#Jeans buttons are banished from my realm

[romance-and-stars]

hello to the sewing community

[sewer-ravioli]

doing that my version of the SCU (fanon) lore post because why tf not

to save people from being forced to look at a giant post because ohhh boy this is a lot i'll be placing everything after a read more :)

Storyline: Basically Schlatt, also known as the demon of the storm is an elder god of natural disasters that went insane over time of being a god and trapped 3 mortals (Slime, Condi, and Grizzly) in a world. The apples that were eaten were infused with bits of his power and Charlie's powers first manifested when he fell the first time from the button. Cue everything that happened all three of them manifested powers slowly and then the volcano battle and then Charlie stole Schlatt's powers away and...ended up sparing him. He banished him but Schlatt was powerless after they stole his powers from him. and someone needed to teach these three new gods how to be gods. That is basically what blocks fight back is (Charlie is very bad at controlling his powers at first) They end up resetting the universe after giving Schlatt a world of his own to just retire to and to manipulate to whatever he wants. But with the universe reset the universe saw a missing part in the gods and created Bizly (who also used to be mortal just the universe went lol become a god now) as a new god in order to fix up the gap. Cue Hardest difficulty. 100 days hardcore is just a what if situation if any of the three left tried to use their powers to revive Grizzly after his death. Gods: Charlie Slimecicle: god of Magic, Creation, Harvest, Hunting, and Smelt -Usually wears a green cloak with netherite shoulder plates with a heart engraved on each with a single half heart cloak clasp. Under he has a white dress shirt, some dress pants, and boots with the crafting table grid on the sole. He uses a woB as a weapon. He has green tattoos of enchantment ruins on his arms like bands and is able to summon slime wings with his magic to fly. -He was also the one gifted Vanishing Mist (Grizzly's god sword) but refuses to use it I chose magic for him as a basic all encompassing of Enchantment and it sounds cool to me

Condifiction: God of Realms and Death -black horns that fade into purple, ender dragon wings. Dark purple cloak with an eye of ender clasp but prefers what is essentially his minecraft outfit

-has a Scythe that is essentially his anchor to the overworld if he goes. Plus cool scythe and death imagery basically I added death because i feel like afterlife can count as a whole new realm and Charlie literally blows him up at the start of hardest difficulty Bizly: god of Life and Fate -a shapeshifter who's default is a winged humanoid with deer antlers. Has a cloak like the other gods and it's dark blue with white fur hems but mainly wears a blue hoodie, jeans, and sunglasses -weapon is the gun Grizzly gifted him and it's also linked to the afterlife which like Condi as his domain is life he physically can't enter the afterlife without the gun -Beewee is canon to me he gets a dog

-bizly also has a book detailing every single life and used to have a quill to edit it but he broke it reasoning behind domains is like Slime I branched out mobs into life as a whole and fate because he is in control of the levers of the universe

Grizzly: god of Nature, weaponry, tools, and helps co-run the afterlife after his death -A wolf hybrid with Black wings. He has a red cloak with golden shoulder plates. He often has poppies on him at all times and you do NOT want to fuck with any plants around him -He has a lesser powerful vanishing mist he uses as a main weapon but he isn't as keen on immedietly resorting to violence. After his death Condi immedietly went to visit him in the afterlife to see how he's dealing and offering to help run the part of the afterlife for spirits of animals facts for all of the gods: -Condi and Slime still keep their poppies from Grizzly always on them

-Condi made it so all dead who get gifted poppies at their graves get poppies brought to them in the afterlife

-Bizly is the most often pranked. He has many times had items places on his antlers as he's sleeping -Slime likes to run off to mortal worlds to be around mortals. for examples look at all the minecraft stuff he's been in Demigods and Champions: - the gods can't maintain everything in their domains by themselves so they have Demigods (immortals created by the universe in order to have smaller parts of the domains of the gods and also help mortal tasks) and Champions (Mortals granted immortality to help essentially be spokespersons for the gods and do smaller tasks then the demigods in the mortal realm. max is 2 per god and most champions are granted minor powers)

-Grizzly has two champions decided on by all four council gods that essentially split his domain and run essentially what Grizzly cannot in the afterlife Worshippers and temples: -There are 5 main temples. one for each and one for all four. cities tend to be built around where temples are and the temple for all four in the center. -Worshippers of Magic (Slime) are magicians. They are very tech savvy and live in essentially giant cities with defenses against the monsters and offer this technology and magic to other cities to help facilitate peace and alliance. They also lead agricultural lands. -Worshippers of Life (Bizly) are more woodsy folk. They live in the woods around animals and are often sought out for those looking for pets or aid to their animals. They also hold a lot of the best hospitals. Some live in a co-habitation with Worshippers of Nature -Worshippers of Nature (Grizzly) live in the woods. some in cities co-run by worshippers of Life, and some have their own areas. Their cities are built into the trees and they have the best weaponry across all. Some Worshippers of Nature hate worshippers of Magic and Magic himself. They often fight back against their god's will to forgive Magic and his worshippers, and have been found to have ruined alters to Magic they find. Because of this Worshippers of Nature also supply their own food and also help provide food to others and refuse anything being offered by worshippers of Magic -Worshippers of Realm (Condi) don't completely have their own cities. They have one but it is mainly ran to help teach other worshippers of Realm. They are in every city and help run grave yards and do death rites for the dead. I have more but this has already gotten so big...might do a part 2 if i have anything else to talk about!! If you have any questions feel free to ask!

[fictionbyafangirl]

Tundric Heart

//Hi, all! After becoming absolutely *obsessed* with the new Mortal Kombat movie, as well as being a fan since the games began, and being a fan of JoTa since I saw The Raid: Redemption when it first came out and since then, I decided my flagship fic shall involve Bi-Han/Sub-Zero. This takes place prior to the film, having nine tournaments been fought. This is a POV-shifter and involves our favorite chilly boi with an original character. Naturally, I own no rights to the franchised character and only write out of my own fun.  I hope you enjoy!\\

Nothing phased him anymore. Bi-Han had lived many centuries, each reinforcing his growing lack of humanity toward the world, whether it be Earthrealm or Outworld. Due to his “gifts”, Bi-Han had become a favorite champion for Shang Tsung in the Mortal Kombat tournaments, successful in more than not and ultimately becoming an attack dog at the sorcerer's will. Despite Bi-Han wanting the Lin Keui to be free-agents once again, himself, primarily, he obliged, knowing he owed Shang Tsung his fealty for the many favors he performed for him in the past. The Lin Keui had been an elite group of assassins for those who could afford them. Either born into the organization or kidnapped as a youngling for the cause, its numbers were always plentiful. Bi-Han and his brother, Kuai Liang, had served the clan well, rising through the ranks. Bi-Han, though, had become the face of the group. The fierce fighter had gained notoriety for defeating the one and only Hanzo Hasashi, as well as the Shirai Ryu, a noble competitor clan in their world of crime. Over four hundred years had passed, yet a looming whisper of a threat still hung in the air from the very fatality that put Bi-Han on the map. Ever the paranoid ruler, Tsung tasked Bi-Han with finding the last remaining Hasashi blood heir and executing them. To the cryomancer, there was simply no point in doing so. He had ended the lineage himself many lifetimes ago. The Hasashi family fell to his hand, and he knew it, first-hand. Still, the soul-eater feared the prophecy of the uprising of Earthrealm defenders to thwart the imminent takeover, if the last tournament should be victoriously won by the mortals with an arcana gift. Nine circuits had been finished in the favor of Tsung, only needing two more to claim supremacy over the mortals. Begrudgingly, Bi-Han found himself in his home-realm on a reconnaissance mission to find out if the myth was true. One thing the warrior loathed was to be undermined, especially by Tsung. His employer had a knack for sending in the reinforcements if the smallest of setbacks occurred. Bi-Han was more than confident in his skill and ability to successfully fulfill his duties. To send in those that were inferior to him was simply a slap in the face. Not a day went by that the assassin didn’t think of a world where he no longer served Tsung.

The man was ageless as he sat across from a run-down diner, concealed in darkness. Darkness had always been his friend, even in the glory days of the Lin Kuei and the chaos they inflicted on their world. Darkness cloaked him in secrecy. Darkness gave him advantage against his opponents. Darkness felt almost as familiar and second nature to him as the cold. It had been a rainy evening, the spray of dingy gutter water spraying up from beneath the tires of those driving muddled the sidewalk. Bi-Han, looking not a single day older than he had when he terminated Hasashi, watched the neon sign that indicated that the diner was “open” flicker against the night. Dressed in black athletic jogger pants, a black zipped-up windbreaker jacket and a black hat with the bill curved and pulled down low to conceal his other-worldly eyes, the man watched from outside an abandoned building that sat adjacent to the diner. Arguably, the only physical trait that had changed about him was the hue of his eyes, shifting from a deep brown to a starkly bright  blue so pale that it nearly looked like ice had formed in his irises. These were the attributes of a cryomancer, and bastard Edenians, alike. Those of Edenian nature aged much slower than humans, living so long that tens of thousands of years was still considered to be in one’s youth. His hair remained raven in color though his skin did grow more pallid as though encrusted in frost, but not. The cryomancers had been banished from Edenia long before Bi-Han’s birth, but the genes that descended from the gods still carried on through himself and his brother, Kuai. Down the block, a group of young men were approaching the corner door of the diner, rowdy and raucous as they walked before ducking into the establishment. Taped hands rose from Bi-Han’s sides to bring the hood of his skim jacket up and over the top of his head, further obscuring his identity. He waited a few minutes to allow them to settle into their normal places to not rouse suspicion before crossing the slick city street. In all of the years of Bi-Han’s life, he had tuned his tracking abilities to be imperceptible.

His intel told him that a group of men, one that bore the mark of the dragon, frequented the very location nightly, as though a ritual amongst the friends. Bi-Han’s head never lifted as the bell on the handle of the door jingled to alert a new customer, and luckily, neither did theirs. His gaze remained to the lower-half of the room to not allow his face to be seen. The fluorescent lights that lined the ceiling in panels glared harshly in contrast against the natural darkness of the night he had waited in. Slipping into a corner table, the plastic-covered stuffing of the seat gave out a subtle hissed as it depressed beneath his weight. The group of men continued their merry occasion, joking and talking with elevated volume. The more attention they brought to themselves and detracted from himself, the better. It didn't take long for the waitress on shift to approach them, seemingly having a report with them as she used their names, engaging in banter with them as they shamelessly flirted with her. Her kind and clever rebuffs and deflection to their order inquiries showed that this was an occasional thing they did. She clearly wasn’t in the business of seeing any of them casually, yet they pushed the envelope with hope. Their nonchalance toward her left little disgust in Bi-Han’s mouth, but still, he surveyed. The fighter spared a moment to take in the new environment. The faded color scheme and furniture showed that the restaurant had not updated in some time, clearly struggling financially to keep afloat to bother with aesthetics. The tables were uneven as they stood and the seating creaked under pressure. The artwork that laid scarcely among the walls were drab and unappealing. Virtually everything that had been a polished metal before now rusted with weak infrastructure. The location was dying out, most likely kept in business by the nightly patronage of the subjects he followed in. 

Bi-Han focused all of his senses on the men, discreetly, as to not be noticed. He eavesdropped on their conversations, watched as they removed their outer-layers for any sign of the marking. He even committed bits of things they said to memory in the off-chance that it would aid him in his mission. His focus was solely on the group and everything they did. His gaze, though hidden beneath the bill of a hat, was fixated without any breaks, that is, until the image of an apron filled with pens and order tablets slid into his view. Bi-Han held his breath as the tell-tale spiel was about to be given to him. 

“Hi, there! I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. My name’s Jill and I’ll be your waitress on duty tonight. What can I get you?” No matter where you went, every restaurant had the same, generic greeting. 

Holding his breath for a moment to consider his response, Bi-Han decided to play it cool, not wanting to garner any awareness of his existence. The woman was polite enough for him to not care about the disruption. While she had been tending to the object of his assignment he had been able to get a good look over on her. She was attractive with cream-like skin and smoky hazel eyes and hair the color of maple that sat in delicate, loose curls that cascaded down the sides of her face. She dressed semi-comfortably in a baggy button-up flannel shirt that she tucked into the waistband of her tapered jeans that clung to her ankles and simple shoes with her apron and a name badge in place. She kept her makeup natural and modest, which was a pleasant thing to come across with women. With an errant hand, Bi-Han, without tipping his face at all, flipped the menu on the table over to quickly peruse the refreshments section. Quickly, his eyes settled on his selection before speaking it aloud to her, though in a low, hushed tone.

“Green tea. Iced.” His tone was short and cold, as per usual with him, and he offered no opportunity to continue the conversation. He was there for a reason, after all.

With a curt nod, Jill fished a dense book of ordering tickets from her apron and a pen to scribble down the table number and order to keep her tabs in-line. Bi-Han could hear the sound of the ball-point pen against the paper, attuning himself to his surrounding once more.

“Iced green tea, coming right up. What’s uh… a name I can put on this order?” The waitress inquired with an arched brow as her teeth found the corner of her lips, nibbling gently in a nervous gesture. Bi-Han took another moment to contemplate his response. His true, given name was something that was well-known. Instead, he improvised.

“Brian.” He was blunt again, cutting to the chase without any inflection to invite casual conversation.

“Right. Iced green tea for Brian, coming right up.” Jill relayed before bouncing away from the table to fulfill his request. She caught on to his tone quickly and read it loud and clear.

Naturally his order was the first one to be completed. Jill returned with his drink in-hand, along with a wrapped straw and a saucer of potential add-ins for the beverage. Bi-Han offered a small nod to thank her, fixating his senses back on the group of men across the room. Absently, he unwrapped the straw and slipped it within the glass, taking absent sips through it to not reveal his face. The preparation in the States certainly didn’t do the authentic drink justice as it did in his native China, but still he managed to swallow it down as he kept his eyes on them. Although the drink had ice in it, it didn’t suit him. His hand reached around the cylinder, his fingers releasing their icy powers to chill it even further, finally making it satisfactory to his liking. Bi-Han sat with his back pressed against the glass window that separated himself from the outside world. The rain continued to fall, pelting against the window pane. He could just as easily end the waiting and watching. He could turn every plunging bead of water into a lethal bullet to litter all of the men in holes, taking care of every lead. Still, he blended into the foreground, motionless and silent.  He wasn’t sure how long the men would lounge in the diner but he would be observing for as long as they would be. Someone was bound to slip and reveal themselves, reveal their arcana… something. If Bi-Han was anything, he was patient.

[ohmightydevviepuu]

writer’s month prompts

prompt nine:  illness (set approximately post-4x12 and the six weeks of peace)

full collection on AO3

--

Emma knew that Mary Margaret had a recipe somewhere. It didn’t matter if she was Mary Margaret Blanchard or Snow-freaking-White, the woman was going to make chicken soup when someone was sick, and she’d made it for Emma once in their roommate days.

It was, unsurprisingly, delicious. Wholesome. Full of healthy stuff that Emma didn’t usually eat because it didn’t go with grilled cheese, the kind of healthy stuff that a person who was sick with a cold needed. She was going to find the recipe and she was going to make it and--

“Emma?” her mother’s voice drifted out from the kitchen into the alcove. “What are you doing?”

“Killian’s sick,” she said, “which, by the way, is not a thing I knew could happen to him. I’ve never seen him sick, have you? And you know he’s going to be all--”

Emma shrugged, even though Mary Margaret couldn’t see her.

“Anyway,” she continued. “I just thought I’d, I don’t know--”

“Take care of him?” Mary Margaret had appeared at Emma’s side with one of her beatific smiles, the ones she got whenever Emma did something grown-up or normal or affectionate. Emma felt like she got more of those smiles for doing things like showing up for family dinner (and calling it that) than for saving the goddamn world. “You’re looking for the chicken soup recipe?”

“Yeah--”

“Say no more.” Mary Margaret was a whirlwind of maternal efficiency who looked like she might actually burst in pride. In ten minutes there was a pot on the stove with simmering stock and Emma was being instructed in vegetable cutting, because apparently there was a right way to cut vegetables, who knew?

Mary Margaret did, obviously. And there was definitely something nice, Emma decided, about sitting in the kitchen with her mom cooking for her sick boyfriend. It was so--normal.

Not the way Killian had gotten sick--the combination of the ice wall and the heart-stealing finally catching up with him--but she was in the kitchen. With her mom.

It was nice.

Until--

“Um, Emma,” Mary Margaret said as she poured the soup into Tupperware for Emma to carry. “Are you moving out or something?”

Emma adjusted the shopping bag she had balanced on her forearm. “What? Why?”

“That’s more stuff than you brought to Neverland, for starters,” Mary Margaret said. “Also, it’s going to take more than a shopping bag to camouflage this--” she held up the Tupperware “--from Granny.”

“I don’t know,” Emma said, exasperated. “It’s Killian, has he ever even been sick? So I just went over to Doc’s and got him a bunch of stuff. I figured the chicken soup would help me persuade him to take it. He’s not exactly a twenty-first century man when it comes to modern medicine, you know?”

“O-kay,” Mary Margaret said, drawing out the word in a way that Emma did not like. “But you know--”

“Just give me the soup? Please?” Emma focused on the Tupperware and poofed the soup into her empty hand.

--

Granny totally knew and gave her the evil eye but, fortunately, left her crossbow in the closet when Emma dared to cross the threshold of the B&B with food cooked by someone else. She actually sort of smiled and then winked as Emma headed for the stairs to their--to his--room.

So, she stayed here sometimes. (A lot.) She was a grownup with a grownup boyfriend and they had adult sleepovers.

No need to publish it in the Storybrooke Mirror or anything and definitely no reason for Granny to look at her like that and Emma banished the thought that crept in at the edges of her mind about a wolf’s sense of hearing because--

Nope.

Banished.

She was pushing the door open when it was pulled out from under her, Killian standing there with a smirk on his face and his eyebrow up, dressed in his jeans and one of his button-down shirts which was, of course, not buttoned.

“Swan!” He grinned. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“What are you doing up?” she said, pushing the rest of the way into the room and going to put the bag and the soup on the table and--

“What’s that?”

“Willowbark,” he said. “I believe in this realm you call it ‘aspirin’.” He bent over to check the bottle and gave a small sniffle as he stood up. “Aye, ‘aspirin’.”

“Aspirin,” she repeated, pulling a bottle out of her bag.

“For my fever, love.”

“I know what aspirin is for,” Emma said, feeling suddenly off-kilter. “How did you know?”

“Willowbark has been used for pain and fever for centuries,” Killian said, surprised.

“And you--” Emma gestured “--you just had aspirin in the Enchanted Forest?”

“We had willowbark in the Enchanted Forest, aye. And poppies, as you know, for laudanum, and--” he stopped. “Swan?”

He looked like he was trying not to laugh and Emma blushed, turning away to put the soup down.

“Is that for me, too?” His voice was gentle now. “Does that also have medicinal properties?” He took it from her hands and opened the lid. “Ah, I see it is gelatinous. You are fond of that in this realm, aren’t you--”

Emma was still blushing, biting her lip; his hook pulled at her waist, tugging her closer to him.

“Swan,” he said, letting her go and holding up his left wrist and his hook. “Did you honestly think I lived through this on rum alone? I had no idea I was so indestructible in your eyes, love. I find I quite like it.”

He was close, now, his nose against her cheek. “Especially when you’ve so often seen me at my weakest.”

“Shut up,” Emma said, closing her eyes and leaning into him. “You’re a survivor. You’re one of the strongest people I know. I just wanted--”

He pulled away just far enough to see her expression. “You just wanted?” 

“I just wanted to take care of you for once,” she said.

“I’m quite amenable to that,” he said, “but have you given any thought to my level of contagion? Perhaps you’re the one that will need taking care of--”

She kissed him then, because it didn’t matter--just like the knowing look Granny gave her when she left (those fucking thirty-year-old squeaky bedsprings again) didn’t matter.

They could take care of each other. Mary Margaret would be happy to teach him how to make chicken soup.

(She was.)

--

full list of prompts

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[beyondforks]

Book Review! Juliet Immortal by Stacey Jay

Juliet Immortal (Juliet Immortal #1) by Stacey Jay

Genre: Young Adult (Paranormal/Fantasy Romance/Retelling) Date Published: August 9, 2011 Publisher: Delacorte Press

These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

Which as they kiss consume.

-William Shakespeare, ROMEO AND JULIET

Juliet Capulet didn't take her own life. She was murdered by the person she trusted most, her new husband, Romeo Montague, who made the sacrifice to ensure his own immortality. But Romeo didn't anticipate that Juliet would be granted eternal life as well, and would become an agent for the Ambassadors of Light.

For seven hundred years, Juliet has struggled to preserve romantic love and the lives of the innocent, while Romeo has fought for the dark side, seeking to destroy the human heart. Until now.

Now Juliet has found her own forbidden love, and Romeo, O Romeo, will do everything in his power to destroy their happiness.

Secrets unfold and surprises abound in Stacey Jay's powerfully dark romance, which reunites literature's most tragic couple.

Juliet Immortal is the first book in the Juliet Immortal duology by Stacey Jay. I can't say that I've ever thought of Romeo and Juliet in this way. Not even close, and I've certainly never thought of Romeo as the bad guy. What?! I loved it though. It was so unique and different. The characters were not the same ones we've known all these years, yet you could still feel that bit of original Romeo and Juliet spirit in there. 

It took place over a span of only three days. So, that was a little quick to fall as hopelessly in love as they did, so, I found that aspect of it to be a little bit of a reach, but the story itself was told so well. It was dark, and creepy, and it flawlessly brought that haunting Shakespeare feel to the present with it's drama, tragic circumstances, specters, and more. I knew this was a book I wanted to read when I first saw it, and I'm very impressed by it. It was such a crazy idea! And, it worked!

ONE VERONA, ITALY, 1304 Tonight, he could have come through the door--the castello is quiet, even the servants asleep in their beds, and Nurse would have let him in--but he chooses the window, climbing through the tangle of night flowers, carrying petals in on his clothes. He stumbles on a loose stone and falls to the floor, grinning as I rush to meet him. He is a romantic, a dreamer, and never afraid to play the fool. He is fearless and reckless and brave and I love him for it. Desperately. Love for him steals my breath away, makes me feel I am dying and being reborn every time I look into his eyes or run trembling fingers through his brown curls. I love him for the way he sprawls on the freshly scrubbed stones, strong legs flexing beneath his hose, as if there is no cause for worry, as if we have not broken every rule and do not face banishment from the only homes we have ever known. I love him for the way he finds my hand, presses it to his smooth cheek, inhaling as if my skin smells sweeter than the petals clinging to his coat. I love him for the way he whispers my name, "Juliet"--a prayer for deliverance, a promise of pleasure, a vow that all this sweet everything he is to me will be forever. Forever and always. Despite our parents, and our prince, and the blood spilled in the plaza. Despite the fact that we have little money and fewer friends and our once-shining futures are clouded and dim. "Tell me that tomorrow will never come." He pulls me to the floor beside him, cradling me on his lap, hand curling over my hip in a way it has not before. Heat flares from the tips of his fingers, spreading through me, reminding me I will soon be his wife in every way. Every touch is sanctified. Everything we will do tonight is meant to be, a celebration of the vows we have made and the love that consumes us. I drop my lips to his. Joy bleeds from his mouth to mine and I sigh the lie into the fire of him. "It will never come." "Tell me that I will always be here in this room. Alone with you. And that you will always be the most beautiful girl in the world." His hands are at the ties on the back of my dress, slow and patient, slipping each ribbon through its loop with a deliberate flick of his fingers. No urgent, shame-filled fumbling in the dark for us. He is steady and sure, and every candle shines bright, the better to see the tenderness in his eyes, to be more certain with every passing moment that this is no youthful mistake. This is love. Real. Magnificent. Eternal. "Always," I whisper, so full of adoration the emotion borders on worship. A part of me feels that to love so is sacrilege, but I do not care. There is nothing in the world but Romeo. For the rest of my life, he is the god at whose feet I will kneel. His cheek presses to mine, his warm breath in my ear making mine come faster. "Juliet . . . you are . . ." I am his goddess. I can feel it in the way he shudders as my fingers come to the buttons of his cotehardie and pluck them from their holes, one by one, revealing the thin linen of the shirt beneath. "You are everything," he says, eyes shining. "Everything." And I know that I am. I am his moon, and his brightly shining star. I am his life, his heart. I am all that and the answer to every unspoken question, the comfort for every hurt, the companion who will walk beside him from now until the end of our lives, reveling in the bliss of each simple chore done in his name, overflowing with beauty because I am blessed to spend my life with my love. My love, my love, my love. I could hear the words a thousand times and never grow tired of them. Not ever. "Forever," I whisper into the hot skin at his neck, sighing as the last tie holding my dress to my body falls away. TWO SOLVANG, CALIFORNIA, PRESENT DAY Dying is easy. It's coming back that hurts like hell. "Oh . . ." I press my hands to my forehead, where hot, tacky liquid pours from a cut above my eyebrow. There is a lot of blood this time. Blood on my hands, smeared onto the dashboard, dripping through my fingers onto my jeans, leaving black spots I can see in the dim moonlight shining through the car's glass sunroof. It's messy, frightening, but, amazingly, the accident hasn't killed her. Killed me. Me, now. Her, sometime again soon, depending on how long it takes to ensure the safety of the soul mates I've been sent to protect. Or how long it takes Romeo to convince one lover to sacrifice the other for the boon of eternal life. It might not be long. He excels at his work. Either way, Ariel Dragland will wear this shell again. Until then she'll wait in the realm where I've spent most of my eternity, in the mists of forgetting, that place outside of time where the gray stretches on forever. I've been assured by my contact in the Ambassadors of Light that there are worse places, realms of torment where the boy who bartered our love for immortality will suffer someday. Nurse never uses the word hell, but I like to imagine that Romeo will number among hell's inhabitants. Of course, she never mentions heaven, either, or whether I might go there when my work is finished . . . if it is ever finished. There are a lot of things Nurse sees fit not to mention. Including the exact workings of the magic that pulls me from the mist again and again, now more than thirty times in seven centuries. All I know is life comes suddenly. One moment I'm numb and bodiless, the next I'm slipping into another's skin, another's life--the ultimate, dreadful disguise. I shiver as the memory of Ariel's last moments sweeps through me. I watch her snatch the wheel from the driver's hands before a deadly turn in the road and pull hard to the right, hoping the dive into the ravine will kill them both--her and the boy who hurt her. My eyes flick to the driver's seat. The boy--Dylan--slumps forward, the downward tilt of the car making his limp body curl around the wheel. He is still, not a puff of breath escaping his parted lips. It seems one half of Ariel's wish has been granted. I shiver again, but I can't say I'm sorry. I know what he did, can feel Ariel's shame and rage rush inside me as the rest of her life pours in to fill the empty corners in my mind. Behind my eyes flash images from her eighteen years. I focus, sucking in every detail, taking her memories as my own. Tiptoe, tiptoe, always on tiptoe. Up the stairs, across the kitchen, down the hall to the room where the crayons live and I can breathe. Where she isn't watching. My mother, with her sad, sad eyes. Seven, ten, fifteen, eighteen years old and still there is nothing finer than a blank sheet of paper, the white promise that the world can be what I make it. A magical place, an adventurous place, a possible place. Erasers take away the mistakes. Another coat of paint to cover them up. Black and red and purple and blue. Always blue. Mom sees in blue. She sees the scars she made. I was six. She sees Gemma, my one friend, as a mistake, not a lifeline. She sees my hours alone and feels more powerfully every hour she's wasted. I am the waste, the thing that's eaten her youth alive. Refused to cough up the bones. Sometimes it seems all I have are bones, scraps, a frame with nothing to fill in the empty space. Sometimes I hate her for it, sometimes I hate myself, sometimes I hate everyone and everything and imagine the world melting the way the grease melted my skin. Skin and bones. Mom and I are both so thin. Hugs hurt, but there aren't many. Not for years. There are surgeries and pain and bright lights and then days trapped in the house with the shades drawn on our shame. There is the darkness inside, that baleful intruder that comes just when I dare to believe I might one day be whole. There is school and the misery of being a person unseen, the jealousy that I can't be wild and beautiful like Gemma, that I am always an audience, never a player. There is the frustration of words that won't come out of my mouth no matter how hard I try. A D in public speaking. The one step up to the podium is an impossible climb. Everest. Higher. I hate Mr. Stark for his frustrated sighs, hate the class for their muffled laughter. I want to hurt them, to show them how it feels to have your insides twisted into knots you can't unravel. Gemma doesn't care, tells me to get over it, stops sharing her adventures, closes the window into her vibrant world, forgets to pick me up for school at least twice a week. I'm losing everything. My only friend, my perfect GPA, my mind. How much longer can I live like this? Can I make it four more years, sleeping in that room, commuting to the nursing college in Santa Barbara, learning to live with more sickness and pain, when all I want to do is escape? But then . . . there is him. His smile, his voice singing so strong, cutting through the curtains where I hide with my paints, curling into my ear, spinning dreams I want to come true. They don't. It's a joke. We're kissing--slow, perfect kisses that make my heart race--when the text comes, asking if he's taken the Freak's virginity yet. He tries to hide the phone, but I see it. I start to cry, even though I'm not sad. I'm angry, so angry. He offers me fifty dollars--a piece of the bet--if I let him have what he's come for. I explode. I try to run from the car, but he grabs my hand, squeezing as he pulls back onto the road, telling me to "chill the hell out," promising to take me to a better place. But there is no better place. I know that by now. There are only mirrors reflecting disappointment, shattering it in a million different directions, filling the world until there is no way out. It will always be this way. Always, even when I finally leave the house on El Camino Road. The road, the road is . . . impossible. I won't let him drive it a second longer. I won't let him steer through the hole in the mountain down to the beach, where the cold, dark ocean waits like a nightmare creeping. I won't let him. Not now. Not ever again.

Stacey Jay is a recovering workaholic (or at least working hard at recovering) with three pen names, two small children, and a passion for playing pretend for a living. She’s been a full time mom-writer since 2005 and can't think of anything she'd rather be doing. Her former careers include theatre performer, professional dancer, poorly paid C-movie actress, bartender, waiter, math tutor (for real) and yoga instructor. To learn more about Stacey Jay and her books on Goodreads.