useless, if not downright dangerous advice, but there is a whole spectrum of solutions which may or may not work. Get it wrong, and they just grow more persistent.

Spencer isn’t naïve. He is young and he looks young but he isn’t stupid. He hadn’t graduated with the expectation that because he was older, had qualifications to back him up, the world would collectively mature in kind. After all, he’d gained his relative immunity to insults because it hurt less to let them taunt him than it had to confront them and end up shoved in a locker or tied up on the football field.

He had hoped things might be different. Not expected. Not assumed.

Just hoped.

Of course they aren’t.

He pays them no mind and continues to explain the significance of the golf balls their unsub keeps leaving behind. If they didn’t want him to talk, they shouldn’t have asked for his opinion.

This seems like a fairly straightforward case and with any luck, they’ll only have to tolerate the local police department for a couple of days more.

He may have jinxed it.

(Once when they had come to take his Mom to inpatient, Spencer had overheard someone at the front desk talking lowly to someone else, and her words had stuck with him: see, that’s what you get for saying it’s quiet today!

That was always the gist of what was said on TV hospital dramas too. Police chaos isn’t all that different from hospital chaos, he thinks. There’s always too much of it and it’s unpredictable in its unpredictability.)

The curveball this time is their unsub is not a lone male but a male-female duo – he carries out the kills but under her direction. Classic submissive-dominant dynamic. The thing with pairs is they crack. Bend under the pressure until they break and lives are lost in the collateral damage.

Case in point: Marcy Edgeworth, aged twenty-four, Caucasian female, death by blunt force trauma. She is the first female victim and the first to have been left to lie where she’d died. That isn’t a good sign. No indication of sexual assault pre- or post-mortem but there is an incomplete ring of bite marks just beneath her right collarbone, exposed due to her torn shirt.

“What, never seen a naked girl before?” Jamison – Maciewicz’s colleague – mutters. Just low enough for Spencer to hear as he is trying to get on with his job, unlike a certain pair of officers.

“Woman,” he corrects, for her age, “and yes, I have.”

He hopes the lightness in his tone offsets the brusqueness. Spencer shifts his crouching into kneeling and leans forwards to examine her hair. It’s an artificial red – her roots and her eyebrows are blonde – and their previous victims have all had brown hair.

“Only counts if it’s outside a morgue,” Maciewicz chimes in.

He ignores them but their gaze burns the back of his head, and their presence has his guard raised. They stand behind him and their shadows stretch out over the grass either side of him. They’re going for a reaction, Spencer assumes.

Biting is an interesting thing without an accompanying sexual assault. If nothing else it gives them a good estimation of their male unsub’s teeth. The impression he’s getting from the scene is one of interruption, an impulse kill whose victim he had to leave too soon. It is a public park and it was an early-morning dog walker who found her – likely a jogger or someone on a night shift.

Jamison clears his throat once, twice, then taps him on the shoulder. Spencer rears away from his touch. People never ask, they just do.

“Yes?” he asks.

“Oh, nothing,” Jamison says. “I – we – we were wondering why you do that… thing.”

“What thing?” Spencer asks.

Jamison gestures. “You know, the – you know.”

Is that some sort of punchline he’s missing? Spencer glances over at Maciewicz and finds a mild amusement. Nothing to indicate he should be laughing, nor should he know what they do mean.

Maybe he’s missing the cue. He’s better at it these days, but not perfect.

“No, I don’t.”

With a furtive glance at the precinct’s captain, deep in conversation with one of the forensic technicians, Jamison sighs. “The thing with your hands, the—” He shakes his hands in an exaggerated manner.

Spencer’s hands still. He hadn’t thought it was very noticeable and more to the point, Jamison is definitely overexaggerating it like kids in middle school used to do. Only back then they had his unusual gait and meltdowns to mock too. “I don’t do that,” he says firmly.

(He’d answer it if it was a genuine question. Respectful. He loves people who ask out of genuine good intent. They are few and far between.)

Maciewicz snickers.

“Yeah, you do,” Jamison says. “I want to know why, that’s all.”

“Makes you look like a retard,” Maciewicz adds.

…and there it is.

He goes cold from head to toe. It never fails to make him feel as if someone has just dumped a bucket of water right over him, washing away his enthusiasm and excitement and everything else he values. Leaves the bare bones, the weirdness, each of the hundred ways he never quite fits in.

Spencer hates the word.

Because they don’t care about his IQ or eidetic memory or reading skill when they say that, and they don’t care after he tells them.

Nobody calls him that because they think he is. They say it to hurt him.

He wishes it wouldn’t.

Despite how often he’s heard it, he never has a response. His mind goes blank and all he can pull from it is the roots – re,from Latin: back, and tardus, from Latin: slow – as if they give a damn about etymology. As if that’s a normal person’s response. Today is no exception so it’s a blessing when Morgan wanders over.

“You got anything, pretty boy?” he asks. Maciewicz and Jamison snort. If Morgan hears it, he pays it no mind. “They found a guy’s baseball cap over there. No hair but it looks like it’s our man’s.”

And once again, his mind goes blank. Makes you look like a retard. He’d been thinking about – the bite mark, yes, what does that indicate? Spencer catches his hands moving and shoves them in his pockets before they can. “He was interrupted,” he says. “It explains why the bite isn’t complete and why he didn’t notice he’d left his hat.”

Morgan nods. “The person who found the body didn’t recall seeing anyone else around, so you think he’d just left before they got there?”

“Probably,” Spencer says. “I think the woman might be blonde. If they got into a fight, he’d be stressed, he’d be thinking about her. Maybe she reminded him of her.”

“Could be the hair, could be something else,” Morgan says. “He won’t have talked to her, not if he hit her from behind.”

“What if they did? She could have walked away—”

“Maybe,” Morgan says. “But if her hair was dyed, he wouldn’t see that unless they were up close, right? He’d initially go for her because she’s got red hair, not blonde. And if they did talk, Prentiss says no woman’s gonna just turn her back on a strange man. Especially in the middle of the night with no-one around.”

It’s a valid point, and it isn’t condescending. Nonetheless it hurts. Spencer studies the ground for a long moment and tries to forget (retard) Maciewicz and Jamison. “The unsub isn’t going to be someone he’s sexually attracted to,” he says. “He didn’t assault her, and if the victim reminds him of the other unsub, he’d probably have tried to even if someone interrupted him before he really could.”

A burst of laughter from Maciewicz and Jamison. His cheeks go hot with embarrassment—they must be talking about him, what else is there to laugh about? Morgan follows his gaze. “There a problem?” he asks.

Maciewicz holds up his hands in mock surrender. “No, no. Just… the hell is that about, ‘pretty boy’?”

Morgan shrugs. Spencer isn’t sure if it’s as casual as it looks.

“Well, makes sense,” Jamison says. “Course he’s gonna freak out over a naked girl if he doesn’t swing that way.”

…oh, great.

Spencer doesn’t mind exactly what they say as much as the implication—that they know, that they’re entitled to know his sexuality. How they say it as if gay is equivalent to bad. Once again, how utterly high school it all is. And he knows Morgan isn’t going to appreciate it either, probably more insulted on his behalf than Spencer himself.

“And you care, because...?” Morgan says, looking back and forth between them.

“I don’t,” Jamison says.

“He’s…” Maciewicz stammers, “…you know.”

“Smarter than you?” Morgan suggests. “Better at his job than you? A better person than you?”

“You don’t have to stick up for him,” Jamison says. “Must get annoying to deal with a re—”

“It’s fine,” Spencer interrupts. It isn’t. It really isn’t but it isn’t worth the conversation. How tiring it gets to deal with it, how much easier it is to walk away. These officers aren’t going to change their worldview on disabilities all of a sudden. “Morgan.”

Morgan takes in his posture, the unnatural stillness as he forces himself not to fidget, though the look in his eyes doesn’t fade. “The only people I don’t want to ‘deal with’ are both of you.”

The men share a look – not so much chastened as disappointed their fun was interrupted – but they do back off.

“They already seem to think I’m incapable,” Spencer says irritably. “I said it was fine, I didn’t need you to say anything.”

He crouches down to examine the bite again.

“It didn’t matter,” Spencer says. His hands itch and despite needing to, he can’t bring himself to move. Makes you look like a retard.

“Does if it bothers you,” Morgan insists. “And it did, don’t look at me like that.”

He sighs. They’re not even there any more, the two cops out on patrol and them revisiting the penultimate crime scene. “I’m used to it.”

“And?” Morgan says. “Just because you are doesn’t mean you have to put up with it—”

“It was five minutes at most,” Spencer points out. “Everyone else was fine.”

“Yeah, and they were dicks.”

He shrugs.

“What else did they say?”

Spencer rolls the fabric of his sweater between his fingers and feigns ignorance. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what else did they say when I wasn’t there, ‘cause they said something.”

“Makes you look like a retard.”

He doesn’t mean to say it – wasn’t sure what he had planned to say, but it certainly wasn’t that – but he says it nonetheless, his tone mimicking the disdain and irritation. And now Morgan definitely isn’t going to believe him if he says he’s fine and it’s going to make the situation worse to explain that he mostly is, he just hasn’t heard it for a while, he’s used to it.

Stupid echolalia.

“Like I said,” Morgan says, “they were dicks.”

Spencer doesn’t point out being rude doesn’t automatically mean lying. “I’ve heard worse.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t give them the right to say stuff like that.”

He rocks back on the balls of his feet. His hands aren’t co-operating but the swaying motion is a good substitute. “I’m okay.”

“You know,” Morgan says casually, “whenever you lie, you stand exactly the same way.”

Spencer looks up. The expression on Morgan’s face falls somewhere between sadness and sympathy but, he thinks, not pity. It’s a nice change.

“Kid, the only thing you’re gonna get from pretending you’re OK is worse,” Morgan says. “It’s not worth it. Not for anyone but especially not morons like that.”

“It’s not worth it,” Spencer repeats. The words catch in his thoughts and he murmurs it again and again and Morgan isn’t even slightly annoyed at him.

(It isn’t worth it—he knows this—but maybe it is. Just a tiny bit. Just for the part where he has friends who tell him things like this, who don’t mind when he’s awkward. Who don’t mind him.

Friends who say nothing about it but when they get back to the station, the pair are getting chewed out by a pissed off captain.)

A/N: I had trouble getting this to flow as well as my other ones, there's something about it I just can't figure out. Regardless, I hope you enjoy it.

[shireness-says]

Swan’s Seven (1/?)

Summary: After two years behind bars, Emma's out, and she's got a plan in mind. Now to put together the perfect team... Let's stage an art heist. (A CS Ocean’s 8 AU) 1.9K. Rated T for language. Also on AO3. 

~~~~~

A/N: Thanks for joining me for another MC! It’s going to be a fun one. Turns out, I hate posting schedules when I’m the one being scheduled, so these will be up when they’re up. Hang in there.

Thanks to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan. Love ya bunches, babe.

Tagging: @optomisticgirl, @spartanguard, @profdanglaisstuff, @captainsjedi, @thisonesatellite, @thejollyroger-writer, @let-it-raines, @teamhook, @kmomof4, @snowbellewells, @searchingwardrobes, @winterbaby89. Shoot me a message if you want to be added/taken off the list.

Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

It feels odd, changing back into regular clothes after two years in a prison jumpsuit. Not bad, obviously - orange was never really Emma’s color anyways —  just… odd. The black leather dress still fits like a glove, she’s pleased to note, and her arms are looking better than ever. That little tidbit is almost enough to keep Emma from slipping her treasured red leather jacket over the top —  almost. A girl’s got to have her armor and a signature piece, after all. 

“You gonna behave yourself, Ms. Swan?” the guard posted at the release desk asks as she hands over the last of the possessions Emma was arrested with - a pitifully small handbag. Emma resolves to burn it as soon as possible —  less for the bad memories, more because it barely holds two cards and a hundred dollars cash. 

Not that she’s been blessed with such a generous sum. “Don’t I always, Marcie,” she chuckles darkly. “Besides, how much trouble can I get into with $32.17?”

$3.17 of it is in change. She’ll be lucky if she can get a cab to a train station with that kind of money.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Marcie grumbles. She looks like she’s suppressing a smile, though; she always was one of the guards Emma got along with. “Get out of here, and don’t let me see you next year.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The sunlight feels different, too, as Emma walks out the front doors and down the path to the parking lot. It’s not that she hasn’t been outside in two years; even in New York, they get time in the prison yard, so that’s obviously not the case. But knowing that she can enjoy the sunlight in longer than one-hour spurts is a different thing altogether, and wholly intoxicating.

She’s so busy soaking in the sunshine and her new-found freedom that it takes Emma a moment to notice the figure waiting where the fence gives way to cars and asphalt: lean, dark haired, dressed to kill. Regina.

“Hot date?” the other woman drawls, not even bothering to look up from where a perfectly manicured thumbnail navigates her phone. Emma wouldn’t expect anything less from her partner in crime. Emma and Regina met six years ago while both attempting to con the same mark, and had been criminally inseparable ever since (and she’s still particularly proud of the fake charity cons they used to run on wealthy, pervy men, happy to toss a few thousand dollars their way without checking their credentials too closely in hopes of getting into Regina’s pants). In all that time, Emma’s never seen her look anything but immaculately put together in perfectly tailored garments, expertly paired with that air of casual boredom she’s perfected. Beneath the cold exterior, Emma knows, lies a terrifying loyalty, however. It’s probably not a coincidence that that fucker Neal Cassidy wound up arrested mere months after setting up Emma to take the fall for his crimes, still landing her an accessory conviction after his stupid watches were found in her trunk despite the police’s inability to put her at scene of the crime —  and indeed, surveillance video proved she hadn’t been the one breaking into cases. But Emma went to prison, and Regina… well, Emma wouldn’t be surprised if Regina got a little payback, even if she’d never admit to it. 

“I don’t know, depends on who’s at the insurance convention you’re attending,” Emma shoots back. The perfectly matched trousers, blazer, and vest certainly suggest business more than a casual afternoon; an uninformed bystander would certainly be forgiven for thinking Regina was Emma’s lawyer instead of a fellow conwoman.

Despite the teasing introductions, Emma still doesn’t hesitate to wrap her friend into a tight hug. “Missed you, Reg,” she whispers.

“Me too,” is the barely audible response, before Regina pulls back to briskly brush at her precisely creased pants. “That’s enough of that. I thought prison wasn’t supposed to make you go soft, E, control yourself. I’ll still give you a lift into the city, if you want.”

“I’m counting on a lot more than that,” Emma comments as they climb into the black Volvo — nice, but not flashy, hovering just below the radar. Just the way they both like it. Emma idly wonders who stole it. “I’m gonna need a place to crash.”

Regina shoots her a sideways glance, full of skepticism. Regina Mills doesn’t do confusion. “Not running off to see brother dearest and whatever disgusting fairy tale he’s living in backwoods Maine?”

“Not yet.”

Regina hums in sudden understanding. “Ah. You’ve got a job in mind.”

“And I don’t want him involved,” Emma finishes. 

“What’s the job?”

“I’ll tell you when we get back to your place,” Emma promises. “You’ll like it, though, it’ll be a fun one. And besides, it’s a favor for an old friend.”

Most of the rest of the 90 minute drive into the city passes in silence —  not that Emma minds. It gives her a chance to run over the plan in her head again before she has to tell Regina. Still, they’re pulling up in front of the warehouse space that always manages to look just this side of abandoned. Regina had the business savvy at some point to buy up the building with some of the money she’d accumulated over the years, and last Emma heard, it was a thriving nightclub. Poison Apple. Terrible name, in Emma’s opinion, but she’s not the one running the place. 

The inside is the same as always, full of exposed metal beams and carefully cultivated rust. Emma knows that at night, when this place is packed with revelers, the lights (what few of them exist) illuminate in bronze and gold shades, really encouraging the steampunk fairytale feeling in here. The unusual wishing well on one side of the room helps with that too, as does the apple tree growing under the grimy window panels that make up the slant of the roof. Emma finds those touches just as ridiculous as the name, but you can’t deny that there’s a theme going. And anyways, they can make good money pulling change out of the wishing well after the end of the weekend. 

The apartment upstairs is much the same, minus the ridiculous fairytale decor. It’s been shined up, however, in a way that the club hasn’t been. Regina’s taste has always tended towards the luxurious and ornate, in a way that should be anachronistic against the metal and brick, but isn’t. The scrolled and gilded furniture is more comfortable than the minimalistic metal and leather Emma would have expected of an industrial space anyways, so Emma doesn’t have much space to pass any judgement.

“There’s a spare bedroom upstairs,” Regina says, tossing her keys onto the kitchen counter. Dark wood, white granite. Nice. “Make yourself at home.”

“What, with all my baggage?” Emma snorts.

“Fine, don’t then,” Regina snipes back, opening the fridge to toss Emma a beer. “Don’t come whining to me later about how I’m not being hospitable or some shit.”

“I’ve got a drink, what else do I need?” Emma collapses onto the couch. It feels good to finally toe her heels off, even if she can’t kick them across the room with a polished wood coffee table in the way that definitely cost more than the $32.17 in her wallet. God, what was the Emma of two years ago thinking with these torture devices?

Oh. Yeah. Horribly in love, planning to maybe use the heels to coax her date into a wild night of sex. That’d explain it. 

“Oh, well, now that you’re here, what about that explanation? You said you had a plan in mind for some job?” Regina, of course, has somehow managed to conjure up a glass of wine for herself. Beer is for the peasants or something.

“The job of the century,” Emma promises.

“Yes, that’s great. The details?” Nothing is more entertaining than an impatient, pissed off Regina. It’s probably a miracle they haven’t killed each other yet. 

Emma savors the moment for one more sip of her beer before finally spilling. “Zelena West. You know her?”

“Personally? No,” Regina snorts. “But Zelena West, pharmaceutical titan and socialite? Yes, Emma, I know of her. You’re the one who’s been in prison, not me.”

Emma ignores the jab. “You’re aware about her art collecting, then? The gallery she runs for the public?”

“Again, I haven’t been living under a rock, E.”

“And you know about the upcoming collaboration between the West Collection and the  Big Apple Ballet? Big exhibit in BAB’s gallery about the intersection of dance and art?”

“Yes…” Regina trails off as the details finally sink in. “You’re planning an art heist.”

“Bingo.”

“A classic, certainly. Seems a bit of a risk, though, especially since you’re fresh out of prison. Why would you want to go after such a big fish right away?”

“Like I said, it’s a favor for an old friend.” She takes another swig of her beer. “It’ll be fun, besides. And it’ll work.”

“Yes, well, that’s left to be seen,” Regina grumbles. “Tell me everything, start to finish. Every motive, every step, every player, or so help me god, Emma, I won’t lift a finger to help you with this. I don’t intend to be caught attempting a fool’s gambit.”

So she does. Emma’s had a lot of time to think through this, and has run it in her head countless times. She knows every inch of this plan inside and out —  and by the time she’s done speaking, Regina does too. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this… but I think it might work.” The wine has long since been consumed in the course of their conversation, but Regina sounds like she needs another glass after being conned into that admittance. “You’ll need a crew though. This isn’t something we can pull off on our own, I can tell you that now.”

“Oh, I know that,” Emma readily agrees. She’d been prepared for this. “We’re definitely going to need a xerox, a code wrangler, and a can opener. Maybe a fairy fingers, for good measure.”

“Never know when you’re going to need a good fairy,” Regina agrees. “You’re going to need a good garage sale, too.”

“For sure. Someone who’s already tapped into that world.”

“So five, plus you and I… you really think we can pull this off with seven players?”

“I really do.”

“I’ll put out feelers tomorrow, start collecting resumes.” Regina stands, carefully straightening out her pants. “It’s good to have you back in the game, Emma. I was worried that once you got out, you’d run off to live some boring Rockwell life with your brother.”

“Not me. Once a con, always a con,” Emma toasts before finishing off her beer. 

And that’s the truth of it, really —  this is in her blood. The one thing Emma Swan is better at than anything is conning people out of their money. It brought her a family, and a purpose, and a challenge to face every morning. She’s not sure she can imagine any other kind of life, or that she’d want to. Day after day crammed into a cubicle just isn’t for her. 

“Let’s go stage an art heist,” it’s easy to declare, easier than riding a bike, almost easier than breathing.

Emma Swan is back in the game.

[nyotasaimiri]

Running

((Late chapter is late and also ran a bit long))

“I had hoped I could distract us,” Nyota admitted, “by bringing you here.” She looked up at the gate above them. The runes around the rim somehow seemed more familiar than ever, even though she hadn’t seen it in months. “I am always avoiding my problems like that. Ignoring them, running away.”

“No you’re not,” Marcy protested. “In the Academy—”

“It was running that brought me to Earth.”

Marcy fell silent.

Nyota ran a hand over the polished stone, digging her short fingernails into the tiny cracks where each stone fit into the next. She bit her lip, hard. Avoiding it again. Speak, damn it. She closed her eyes and pulled up the memory of Lana’s face, of staring down that rifle at the entrance to the Miniknog Stronghold, of Lumen and Namina’s stares burning into her back. “You were right,” she said, “when you guessed that I was law enforcement before. I was.”

The silence was deafening.

“I was an officer in the Miniknog.” Nyota resisted the urge to look back and make sure Marcy was still there. It helped, somehow, standing beside the massive gate, feeling so small in its shadow. If she had felt larger, braver, she might have found the courage to bury the words again. “I was an Agent. A spy. A soldier, rarely, with this damned leg of mine. From the day I turned seven years old until just after my twenty-second birthday, I served in full obedience to the will of Big Ape.”

“That’s a long time.” Marcy’s voice was very, very quiet.

Now Nyota turned to look back at her, and the old Miniknog part of her heart swelled with pride to see how firmly and cleverly Marcy masked her emotions now. Skill like that was hard to come by without being trained. Such potential… The part that had been Marcy’s friend throbbed at seeing a blank-faced stranger in the young woman’s place.

“So,” the Miniknog Agent asked, “are you still my friend?”

“I don’t know,” Marcy said slowly, and Nyota tilted her head in acknowledgment of a fair answer. “I guess this is why you always told me not to make promises I can’t keep, back on Earth. Why did you leave?”

Nyota looked up, past the gate, at the stars hanging heavy and distant and silent overhead. One of them had been her homeworld sun, once. “I realized there were other ways,” she said. “I grew up with the Miniknog being all that was good in the world. I learned early that they were evil, but thought they were a necessary one. Then, one day, I found that they weren’t even that.”

She paused. “You can speak, you know.” Her voice was, in that moment, the closest to what Marcy had known on Earth that it had been since they met in Patchwork. “Reproach me, call security, run for home. I won’t stop you. I don’t have the right to stop you.”

She could feel Marcy’s hesitation. “I realize I should,” Marcy said, “but if I close the book now, I won’t know how it ended.”

Emotion, too strong to name, caught thick and heavy in Nyota’s throat and she had to fight back tears for a long moment. It didn’t quite work. “I have humans to thank for it,” she said, blinking quickly as her vision blurred around the edges. “I met one during a science summit with the USCM, before it collapsed. He mentioned the Protectorate… It took me two years to perfect an escape that wouldn’t leave me dead or in a cell in minutes. That’s when I met Isobu.”

“What? Isobu knew, and neither of you told me?”

Nyota flinched slightly at the hurt and anger in Marcy’s voice. “He didn’t know. Not for certain, at any rate. I never told him either. I think he assumed I was part of the rebellion.”

“He was way off the mark, then…”

“Yes.” The tears finally stopped trying to escape down her cheeks. “I don’t think he cared too much about the details at the time. He was venting out in a snow drift when I found him.”

“Wait—so that was true?” Marcy’s quiet anger vanished into surprise. “You did find him in a snowdrift? You two weren’t just pulling my leg?”

Laughter shrieked out of Nyota like water escaping a ruptured pipe, high and hysteric. The tears returned with a vengeance and her knees gave out, the tension supporting them gone too soon, sending her sliding down to the base of the gate, still shaking with laughter. Her lungs burned as she tried to pull in a full breath.

A small hand settled on her shoulder. “I really don’t know if I should be scared of you or scared for you right now,” Marcy told her quietly. She took Nyota’s hands and held them until Nyota subsided and started breathing calmly again.

Nyota squeezed Marcy’s fingers gently. “I could never hurt you,” she whispered. “Not intentionally. I didn’t mean to, with this. I was just… too deep in the role to let it go. I’m so sorry.”

“Nyota, be honest with me,” Marcy said. Her voice shook, just a little. “When you knew me on Earth, how much.... How much of ‘you’ was a mask?”

Nyota retained enough courage and respect, for both Marcy and herself, to not look away. “All of it,” she replied softly, hand tightening against the deep pain in her throat as Marcy's face fell. “But none of it was a lie. It was... a mask of who I wanted to be.”

“I think—” Marcy’s voice caught a little. She shook her head and, to Nyota’s shock, smiled. “I think I can work with that. You still have a lot of story to tell me. I want to know if you ever did become her, that Nyota I knew.”

“…as you wish.” Nyota stood again, to Marcy’s concern, and held out a hand. “I’m sure you’re tired of me dragging you everywhere by now, but there’s someone you should meet.”

[the-canary]

Languages of Saints - C.R (3/10).

Summary: A deal isn’t supposed to involve feelings, right? (Reader/Carter Baizen). 

Prompt: “Did you enjoy yourself last night?”

Masterlist

A/N: welcome to the longest chapter so far, even with some changes i do plan on moving forward with the story.  

Part 1 | Part 2 

Feedback is always appreciated.

Monday.

It’s a surprise to your supervisor, Harold, early Monday morning when you sent him a quick text that you will not be coming to work that day due to being sick. It’s not that you don’t have the compt time for it, you have way too much actually, but it still makes him question your actions a little, not that he would say that outloud, especially with Marcy nearby. God knew that woman was ready to flick a sexual harassment filing to HR at a moment’s notice, it was just the age he lived in he guessed. However, that and the usual coffee break gossip leave his head when a man in a blue tailored suite walks into the floor that houses all the accountants and analysts’ offices. He wears confidence in an annoying sort of way, as he calls on everyone to meet him up front with a pair of lawyers behind him.

“My name is Carter Baizen,” the younger man declares grinning at the sound of his own name,”As of last Friday, Wyman Co. is under my direct management.”

The small crowd murmurs amongst themselves, as Carter’s smirk turns devilish. This was his favorite part of the act, reminding others that their livelihoods where in his hands. He might be considered a Saint to some, but to others he was the goddamn devil. It might have not been the best thing, the morally right thing to do but Carter Baizen was here to remind everyone (and himself at times) that he was worth something -- even at the cost of others. However, through all the dramatics, there was something that he needed to know more than anything else -- where his goddamn money was.

“However, it seems that there is some money missing from the annual report and statistics I was given” Carter keeps going on with his act, as he shakes the packet of papers the black-suited man gives him, “I hear you are the best group of accountants and analysts this side of Wall Street.”       

Everyone stays silent as he gives the punchline of his speech, “You have until Friday to find me the missing 2 million dollars, if not this whole department is fired.”

Carter gives the appalled crowd a shiteating grin before leaving, but instead of freaking out like most other groups would - the financial team of what was formerly Wyman Co. huddle up and look at Harold. He drags a hand through his thinning hair before looking at the chubby-cheeked, brown-eyed Marcy.

“Send her a detailed email of everything that just happened,” Marcy nods before running to her cubicle, “I want you guys searching, for any inconsistencies and you send it to either her or Nick -- they’re gonna be our A-team on this. Understood?”

“Understood!”

If only you, fighting with Monsieur over the blanket, knew what you were in for.  

Tuesday.

Rocio’s mother sends you an urgent email on Monday evening asking where her daughter has been since Friday and in all honesty you can’t answer because she hasn’t answered your messages and her Instagram has been oddly cryptic --with dark and blurry shots-- since you left the party. It’s around that time you see the email from Marcy, with her panicked voice ringing in your head-- about what had happened at work, and it doesn’t really surprise you -- the company had been tanking for awhile now, but the thing about Mr. Baizen -- that’s what gets you up with a headache and your best set of footwear.

“How are you even awake?” Nick asks, as you wait for the elevator to reach your level. The dark-haired man shakes his head, as you motion towards the cup of coffee in your hand.

“It’s just like college, pills and coffee,” you state, voice still raspy from your sickness and the lack of sleep the email had given you. Honestly, it felt like that time Rocio made you go to a frat party the night before your last statistics finale. You shrug, as Nick gives you those eyebrows of disapproval though you knew he understood from his own sleepless night as a new dad.

“Let’s do this, Nicholas,” you chug your coffee, knowing that the burnt kind is already being made in the break room.

“Right behind you,” he remarks, as you frown for only a moment.

“Please stop,” you laugh, ignoring the tightness in the back of your neck that you always get when someone is watching you, “I don’t want Matt after me again.”

Nick laughs, as the two of you head to your offices and begin going into the pile of documents that the rest of the floor has assailed your dropbox with, completely unaware of a certain man watching the proceedings, though you are aware the office watching you through the glass walls, making it obvious that their hopes are leaning all on you.   

Wednesday Night.

It’s in the minor details, that’s something you learned early on in this job. You have to be meticulous, if not money could slip out of your hands, and that’s something that rich people hated the most -- losing money that they didn’t spent themselves. But, between hour 5 and hour 12 you get somewhere with a little thing Nick says that makes Marcy laugh during breaktime. It’s the little things that accumulate -- that stupid saying doesn’t leave your head, so you start looking into the little things, a monthly payment here or a downpayment there. It’s all in the same area, though never under the same name.    

“The last CEO bought out his lover with gifts,” you explain to Nick and Harold in the mid afternoon meeting the three of you are having, though that isn’t the half of it. You wouldn’t let them know, if it could possibly spill out and cause a bigger mess -- people still lost their jobs, with this the old boss just looked bad.

“Every dollar accounted for?” Harold ask, as you nod. Nick is going over the numbers once more, because he secretly knows that you’re not that good at math, never been one for a calculated risk.

“So, you agree to present this to Mr. Baizen tomorrow?” Harold asks, bright eyes and grabby hands. You roll back your shoulders and give him a tight smile.

Calculated risks have never been your go to, but look at you now.  

Thursday Night.

Harold sends the report bright and early the next morning, so that Mr. Baizen’s attorneys and whoever else had time to look over it. You just tried to stay alive for the rest of the day. You know what ignoring your illness wasn’t the best thing for you, but your work and livelihood were on the line -- one that you loved dearly. The healthcare benefits could pay if you got sick and maybe if you died, and while that was a little morbid, it was how you felt by the end of day. You hoped you died before you meet said Carter Baizen. However, Lady Luck was not on your side when 4pm rolled around and you were standing in front of his office door at the top of the highrise that housed the company.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Baizen,” you say, holding some folders and in your best business outfit, trying not to lose your voice. The man turns to you and for a moment you’re in shock -- the guy from the party. You want to say something, but you are going to be a professional. You are going to fight for your job, though you can’t help but frown at the crooked grin he gives you while stating your last name.

“So let’s talk,” Carter declares, as he takes a seat and you follow him. On top of his desk are several folders, the whole meeting of the company’s missing money takes nearly 40-45 minutes and you’re surprised he’s paying attention and taking notes, like he cares about the company. However, what catches his attention, ignoring the whole mistress of the former CEO is the markings on your paper from the last few months that aren’t in his report. You’re about to go into that when he finally speaks up.

“I think you should stop talking,” Carter states coldly, as you look at him from across the wooden table. You look at him and back at the paper, hating that you put two and two together so quickly. Carter Baizen had owned Wyman a lot longer than just last week, it was just that the old CEO couldn’t handle what the dark-haired man in front was doing anymore, so he finally bought the old fool out.

It was one of the oldest tricks in the game.  

“You swindle funds into other things, don’t you? Scarier things ,” he doesn’t say anything about your accusation, but the dark look in his blues eyes is telling you to shut up, not that you were ever any good at that either, “And you use your accountant as scapegoats, is that why you fire the whole department when you come in? Every time?”

“Usually,” he remarks while smiling like the cat caught the canary., as you tighten your hands into fists at his carelessness for others, “I could still do it, but you already know.”

“Please don’t fire the department,” you plea angrily, as you slam your hands onto his desk though it doesn’t seems to phase, “You saw how good they are this week. Anything, I’ll even be your fucking scapegoat. But, there are good people out there.”

“ Anything ?” he cocks an eyebrow, as you scowl. Rich people were truly disgusting.

“I mean, not anything . I’m not looking for 50 shades of Gray here, Mr. Baizen,” you try to save yourself by being polite in the end, but his shaking head just shows that he caught the underlying disgust in your voice. However, he chooses to ignore it.

“Well, you’re not Dakota Johnson,” he states and for a moment you want to laugh at his weak rebuttal.  

“I don’t think brunettes are your type, if I recall correctly,“ you answer back as he glares at you, but all you do is shrug -- I mean who doesn’t read a tell-all when it had a the juiciest gossip about NYC, at least that’s how you remember it being promoted. Rocio is the one that really told you everything, she was a talkative drunk, after all.

“Well then, I’ll keep up my end of this bargain,” Carter concedes, almost too quickly, “And you keep yours.”

“Understood, Mr. Baizen,” is all you say before trying around and that’s when everything starts to get dizzy once more, as your fever sneaks up to you with the fear you have been ignoring as well. Carter Baizen could be one scary person if he wanted to be , are your last thoughts as you let out half a curse before blacking out completely. You never hear the rushing footsteps coming towards you.  

Friday Morning.

You wake up in your apartment mid afternoon with Monsieur meowing at your side. You feel awful with your throat clogged up and your eyes barely able to open. It was like you crashed into a monster truck only to get thrown into a brick wall. However, by muscle memory, the first thing you do is check your phone -- a little scared of wondering how you exactly you got here since the last thing you remember is talking to one Carter Baizen, who might be the one that had messaged you a couple of hours ago.

To show you that I am a nice guy, take all of next week off. You look awful, Stats.  But, the following Monday starts your new workload -- CB.

“Oh, Mon. What did I get myself into?” you groan before throwing your phone into the abyss that was your room as Monsieur keeps meowing for your attention.

Part 4

[deathhasnomeaning-blog]

Even Celestial Bodies Wither in the Face of Eternity

     Maple leaves are swept into a cyclone in miniature with each gust of wind, the distillation of violence and disorder into something that might be mistaken for beauty. You can faintly make out the pained yelps of your neighbor’s 16 year-old bichon frise as it struggles to make it down a flight of stairs. Poor thing, you think. Maybe one day that’ll be me.

     It is October 27th, and the block on which you live is in repose, save for the neighbor’s dog, which suffers in solitude. But you can hear it, so is it really alone? you ask yourself. But what do we weigh more strongly when pondering the existence of loneliness: the mere presence of others, known or unknown to the self, or the degree to which these others are perceived as playing some role in our day-to-day? The dog doesn’t know that you can hear it. Your reality and its reality don’t intersect, at least not at this moment.

     But anyway, it is October 27th. The sun lurks behind the veil of cumulonimbus, as your block languishes in silence, supine in the face of its treachery. The din of machinery churns somewhere far beyond the hills that mark the end of your hometown. You can recall nights spent with friends in that abandoned factory district, which even now remains caught up in some sort of simulation of life, perpetually grinding along with no beginning or end. Your old friend Daniel, who you had known since the first grade, once accompanied you to the building that decades prior had been known as the L’Oreal Factory. You didn’t know what L’Oreal was, but you insisted that the two of you check it out regardless. So you snuck out of your homes, crept through side streets and alleyways, and eventually arrived at this brick-and-mortar mausoleum. The two of you not-so-nimbly made ingress via an empty window-frame.

     You found yourself in what used to be the product-testing room, not that you were aware of this. Most of the supplies were still there, frozen in time, waiting to be acted upon by a motley crew of frustrated chemists. Daniel and you took everything in, silently making note of any details that caught your interest. Satisfied that you had done this, you turned to him and caught him looking at you with such profound, tangible sadness. Do you remember what he said? He kept his gaze level with yours and told you that he had recently dreamed of his father’s house burning to a crisp. He was riding his violet mountain bike, coming home from baseball practice, choking on the foul tendrils of smoke before he even knew that something was amiss. Then suddenly, there it was. His father’s house, reduced to a fine black ash. Daniel said he couldn’t stop weeping or smiling, and that each response only magnified the other. He was visibly holding back tears as he told you this. You hesitated for a moment and then grabbed his hand before asking yourself whether that was appropriate, partly because you didn’t know what else to do and partly because you had been in love with him for so long, so very long. Four years later he drowned in the reservoir behind the local library. Love having faded into little more than unpredictable pangs of longing by then, you wanted to cry but couldn’t produce anything more than a whimper. Your closest friends apologized to you, as if you had suffered a great loss. In some ways, maybe you had.

     The weather where you live is all sorts of fucked up. It was 80 °F two weeks ago. Today saw a high of 48 °F with a substantial wind chill.

     Putrefied garbage litters the front porch of a semi-abandoned house down the street. Semi-abandoned in the sense that it is now occupied by a corpse. The cleaners don’t come until Monday. It is currently Thursday. You wonder how much temperature affects the decomposition process, if at all.

     In the room over, a light-bulb wavers in and out of existence. You look out the window and see rays of light briefly explode through holes in the clouds, and suddenly it dawns on you that you haven’t left the house in a year. And maybe that’s because there’s a real risk in that, walking down those steps and out your front door, because you know that once you leave you won’t be able to control the outcome. But how many times have you relied on that very same lack of control as a viable exit strategy? Our rationalizations are so malleable, wouldn’t you agree? They are wonderful evidence of our adaptability. They attract and repulse us in equal measure.

     To your left sits an orange spiral notebook, its pages a distinct Joycean yellow. Near the back rests your proudest moment. During the final weeks of your Junior year in college, after you had stopped taking Xanax and started running ten miles a day, you wrote a poem that linked the Nietzchean concepts of eternal recurrence and Amor Fati to the central tenets of Tantra Yoga, because you are an intellectual first and foremost. Your creative nonfiction professor loved the way it conveyed our need to take solace in our mortality. You loved that you stumbled upon a more academic way of writing about dying.

     After some gentle prodding on the part of your classmates, you submitted it to your school’s poetry journal. What was it called? The Tribune? Something like that, I think. As always, you both loved and loathed your creation, somehow convinced that a) in comparison to the fluffy nonsense your peers had submitted, your poem was an undeniable masterstroke of subtle brilliance, and b) it was the long-sought after piece of evidence that would finally reveal you for the fraud you always suspected you were.

     The truth typically residing somewhere in the middle, what ended up happening was 25 or so of your peers picked up that copy of The Tribune(?!?), skimmed through it once, and promptly forgot about it. Everyone expect one student that is, a trans woman named Marcie who will one day go on to become a well-respected writer and activist. She read your poem night after night, lost in the throes of staggering depression and dysphoria, letting every syllable linger on her lips the way one glides their fingers across the back of a lover that is drifting off to sleep. You will never know that Marcie exists, and surely enough, one week after first reading your poem she couldn’t even remember your name. So maybe you were right all along. Maybe your intuition was spot on, and you’re really a fraud. But Marcie, the only person in the history of the universe that will ever commit your words to memory, would beg to differ.

     By now the sky has grown a dark, somber shade of blue. The lights from the nearby city ensure that you will never be lost in that perfect darkness you desire. Didn’t one of your teammates on the tennis team say something to that effect? It was late one evening, if memory serves. You were walking home from practice. You were standing on the corner of Valley and Styles, waiting for the light to turn red, when they observed that you seek a perfect darkness in which to submerge yourself. You looked at them with what I’ll call feigned surprise. They knew what it was too, because they continued, saying that nothing less than perfect darkness will ever do. Of course, you know damn well that nothing of that caliber will ever truly manifest, because in the innermost recesses of your consciousness you will always be scared to die. But what did they know? you ask yourself while staring at the branches of your neighbor’s evergreen. They moved to California after saving up money that they had earned working at the local food court, only to die a week later when their brakes gave out on the highway.

     Our rationalizations attract and repulse us in equal measure, but at all times they are just a form of system justification. The self, being a system first and foremost, and a fragile one at that, must remain properly insulated at all times, lest the universe tear it to shreds.

     You think about this for a moment. You pour yourself into something that you hope will be remembered as a work of beauty. Like all acts of creation, this process involves a mixture of performance and genuine out-of-body flow, and...well, maybe it isn’t entirely fair to paint the creative process with such broad strokes. But if creativity is an extension of the self, and the self is a constantly generated performance, why would it be unfair to characterize creation as, at the very least, a somewhat performative thing? And at any rate, if........but anyway, you spend all this time cultivating a very particular product, expecting - well, expecting what, exactly? Should people hold their breath because you’ve created something? Might the noosphere become a unified consciousness that subsequently anoints you its sole philosophical and artistic voice?

     No. No, things limp forward as always. And fuck, even if something did happen, then what? Will that make any difference when your body starts breaking down? You put something into the world. Well, what about it? Sooner or later you will die, regardless of whatever faux-profound drivel you deliriously dredge up. You never had any control. Before you know it, all traces of your existence will make their bed amongst the stars. And that is but a temporary state, for even celestial bodies wither in the face of eternity.

     A motorcycle tears down your street like an elemental force. Concrete melts away, revealing a profound, unending void where the core of the world ought to be. Now the houses aren’t connected to anything. They just hover, seemingly untouched by the passing of time. The moon presides over all of this, but only partially. It is utterly disinterested. You wish you could be such an impartial observer.

      Across the way there emerges a simple chord progression. ii-V7-IV-vi7, or something like that - your ear was never the best. But your ears perk up nevertheless, and now the drums are coming in with a steady beat. The synth is playing a familiar melody. A voice intones something in a language you don’t understand, but for the love of god you feel like you know what’s being said.

     What do you think this voice is saying? It’s saying you never had any control, and you never will, but there’s a hell of a gap between domination and passive observance. You don’t want either of these things. You know that life is nothing but a series of potentialities. Though it is tempting to believe that these potentialities can only be realized under strict conditions, the truth is we only believe this because we know these conditions will likely never come to pass. And we don’t want them to. Anything less than perfect won’t do, and perfection is an artificial construct. Comfortable with these facts, we sit stock still and don’t do a god damn thing because we are scared. You are fucking terrified of putting yourself out there because you want to preserve this image of yourself that you didn’t do shit to earn. You pay lip service to perfection and cling to the chaos that keeps it from being, because that lack of control shields you from the sting of failure, even as it opens you up to the much longer-lasting pain of regret. Maybe you want to believe that you won’t become that person whose final days are consumed by an endless litany of what if’s. But that will be you. Rest assured, if you continue to sit still that will almost certainly be you.

     So you take a deep breath and stand up. The quarter note pulse of the drums shakes the walls of your bedroom. You stand up, brace yourself, and leap out the window because by now the ground has disintegrated completely and there’s no longer such a thing as gravity. You float above that infinite void, that imperfect darkness, and before you know it the music has become a cyclone in miniature that envelops you. One year removed since you last left your house, you swear it feels like your flesh is being stripped off the bone. The air is toxic. With every breath you burn from the inside-out. But the music doesn’t mind this. Each chord cuts through the toxicity. So what do you do? You dance. For the first time in your life you dance like you are truly comfortable with yourself. There won’t be many moments like this going forward, though truth be told, there will be more of them than you probably expect. The beat persists and you keep dancing, hovering above the imperfect darkness while the sliver of moon impassively looks on, a truly impartial observer.

[tlcrescuepa]

New Post has been published on To Love a Canine Rescue

New Post has been published on https://tlcrescuepa.com/week-end-update-hazy-days-of-summer/

Week-End Update: Hazy Days of Summer

Another week is over with a bunch more dogs saved and a few more adopted.  All in all, that makes for a good week here at TLC. Our boy Jacques’s foster family fell in love with him immediately so, to paraphrase Beyonce, they put a name tag  on it and now he’s a full fledged member of the family!

Also adopted this week were Baily, Carly, Cookie Crisp, Elvira & Sheba (the Chihuahua)

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Bailey

Carly

Cookie Crisp (r)

Elvira

Sheba

Jacques now Odie

  We also received some updates to share with you:

  Lucy aka Lulu

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“Yes, she’s settling in well! She loves her dog bed (photos below) and relaxing in the house (must love the AC!). She also has some fun running around in the backyard! She is very smart and lets me know when she wants to go outside by going near the sliding glass doors. She’s also gotten used to my schedule with going to the bathroom, work, sleep etc. I taught her to sit in order to get a treat in just 1 day! She now does it right away. I plan to teach her a few more commands, working on ‘stay’ right now. She has been very well behaved, very gentle and friendly towards people, and has gotten along with most dogs (petsmart and pet store visits; holding off on bringing her to work for another week).

I have kept her name Lucy but also have her the nickname of Lulu. So Lucy ‘Lulu’ is on her new dog tag.”

  Oliver

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“We just love Oliver! He has become a wonderful addition to our family! Yes, we kept his name and he is settling in just fine. He has a house full of love!” 

  Avery

“On Saturday it will be exactly 6 months since we picked up Avery. She is a most wonderful dog, loving and lots of fun. She has a great sense of smell. It’s amazing what she comes up with on our daily walks in the nearby woods.

Wouldn’t trade her for the world.”

  Izzy FKA Doc (Avery’s pup)

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“Izzy is doing wonderful. Her and my other lab are great companions. Best decision I ever made!!!! “

  Bailey FKA Dopey (Avery’s pup)

Bailey FKA Dopey

“Yes, I can’t believe Bailey (Dopey) will be 8 months old this Friday!  He (we) are doing very well.  Bailey is a crazy loving character who LOVES doggy day care and car rides to his “mom mom and pop pop’s” house where he has his own baby pool to play in. as well as a big fenced in back yard.  He is going through training with the woman I used to train my beloved mastiff, Cooper, and has his level 1 test this Thursday.

  I will send you some pictures of our boy very soon.

I’d love to have a meet up with his litter mates if their humans are up for something like that sometime soon.  I may also stop at one of the meet n greet events with Bailey, so some of the TLC family can see how well he is doing.”

  Theia FKA May (Marsha’s pup)

“Hi! We are very happy with May-Theia! We named her Theia because it means Goddess of Blue Skies. She is growing and doing well. I had one appointment with the Vet on July 7th and have a follow up on July 28th. At the time Theia weighed 6.5 pounds. She is very smart, alert and sweet. Theia has adjusted well to her surroundings”

  Flint FKA Mark (Marsha’s pup)

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“We changed his name to Flint. He seems to be taking to the home quite nicely. My vet did not have any openings until next week, so unfortunately I won’t be getting him in as soon as I would like to. He seems to sleep pretty well at night, last night he was a little whiny but not bad. We are looking forward to a very happy life with him!”

  Fiona FKA Mary (Marsha’s pup)

“We are loving our new little puppy. She’s so adorable And good. I put a picture up on to love the canine Facebook group. And it looks like our picture was up as a group picture. We named her Fiona. And thank you for all the information that you gave me. I really appreciate it and your follow up .”

  Reese FKA Maybelle (Marsha’s pup)

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“She is doing really well. We changed her name to Reese. We have an apt on Sunday for her first vet visit. She has been such a welcome addition to our family. We have only had a few accidents a day with peeing. She has learned to sit with commands and treats already. Next week we will start a new trick. We couldn’t be more happy with out decision to adopt her. She does really well in her crate too. “

  Cassie FKA Marcy

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“We decided to change her name from Marcy to Cassie! She is settling in very well and we have been keeping her in a decent schedule. She is so lovable and playful. Such a happy friendly puppy. I will send some update pictures when i get done work today. My girlfriend is setting a vet appointment as well. We couldn’t more happy right now!”

  Dolly FKA Ivory

Dolly FKA Ivory

“We are changing Ivory’s name to Dolly.  It just seems to fit her personality.   She’s doing ok.  Has a serious thing about shoes but is not chewing them.  Dolly collects them and moves them to another room.   Maybe this will train certain people to put them away?

  Dolly has the first appointment I could get with our vet so that is scheduled.  Also her first obedience class begins with Peppers Paws and Eryn on July 19th.  I am looking forward to this.  We are still working on sit. 

Thanks fior such a beautiful gentle little girl for our family.    My husband is her biggest fan! “

  Lupo FKA Baxley

“We have changed his name to LUPO.  He has been perfect!

We have been taking him for walks 4-5 times a day and he is great on the leash and has not had one accident in the house so far, knock on wood.  I have put a crate in our bedroom with the door open, but he seems to like his dog bed better.  He also never cries when we leave in the morning or at lunch.  The only strange thing so far is that he poops almost everytime we walk him.  It was soft at first but has been getting better. I think maybe we gave him too much food to begin with, but have cut it back to a cup a day now.

He has been barking at people and other dogs while walking, but it seems to be getting better.

We found a local vet with great reviews and scanned and sent them Lupo’s records: http://sheehanveterinarycentre.com/.  We have an appointment on Thursday.

I believe Erin updated his name and address online and we got him a new tag.

I want to thank you and Erin so much for your help.  I feel like other shelters may have looked down upon us simply because we have a Camden City address while your shelter responsive and so nice since the beginning.  I have whole-heartedly recommended your organization to my family and coworkers at Rowan University and the Cooper Hospital.”

  Kona FKA Nugget

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“Everything has been going so well with Kona (FKA Nugget), and I can’t believe it’s already been 6 months! She is such a sweet dog and loves to greet everyone and anyone. She loves to sleep, which means she’s also the best cuddler. She loves going on car rides and I try and take her everywhere, including an upcoming road trip to Charleston, SC and Shenandoah Valley, VA. She also loves to be outside and lay in the sunshine. I’ve never met a dog that is more laid back, sweet, loving, and goofy as Kona. I am so lucky to have had the opportunity to adopt her, she’s brought so much happiness into my life!”

  Snowball

“He is just a delight! He is really enjoying summer at our house…loves playing in our backyard, chasing away the rabbits that are so plentiful around here , sunbathing on our patio, going on long walks.   He also loves to snuggle, and looks forward to stretching out on the couch with us in the evening to relax !  He is just a wonderful little dog, a much loved member of our family …we are still amazed that he was once a unwanted pet!   Thank you so much again for bringing our little guy to us

Please pass our thanks on to everyone at TLC!  I v recommended TLC to many people since Snowball has become ours….you all do such a selfless and amazing job. “

  Cosmo

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He is a perfect personality match for Mabel and they have become fast friends!! ❤

  Parker

Parker

“Parker has graduated from obedience training! He is currently attending scent training classes to enrich the hound side of him! He loves scent training and obedience training. He is enrolled to start the next level of obedience training at he end of July!”

      Iggy

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“Iggy was shy at first but is coming out of his shell and has already wiggled his way into our hearts. He likes the couch much better than his dog bed because he wants to be by his people all the time. Vet gave him a clean bill of health.”

  Elvis FKA Harold

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“Elvis is doing great. He loves going camping with us. He gets to meet other dogs and people too. He’s very friendly and playful to both. He now weighs around 90 lbs and is very strong but also gentle. We certainly are happy to have him as part of our family. Saturday he will be coming with us on a long RV trip to Glacier National Park in Montana. Lots to see, and smell. And I’m sure he’ll meet more new dogs and people.”

  We also had a visit from a blast from the past during today’s meet & greet when Chai FKA Tai came by

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