#Intensive Reunification Retreat

[familyreflectionsprogram]

Parental Alienation Support: Guidance to Rebuild Healthy Relationships

Parental alienation is a complex and emotionally charged issue that can deeply impact the relationship between parents and children. It occurs when one parent undermines the child’s relationship with the other parent, often leading to feelings of confusion, resentment, and detachment. Addressing parental alienation is vital for the well-being of everyone involved, particularly the children, who often bear the emotional brunt of the situation. With the right parental alienation support, families can work toward healing and rebuilding trust, paving the way for healthier relationships.

Understanding Parental Alienation

Parental alienation often arises in contentious divorce or custody battles. Children may feel caught in the middle, struggling to reconcile conflicting narratives from both parents. This can result in long-term emotional and psychological effects if left unaddressed. Understanding the signs of parental alienation—such as a child’s sudden hostility toward one parent or an unreasonable preference for the other—is the first step in tackling the issue. Seeking professional guidance and support is crucial for breaking this cycle and fostering reconciliation.

The Role of a Reunification Program for Families

A reunification program for families plays a pivotal role in addressing parental alienation. These programs are designed to rebuild trust and communication between estranged parents and children. By involving trained professionals, such programs provide a safe and neutral environment for dialogue. Families can explore their feelings, confront misconceptions, and develop strategies to improve their relationships. Tailored interventions and therapeutic techniques ensure that the program meets the unique needs of each family, facilitating long-term healing.

How Parent-Child Reconciliation Services Can Help

Rebuilding a strained parent-child bond requires patience, effort, and expert guidance. Parent-child reconciliation services offer structured support to navigate these challenges. These services help children feel heard and understood, fostering a sense of security and belonging. Parents, too, benefit from learning strategies to communicate effectively, show empathy, and rebuild trust. With the assistance of skilled counselors, families can embark on a journey of mutual understanding, creating a foundation for positive and lasting connections.

Addressing parental alienation is essential for the emotional health of all family members. With resources like parental alienation support, reunification programs, and parent-child reconciliation services, families can work toward healing and restoring their relationships. For more information on tailored programs that prioritize family well-being, visit Family Reflections Program.

[clintbartonswife]

i loved you like the sun

Pairings: remus lupin/sirius black Summary: remus centric fic on his history, reunification and future with sirius. Whumptober prompt #27 : scars / 'let me see' Whumptober prompt #30 : borrowed clothing Notes: descriptions of malnutrition and body mutilation (hello lycanthropy!), post-POA masterlist   || whumptober2023 || part two (coming soon)

Remus' heart clenched as he traced the ink lines of the marauder's map. If he closed his eyes and focused on the feeling of the parchment in his hands, he could almost hear James' laugh, Peter asking what was so funny as Sirius whispered sweet nothings in his ear -

He broke that line of thought with a scoff, rubbing his hands over his face. He had run out of tears long ago, instead left with a deep well of bitterness. The best part of his life had been shattered in one night. His best friends murdered, childhood stolen and love of his life arrested as their killer.

Remus had never believed he deserved good things. The marauders had taught him otherwise, surrounding him with blind acceptance and joy. Just as he finally started to believe in his worth, it had all come crumbling down. He was left alone, the way he always knew he was going to be.

Nothing lasts forever.

Movement in the grounds caught his eye. That was unusual, especially considering the late hour and school-wide curfew. Frowning, he took a closer look, blood running cold.

Without a second thought, he tugged on his coat and began running.

The whomping willow whipped around in a frenzy, freezing as Remus hit the notch with an immobulus charm. His feet followed the path that he had walked for years, remembering every dip and turn.

His legs weakened as he raced up the steps in the shack, heart threatening to beat out of his chest. He could hear voices faintly through the door, paying them no mind as he crashed into the room.

"Professor Lupin!"

The exclamations from the children flew over his head, eyes set on the crumpled man on the floor.

He was practically wasted away, swamped by black rags that made his pale skin look practically translucent. Even from his place in the doorway Remus could see his veins, entwining with each other like vines under his skin.

Sirius finally turned to him, connecting their eyes. Years of hate, regret, love and pain rushed back through him, overwhelming in their intensity. In that moment, staring into his storm-grey eyes, he knew: Sirius was innocent.

The urge to kiss him was overwhelming, but it was neither the time nor the place. Instead, he spoke.

"Looking a bit ragged, aren't we, Sirius? Finally the skin reflects the madness within."

Sirius' face, which had before looked frightened, lit up with a toothy grin. "You'd know all about the madness within, wouldn't you, Remus?"

Relief spread through him, stepping forwards and helping Sirius to his feet. He hesitated once more, before pulling him into an embrace.

The smaller man melted in to him, body sharp and frail. Remus' heart swelled, cheek against Sirius' temple as breathed words escaped him, "You're as beautiful as the day I lost you."

If only for a moment, everything was okay.

Of course, nothing in Remus' life could stay normal for long. Snape came storming in, Pettigrew escaped, his secret was revealed and Sirius was sentenced to death. He was left to once again pick up the pieces, hiding his grief from those around him.

------

He retreated; resigning from his position at Hogwarts and running away from society once more.

His cottage was his solace, surrounded by thick woods with a boundary enchanted to contain his movements during the full moon. The building was small but cosy, books lining practically every wall.

He had inherited it from his grandfather on his mother's side, located just outside of Powys in Wales. It was the perfect escape, granted to him at the height of the war.

He sighed, tugging on his jumper as he limped towards the kitchenette, fresh scars throbbing with a vengeance. Some sick part of him was glad for the pain, deigning it a punishment for letting the kids down, for letting Sirius down.

A knock on the door resounded through the cottage, Remus flinching at the sudden noise. His fist clenched around the wand in his pocket, instantly on guard.

The knock sounded again, this time followed by a voice.

"Moony, open the door I'm freezing my balls off out here."

His breath caught in his chest, rushing across the room and swinging the door wide open.

Sirius offered a sheepish smile, eyes tired. "Surprise?"

Remus' blinked. "You're here - how... how are you here?"

"Dumbledore may have mentioned a certain hidden cottage that you owned - hope you don't mind but I have brought company."

Remus finally tore his eyes from Sirius, registering the hippogriff lying on the grass behind him. "Uhh -"

"That's Buckbeak. She's a friend."

"Right. Does she... need anything?"

"Nah she's a tough girl - we're both outlaws. Running from the ministry... y'know. Tough stuff."

Remus felt a smile tugging at his lips, "Sounds very... dashing."

"What can I say. Once a rebel, always a rebel. If Minnie could see me now -"

"She still wouldn't agree to dance with you, that's for sure."

Sirius opened his mouth in mock-horror. "Now that's just low."

"Sorry, sorry." Shaking his head fondly, Remus stepped aside, gesturing for the shorter man to come into the cottage. "Welcome to my home."

He took in his surroundings, expression unreadable as the door closed firmly behind him. After what seemed like an age, a smile cracked across his face.

"It's very you."

Remus let out a laugh, "Oh really?"

"I mean - come on, Moony. It's a bookstore in here! And you got your cobblestone fireplace... it's just like..." Sirius cleared his throat, smile dropping slightly, "Like the home we talked about."

Remus dipped his head, cheeks pinkening. "It's not as big as you wanted... or near London. I tried to make the kitchen the way you wanted, but I -"

"You remember."

"So do you."

"Memories. They were all that kept me going."

Remus reached out slowly, allowing Sirius the time to move away if he wanted to. He didn't. Hand slightly trembling, he entwined their fingers, thumb rubbing over Sirius' cold hand.

The apology sat on the tip of his tongue, though he found himself unable to speak. Sirius seemed to understand, lightly squeezing his hand in response.

"So," he said, attempting to lighten the mood, "I don't know about you, but I'm sick of these robes - got anything I can borrow?"

Snapping out of it, Remus finally met his eyes, "Of course. You can have your pick. I doubt you'd be here for more than a day without stealing all my jumpers anyway."

Sirius grinned, walking deeper into the house, "They look better on me."

"Yes they do." Remus breathed, before raising his voice. "The bedroom's other way!"

"I knew that!"

-----

The two of them fell into a routine, comfortable enough, but the tension of unspoken words still hung heavily in the space between them.

Sirius was slowly getting better, regaining more and more of his old spark every day. There were still times when he would get very quiet, sitting in the corner of the front room and staring out of the window, eyes glazed over with memories. Remus would simply brew him a cup of tea, setting it down on the table beside him and gently coaxing him back to the real world with careful touches and hesitant smiles.

He would return the favour by helping Remus on the days when his joints were agitated, brewing simple drafts to help with the pain.

Some nights, when Sirius woke up in a cold sweat, he would curl up at the end of Remus' bed in his dog form. It didn't take long for this to become the norm, the sofa-bed disassembled and Sirius' few items moved into the spare drawers in the bedroom.

It didn't take long for Sirius to catch him half-dressed, eyes silently tracking the new array of scars that covered his torso.

"Let me see." He had said, voice hoarse.

Remus simply let his arms fall to his sides, closing his eyes as hesitant fingers traced over irritated skin.

The moment was suffocatingly intimate, an echo of nights long gone by. It was over far too soon, Sirius letting out an unhappy noise and retreating, transforming into Padfoot and waiting for Remus to get into bed.

"They're just scars," Remus had murmured, blinking sleepily as he finally tugged his tshirt over his head. "Nothing new."

Padfoot huffed.

-----

Writing letters to Harry seemed to help. Sirius would light up every time he received a response, reading them aloud with glee, feet resting on Remus' lap. If he tried hard enough, as he listened he could imagine that everything was normal. That Harry was writing from his bedroom in Godric's Hollow, asking when Uncle Pads and Moony were next visiting as James and Lily laughed downstairs.

The dream always quickly dissipated, replaced with the ever-present weight in his chest.

"I'm glad he's doing okay," Remus said, "Well... as well as you can be when staying with the Dursley's."

"Right?" Sirius exploded, "Petunia was always walking around as if she owned the Earth."

"Her husband's not any better. Do you remember that summer when we helped Lily move out of her parent's house and he called James a slur?"

"I would've punched him if Lily hadn't got to him first." Sirius paused for a moment, shaking his head as the anger built within him. "Miserable bastards didn't even come to their wedding, why the fuck were they given Harry?"

Remus felt a hot poker of shame shoved down his throat. "They wouldn't - You were his godfather, so I thought.. but I was ruled unable to take care of him."

"Rem -"

Shoulders hunching, he wiggled out from underneath Sirius' legs, retreating to the kitchen. The other man followed him.

"Everyone was either dead or gone. Mary... she wanted to be left alone, and I was too tired to even fight their decision. They - they made valid points."

"Moony -"

"They said I was a danger to him."

"You would never hurt Harry -"

"But I almost did! If you weren't there that night, I could've killed them."

Sirius grabbed Remus by the chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. "You are not the wolf. You are Remus. My Remus. One of the most loving, caring people I've ever known. A good man."

His next words were all but punched out of him. "Time changes everything."

Sirius' face hardened. "Not us. Not in any way that matters."

Remus let out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding, and desperately searched the stormy eyes in front of him. "Do you mean that?"

"Yes."

Remus stepped closer to Sirius, hands coming to rest on his hips and thumbs hooking through his belt hoops. "Are you sure?"

Sirius' next response was breathier, his eyes focusing on Remus' lips with the desperation of a parched man staring into a stream. "Yes."

Permission granted, Remus leant in, lips slotting together like puzzle pieces. It felt like coming home, time apart meaningless as their bodies fell back in to the ease of melding together. Sirius' hands moved up into the taller man's hair, pulling a pleased groan from him as their bodies pressed together.

Sirius broke away from the embrace, resting his forehead against Remus' chest as tears wetted the grey t-shirt. The taller man instantly moved to calm him, stroking through his hair as he murmured reassuring words against the soft flesh of his temple.

"I missed you so much."

The whisper was almost unheard, a mournful admission spoken from the heart. All Remus could do was hold him tighter, as if he could protect him from the horrors of the world, and reassure him over and over again that no matter what happened he would never leave his side again.

The problem with promises of that magnitude is that they are incredibly hard to keep.

[dustedmagazine]

Slept Ons: The Best Records of 2020 That We Never Got Around To

Tattoos and shorts! How did we miss the Oily Boys?

It happens pretty much every year.  After much fussing and second-guessing, the year-end list gets finalized, set in stone really, encapsulating 12 months of enthusiastic listening, and surely these are the best ten records anyone could find, right? Right?  And then, a day or a week later, someone else puts up their list or records their year-end radio show, and there it is, the record you could have loved and pushed and written about…if only you’d known about it.  My self-kick in the shins came during Joe Belock’s 2020 round-up on WFMU when he played the Chats.  Others on our staff knew, earlier on, that they weren’t writing about records they loved for whatever reason — work, family, mp3 overload, etc. Except now they are.  Here.  Now. Enjoy.  

Contributors include me (Jennifer Kelly), Eric McDowell, Jonathan Shaw, Justin Cober-Lake, Bill Meyer, Bryon Hayes, Ian Mathers, Andrew Forell, Michael Rosenstein and Patrick Masterson. 

The Chats — High Risk Behavior (Bargain Bin)

High Risk Behaviour by The Chats

Cartoonishly primitive and gleefully out of luck, The Chats hurl Molotov cocktails of punk, bright and exploding even as they come. They’re from Australia, which totally makes sense; there’s a sunny, health-care-subsidized, devil-may-care vibe to their down-on-their luck stories. Musically, the songs are stripped down like Billy Childish, sped up like the Ramones, brute simple like Eddy Current Suppression Ring. Most of them are about alcohol: drinking, being drunk, getting arrested for being drunk, eating while drunk…etc. etc. But there’s an art to singing about getting hammered, and few manage the butt-headed conviction of “Drunk & Disorderly.” Its jungle rhythms, vicious, saw-toothed bass, quick knife jabs of guitar frame an all-hands drum-shocked chant: “Relaxation, mood alteration, boredom leads to intoxication.” Later singer Eamon Sandwith cuts right to the point about romance with the couplet, “I was cautious, double wrapped, but still I got the clap.” The album’s highlights include the most belligerently glorious song ever about cyber-fraud in “Identity Theft,” whose shout along chorus buoys you up, even as the dark web drains your savings account dry. The album strings together a laundry list of dead-end, unfortunate situations, one after another truly hopeless developments, but nonetheless it explodes with joy. Bandcamp says the guitar player has already left—so you’re too late to see the Chats live—but it must have been fun while it lasted.

Jennifer Kelly

Oliver Coates — skins n slime  (RVNG Intl)

skins n slime by Oliver Coates

2020 was a year of loss, of losing, of feeling lost. Whether weathering the despair of illness and death, the discomfort of displacement or the drift of temporal reverie, English cellist Oliver Coates creates music to reflect all this and more on skins n slime. Using modulators, loops and effects, Coates employs elements from drone, shoegaze and industrial to extend the range of the cello and conjure otherworldly sounds of crushing intensity and great beauty. Beneath the layering, distortion and dissonance, the human element remains strong. The tactility of fingers and bow on strings and the expressive essence of tone form the core of Coates composition and performance. If his experiments seem a willful swipe at the restrictions of the classical world from whence he came, the visceral power of a track like “Reunification 2018”, which hunkers in the same netherworld as anything by Deathprod or Lawrence English, the liminal, static bedecked ache of “Honey” and the unadorned minimalism of “Caretaker Part 1 (Breathing)” are works of a serious talent. skins n slime is an album to sit with and soak in; allow it to percolate and permeate and you’ll find yourself forgetting the outside world, if only for a while.  

Andrew Forell  

Bertrand Denzler / Antonin Gerbal — Sbatax (Umlaut Records)

Sbatax by Denzler - Gerbal

Tenor sax player Bertrand Denzler and drummer Antonin Gerbal released this duo recording last summer which slipped under the radar of many listeners. Denzler is as likely to be heard these days composing and performing pieces by others in the French ensemble ONCEIM, playing solo, or in settings for quiet improvisation. But he’s been burning it up as a free jazz player for years now as well. Gerbal also casts a broad net, as a member of ONCEIM, deconstructing free bop in the group Peeping Tom, or recontextualizing the music of Ahmed Abdul-Malik along with Pat Thomas, Joel Grip and Seymour Wright in the group Ahmed amongst many other projects. The two have worked together in a variety of contexts for a decade now, recording a fantastic duo back in 2014. Sbatax, recorded five years later at a live performance in Berlin is a worthy follow-up.  

Gerbal attacks his kit with ferocity out of the gate, with slashing cymbals and thundering kit, cascading along with drubbing momentum. Denzler charges in with a husky, jagged, repeated motif which he loops and teases apart, matching the caterwauling vigor of his partner straightaway. Over the course of this 40-minute outing, one can hear the two lock in, coursing forward with mounting intensity. Denzler increasingly peppers his playing with trenchant blasts and rasping salvos, riding along on Gerbal’s torrential fusillades. Throughout, one can hear the two dive deep in to free jazz traditions while shaping the arc of the improvisation with an acute ear toward the overall form of the piece. Midway through, Denzler steps back for a torrid drum solo, then jumps back in with renewed dynamism as the two ride waves of commanding potency and focus to a rousing conclusion, goaded on by the cheering audience. Anyone wondering whether there is still life in the tenor/drum duo format should dig this one up.  

Michael Rosenstein

Kaelin Ellis — After Thoughts (self-released)

After Thoughts by KAELIN ELLIS

To be sure, “slept on” hardly characterizes Kaelin Ellis in 2020. After a trickle of lone tracks in the first months of the year, a Twitter video posted by the 23-year-old producer and multi-instrumentalist caught the attention of Lupe Fiasco, quickly precipitating the joint EP House. It’s a catchy story from any number of angles — the star-powered “discovery” of a young talent, the interconnectedness of the digital age, the silver linings of the COVID-19 pandemic — but it risks overshadowing Ellis’s two 2020 solo records: Moments, released in the lead-up to House, and After Thoughts, released in October. It doesn’t help that each album’s dozen tracks scarcely add up to as many minutes, or that the producer’s titles deliberately downplay the results. And some, of course, will judge these jazzy, deeply soulful beats only against their potential as platforms for some other, more extroverted artist. “I’d like to think I’m a jack of all trades,” Ellis told one interviewer, “but in all honesty my specialty is creating a space for others to stand out.”

Yet as with all small, good things, there’s reward in savoring these miniatures on their own terms, and After Thoughts in particular proved an unexpected retreat from last fall’s anxieties. Ellis has a poet’s gift for distillation and juxtaposition, a director’s knack for pathos and dramatic sequencing — powers that combine to somehow render a fully realized world. As fleeting as it is, Ellis’s work communicates a generosity of care and concentration, opening a space for others not just to stand out but also to settle in.

Eric McDowell   

Lloyd Miller with Ian Camp and Adam Michael Terry — At the Ends of the World

At the Ends of the World by Lloyd Miller with Ian Camp and Adam Michael Terry

Miller and company fuse the feel of a contemporary classical concert with eastern modalities and instrumentation. The recordings sound live off the floor, and give a welcome sense of space and detail to the sensitive playing. Miller has explored the intersection between Persian and other cultural traditions and jazz through the lens of academic scholarship and recorded output since the 1960s. With this release, the performances linger in a space where vibe is as important as compositional structure. The results revel in the beauty when seemingly unrelated musical ideas emerge together in the same moment, with startling results.

Arthur Krumins

 Oily Boys — Cro Memory Grin (Cool Death)

Cro Memory Grin by Oily Boys

The title of this 2020 LP by Australian punks Oily Boys sounds like a pun on “Cro-Magnon,” an outmoded scientific name for early humans. It’s apt: the music is smarter than knuckle-dragger beatdown or run-of-the-mill powerviolence, but still driven by a rancorous, id-bound savagery. The smarts are just perceptible enough to keep things pretty interesting. Some of the noisier, droning and semi-melodic stretches of Cro Memory Grin recall the records made by the Men (especially Leave Home) before they decided to try to make like Uncle Tupelo, or some lesser version of the Hold Steady. Oily Boys inhabit a darker sensibility, and their music is more profoundly bonkers than anything those other bands got up to. Aggro, discordant punk; flagellating hardcore burners; psych-rock-adjacent sonic exorcisms — you get it all, sometimes in a single five-minute passage of Cro Memory Grin (check out the sequence from “Lizard Scheme” to “Heat Harmony” to “Stick Him.” Yikes). A bunch of the tunes spill over into one another, feedback and sustain jumping the gap from one track to the next, which gives the record a live vibe. It feels volatile and sweaty. The ill intent and unmitigated nastiness accumulate into a palpable force, tainting the air and leaving stains on your tee shirt. Oily Boys have been kicking around Sydney’s punk scene since at least 2014, but this is their first full-length record. One hopes they can continue to play with this degree of possessed abandon without completing burning themselves to down to smoldering cinders. At least long enough to record some more music.

Jonathan Shaw

 Dougie Poole — The Freelancer's Blues (Wharf Cat)

The Freelancer's Blues by Dougie Poole

A cursory listen might misconstrue the heart of Dougie Poole's second album, The Freelancer's Blues. When he mixes his wobbly country sound with lyrics like those in “Vaping on the Job,” it sounds like genre play, a smirking look at millennial life through an urban cowboy's vintage sound. Poole does target a particular set of issues, but mapping them with his own slightly psychedelic country comes with very little of the postmodern itch. His characters feel just as troubled as anyone coming out of 1970s Nashville, and as Poole explores these lives with wit and empathy, the songs quickly find their resonance.

The album, though it wouldn't reach for pretentious terms, carries an existential problem at its center. Poole circles around the fundamental void: work deadens, relocation doesn't help, spiritual pursuits falter, intelligence burdens, and even the drugs don't help. When Poole finally gets the title track, the preceding album gives his confession extra weight, a mix of life's strictures and personal limitation combining for a crisis best avoided but wonderfully shared. The Freelancer's Blues comes rich in Nashville tradition but finds an ideal fit in its contemporary place, likely providing a soundtrack for a variety of times and spaces yet to come.

Justin Cober-Lake

 Schlippenbach Quartett — Three Nails Left (Corbett Vs. Dempsey)

You might say that this record has been slept on twice. The second recording to be released by the Alexander von Schlippenbach, Evan Parker and Paul Lovens (augmented this time by Peter Kowald) was released in 1975, and didn’t get a second pressing — on vinyl — until 2019. So, Corbett Vs. Dempsey stepped up last summer, it had never been on CD. But this writer was so stumped on how to relate how intense, startling, and unlike any other free improvisation it was and is, that he just… slept on it. Until now. Even if you know this band, if you don’t know this album, well, it’s time you got acquainted.

Bill Meyer 

Stonegrass — Stonegrass (Cosmic Range)

STONEGRASS by Stonegrass

Released on the cusp of a tentative re-opening for the city of Toronto after two months of lock-down, this slab of psychedelic funk-rock was the perfect antidote to the COVID blues when it arrived at the tail end of a Spring spent in near-isolation. The jam sessions that became Stonegrass were also a new beginning for multi-instrumentalist Matthew “Doc” Dunn and drummer Jay Anderson, who reignited a spirit of collaboration after a decade of sonic estrangement following the demise of their Spiritual Sky Blues Band project. Listening to these songs, you’d never know they spent any time apart. The tight, bottom-wagging jams on offer are evidence that these two are joined together at the third eye. Anderson’s grooves run deep, and Dunn — whether he’s traipsing along on guitar, keys or flutes — is right there with him. There’s enough fuzz here to satiate the heads, but the real treat here is the rhythmic interplay. Strap in and prepare to get down. 

Bryon Hayes 

 Bob Vylan — We Live Here EP (Venn Records)

Bob Vylan flew under the radar in 2020 successfully enough that when someone nominated them for the best of 2020 poll in Tom Ewing’s Peoples’ Pop Polls project on Twitter (each month a different year or category gets voted on in World Cup-style brackets, it’s great fun and only occasionally maddening), most of the reaction was “is that one a typo?” Nobody had that response after listening to “We Live Here” — my wife also participates in the poll, so we just play all the candidates in our apartment, and Bob Vylan was the first time both of our jaws dropped in amazement; the song got played about ten times in a row at that point. Bobby (vocals/guitar/production) and Bobbie (drums/“spiritual inspiration”) Vylan’s 18-minute EP lives up to that title track, fireball after fireball aimed directly at the corrupt, crumbling, racist state that seems utterly indifferent to human suffering unless there’s profit in it. Whether it’s the raging catharsis of the title track or the cool, precise hostility of “Lynch Your Leaders,” Bob Vylan have made something vital and essential here, that very much speaks to 2020 but sadly will stay relevant long past it.  

Ian Mathers

 Working Men’s Club — Working Men’s Club (Heavenly Recordings)

It’s been evident these past few years that I’ve retreated from music and committed myself to the slower world of books as a way of giving my mind a break from the accelerating madness outside, but I could never really leave my radio family the same way I could never really leave Dusted. Another great example why: A fellow CHIRP volunteer played “John Cooper Clarke” in a December Zoom social I actually managed to catch, and I’ve been addicted to Working Men’s Club’s debut LP from October ever since. The quartet hails from Todmodren, a market town you won’t be surprised upon listening to discover is roughly equidistant between Leeds and Manchester; the album screams Hacienda vibes in its seamless integration of post-punk signifiers and dancefloor style. It’s easy to bandy about names from Rip It Up and Start Again or even The Velvet Underground in 12-minute closer “Angel,” certainly one of the most arresting tracks of the year, but the thing that struck me immediately is that this was the record I’d always anticipated but never got from Factory Floor — smart, aloof and occasionally calculated, yet still fun enough to play for any crowd itching to move. Until the community of a dance party or Working Men’s Club live set is once again possible, patience and a fully formed first album will have to suffice. You’ll have to imagine the part where I corner you at the party to rave about it, I’m afraid.

Patrick Masterson

[rayalez]

Home Alone Men IV

(Click here for Home Alone Men I. Click here for Home Alone Men II. Here for Home Alone Men III.)

Tom retreated into the kitchen, sipping his berry wine and staring at the clock on the microwave as it played chicken with him. The wind grew heavier, disdainfully whipping rain at his windows and flailing about the giant limbs of the oaks like ragdolls. Loud thumps started to echo through the house — branches falling onto the roof.

At 5:37 Tom made his supper — three plain slices of toast. He brought the toast to the living room and flipped on the TV, putting his feet up on the coffee table. The TV was playing the same thing it always was — the Safety Message. He knew it by heart. All the men did. Tom wondered if the women did too. Occasionally, the Safety Message would be interrupted by a News Bulletin. Those were always exciting times. But today, Tom would get nothing but the Safety Message — images of smiling men and their All-American sons remaining obediently indoors, dawning their standard-issued gas masks as they greet the well-armed men dropping off the weekly Provisions Boxes; women and their jubilant daughters well cared for in pristine, undisclosed camps, not a sorrow in the world. At the end of the message, it cut away to a black screen with the words Reunification in Due Time fading into the background.

By 6:08 Tom was deep into a game of odd-ball and realizing he’d had a bit too much berry wine. He wouldn’t be setting any records tonight. He went to the kitchen and poured what remained in his cup down the drain. He glanced out the window above the sink and saw a glimpse of a grayish brown object moving quickly through the ferns and over the wooded hill in the back. It was too rainy and the object was too quick for Tom to know exactly what it was, but he figured it was a deer. Odd, however, that a deer would be out in such a storm. Poor thing must be lost and alone, he thought to himself.

At 7:00 the house lost power so Tom got out his lanterns and set them around the house. The neighborhood had been losing power more frequently as of late, so it wasn’t a surprise that it happened again during a violent storm. In a way, Tom prided himself on his lanterns — their size and the number of them. He’d found them on the day of the Official Announcement. On his drive home from the firearms store he’d avoided the major highways, instead traversing a mishmash of rural county highways he knew most people wouldn’t think to take. He had been driving by a clear lake with a small farm on the other side of it when he noticed a car overturned on its side in a small ditch. He pulled over and inspected the car, finding no one inside. He yelled — Is anybody out there? — wondering if the driver or a passenger might be ambling around the nearby farm fields or forests, perhaps dazed and severely injured. He got no reply. He noticed the trunk was ajar, the corner of a small moving box jutting out of it. Tom pried the trunk and then the box open. Inside he found the lanterns and a large portable flood light, the kind you see on coast guard boats searching for drug traffickers at midnight on the high seas. There was also a small children’s flashlight made for a girl. It didn’t have batteries but Tom thought that probably didn’t matter, maybe it was never intended to. Its purpose wasn’t utilitarian — its purpose was to make the child who owned it feel secure, feel like a part of her family. He took the flood light and lanterns and piled them onto the passenger seat next to the baby doll. He then carefully laid the child’s flashlight on top of the overturned car and drove away.

The evening grew into full darkness and the storm showed no sign of losing its intensity. Tom felt even more isolated than usual, having not communicated with Ed or Gary or Lonny for the past few hours. He looked out his windows. He saw only black, as if the world had been swept away by a mop dipped in tar. The other men were either sitting in complete darkness or, more likely, were using their candles and lanterns in a part of their house where the glow was hidden from Tom’s sight. Usually at night the men would communicate with flashlights using Morse code. The storm was too fierce for the light of a puny flashlight so Tom pulled out the flood light and set it up in front of his large living room window. At times he’d done this before, though its brightness pissed the hell out of his neighbors.

He aimed the light at Gary and Lonny’s houses.

Hello?

You there, friend?

Hello?

Hello?

Tom grew bored and started aiming the flood light around the neighborhood. He swept slowly past the mailboxes on his side of the street and then around to the mailboxes on the other side of the street. He studied the rooflines of Gary’s and Lonny’s places. He shined a light at Gary’s garage, thinking perhaps he was in there working on some carpentry project.

Eventually he turned the flood light onto Dan’s house, though this made him feel awkward. Since the day they’d been locked away, he hadn’t communicated with Dan, or even seen him for that matter.

Dan’s drapes were cinched shut. Like always. Tom noticed that a rather large pool of water was collecting on his front lawn, the result of a poorly sloped yard. Tom swept the flood light across Dan’s garage and counted the holes the militia men had patched in the garage door. These were holes chipmunks and small birds use to fly in and out of. After the Announcement, they’d been deemed potential hazards and were quickly boarded up. Losing steam, Tom beamed the light to the side of the garage and saw nothing remarkable — just a bunch of ferns crushed to the ground by the driving rain. Tom switched off the flood light and took a deep sigh.

Had Tom’s beam lingered here a little longer he would’ve seen that the man door on the side of the garage — the one Dan use to slip into whenever he’d pull his car into the driveway after work — was open. But he did not notice this. Instead, irritated and lonely and annoyed, he took a sleeping pill and laid in bed, closing his eyes while thinking of the time he’d won the Bar League Softball Tournament by pelting a homerun in the bottom of the 9th.

It was a very disturbing sound that woke him up.

Home Alone Men IV was originally published in Fiction Hub on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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