#NEIL AND THE HORSE!!!! and what i wore to neil and the horse

[fortheturnstiles]

my week 🚕🧃🌝🐒

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin # 13:

The Mountain Goats' Sweden

Here's a (Mostly) True story:

In the fall of 1995, John Darnielle, the founder, songwriter, frontman (and, occasionally, the sole member) of The Mountain Goats taught me how to cook.

As a second year student at Pomona College I took the one on-campus job no one else wanted: fast food line cook. No one wanted the job because it required actual labor; every other on-campus job involved sitting at a desk in a library, museum, gym or office while doing your homework. But I was ready to heat oil, and labor. I was ready to eat as much free ice cream as I could in-between orders.

The job was an odd choice for a vegetarian like me at the time: I spent the first hour of every shift slicing enough partially thawed, homogenized meat for the full day of orders ahead; once both of my hands were entirely numb from the meat's cold it was time to drink a giant vat of free Sprite and then move on to other prep tasks. Slice the tomatoes. Fire up the grill. Then, once the place opened, I'd spend the rest of my shift burning all that sliced meat to a crisp for altered and/or indifferent fellow college students.

John Darnielle trained me. He'd already released two records at that point, but I had no idea who the hell he was. My ignorance drove him nuts.

By the time he arrived each day my hands were already numb and my personally selected music was already on the stereo system. In the fall of 95 that meant a heavy rotation of Guided By Voices' Alien Lanes, Uncle Tupelo records and Yo La Tengo's Electr-O-Pura. I'd put on Tom Waits' The Black Rider at closing time so everyone would go the hell home; that always cleared the room.

But I never played The Mountain Goats; I'd never even heard of them. Throughout that fall I worked alongside a blossoming rock star. And I had no clue whatsoever.

John was the first and only friend I've ever had who wore a leather jacket. He was also ridiculously old for an undergraduate; we're talking mid-to-late-twenties. Every day he'd arrive, compliment my taste in music, trade his jacket for a weathered apron and then look at me earnestly. It was weird. I saw that he wanted me to say something, that he wanted me to know something. Desperately. But I had no idea what the hell it was.

After a bit he'd sigh and begin the day's training. Here's how to flip 'em kid; here's how to fire up that grill.

Then, at some point, he just broke down and told me: he knew James McNew; he had a record deal; he was just back from a tour of Germany, where people were crazy for any kind of American music; he was starting to make some real money (hence the leather jacket). He thought I'd like his music.

At that point I'm afraid I made the situation much, much worse. I laughed at John Darnielle and accused him of lying.

"Yeah right, dude. You're a rock star. And I'm the queen of England."

He listened. He paused. Then he shut down the register and said we needed to go outside. And so we went. College kids stood about, confused. Who was gonna get them their curly fries if the kid in The Dead t-shirt and the weird old guy took a break?

I remember, like yesterday, standing next to him in the sun. He'd taken off his apron and put his leather jacket back on. The vibe was very weird.

"Look, I'm not joking," he said. "My band used to play shows here on campus, but we're just too big for that now. Go to Rhino records; you're a vinyl guy, right? They've got my latest album on vinyl for like 7 bucks."

(Remember: this was the secret golden age of vinyl: CDs cost $12-15 and records of the same thing cost $7-12. And we all thought we needed to spend more for the CDs! If I had a time machine, I would not go back and see who killed JFK; rather, I'd spend a sweet summer with Jane Austen and then propose marriage to her, then I'd travel to 1969 to see Neil and Crazy Horse live, THEN I'd go back to 95 and buy everything I could grab on vinyl CHEAP.)

Okay, back to John Darnielle in 95: "Look: my new record is called Sweden," he said. "Only it has absolutely nothing to do with Sweden. That's the joke. Listen to it; you'll know it's me right away. I sing like I talk. People think we have like 25 members in the band, but it's really just me and this girl who plays bass. I lie in my songs, all the time. But I'm not lying to you."

And then he just walked off. In the middle of his shift! I was left to man the counter on my own. Fries were ordered; burgers were burned to a fabulous crisp. And The Black Rider came on way early. I had something I needed to do.

As soon as the quitting bell rang I hopped on my bike and road straight to the record store. As usual, the counter was manned by the angriest guy in the whole world. His name was probably Haemon, and he always sneered at whatever I was buying. This was years before High Fidelity, but he was already auditioning for Jack Black's part. The dude just hated me. I remember buying a Sonic Youth Tee in there one time. He ripped me apart while ringing me up. Is it any wonder that a few years later we all decided to shop on Amazon?

Anyway, by the time I got to the store, I'd pretty much decided John Darnielle was for real. And quite quickly I found his record, walked it to the counter, handed it over guiltily (Rhino Records had their workers stand behind a counter that was a full two feet higher than the sales floor so as to allow Jack Black Sr. behind the counter, who was tall to begin with, maximum superiority over his pathetic customers), and then, for the first and only time, the guy did not give me a hard time.

"Well, well, well," he said. "You're finally buying something of value. Poser."

(Remember when we all called each other "poser"? Now we all call each other unprintable things. Ah, the 90's...)

Well, you can see where this is going. The Mountain Goats were indeed that guy John from my day job. His singing was ridiculous, like Lou Reed if he was a passionate player of Magic, The Gathering. His melodies were infectious, like Bob Pollard if he was earnest, not drunk. His lyrics were cute and bizarre, like Dylan if he actually attended college, then managed to double major in Classics and English. The recording process was infantile, like me in the kitchen. Or rather, like me in life.

It was all precious. It was all awesome.

I returned to work a day or six later, eager to see my new friend John and tell him all about it. He was a genius! He was Robyn Hitchcock meets Johnathan Richman; he was Thomas Pynchon with a guitar; he was my new hero.

And then, I never saw him again. That moment in the sun turned out to be the last moment we ever spent together. I guess he went and got a life.

Hello out there, John! It's 28 years later and your recent publicity pics make you look, in the words of one of this blogs' 40+ (wow!) readers, like an alternative high school teacher: he sees you; he respects your pronouns. Guess what, John? That's a better description of me than you these days. You're playing the Belly Up this fall. I'm not even playing Magic, The Gathering.

So go, take a listen to Sweden! It's great. Check out the hilarious T.S. Eliot intro to I Wonder Where Our Love Has Gone. Enjoy the alternative Swedish titles for every song. Be reminded of how Hercules died: consumed by an article of his own clothing. Flip to the B Side and enjoy a nice coconut cream pie.

And while you are listening, picture an earnest and very talented guy in a leather jacket in 1995, patiently teaching a very young and hopeful kid how to flip burgers and fry up the grill. See him. See me. We're both dreaming of incredible futures: incredible futures that came true.

Happy Friday everyone! And John, while I've got you here: thanks for being patient and nice to me way back then. I'm sorry I needed you to introduce me to your music. Please tell Stephen Stills he sucks.

[greensparty]

Concert Review: Pearl Jam

9/17/24 @ Fenway Park (Boston, MA)

Just last week I got to see Jane's Addiction literally implode onstage. This week I got to see their alt-rock peers in Pearl Jam play a lot nicer. This was PJ's second night at Fenway Park of this tour. Let me just say at the onset of this review that there is a reason Pearl Jam is considered one of the greatest live bands on the planet! I was lucky enough to see them in Aug. 2000 at Great Woods in Mansfield, MA. I, then, had the pleasure of seeing them in 2018 at Fenway Park (read my review here) and was struck by how they had actually gotten better since the first time I saw them 18 years earlier. I also got to review their 2017 live CD / DVD Let's Play Two, which covered their 2016 shows at Chicago's Wrigley Field, and it showed the sheer fandom that singer Eddie Vedder had for the Chicago Cubs. Which is why it was classy to hear him speak so respectfully about Fenway Park and its history and place in baseball history. Bassist Jeff Ament wore a Larry Bird t-shirt and guitarist Mike McCready wore a shirt of the band Boston. So the fact that PJ are returning to Fenway Park was something super special!

PJ onstage

Going into this concert, I knew it was going to be an epic show, but I was speechless by where I was watching from. I was on the turf at Fenway Park, easily the best seats I've ever had for a concert at Fenway Park! I felt like I was at the center of the universe - unbelievable! I missed opening act Glen Hansard, who performed with Olivia Vedder (yes - the daughter of some guy in PJ). I was a fan of the 2021 Flag Day soundtrack that featured Glen, Olivia and her dad, so it's too bad I missed it, but fortunately Glen Hansard came out in the middle of PJ's set and sat with Eddie Vedder for a cover of "Falling Slowly", Glen's famous song from Once.

One of the many cool visuals during PJ's performance

PJ brought their A-Game to Fenway. Not just Eddie, but Guitarists McCready and Stone Gossard, bassist Ament, drummer Matt Cameron and touring keyboardist Boom Gaspar and multi-instrumentalist Josh Klinghoffer (he appeared on Eddie's 2022 solo album Earthling) were all in top form. They did a ton of hits off of Ten, Vs., and Vitology, and some songs off of albums they've released since (although surprisingly nothing off of Binaural, Pearl Jam, or Lightning Bolt), but what I was most excited to see in this concert was hearing them do songs off of their most recent albums Gigaton and Dark Matter. Sadly for everyone Gigaton had the misfortune of being released in March 2020 shortly after lockdowns and we didn't get a proper Gigaton tour. At this show, the only song they did off that album was "Superblood Wolfmoon". It would've been cool to get some of the other songs off that album like "Retrograde", but beggars can't be choosers. But since Dark Matter is the newer album, that overshadowed Gigaton and they played five of the 11 songs off the new album.

Vedder takes center stage

Gossard's solo

no this wasn't taken during "Red Mosquito"

McCready's solo

nothing like playing Fenway Park

Highlights of the show for me were "Daughter", "Untitled", "F***in' Up" (a Neil Young and Crazy Horse cover they've been doing for decades now), "Why Go", and "Yellow Ledbetter". Earlier this year, Eddie hinted in the press that the band may only be around for another album or two. While I hope that's not the case, this particular show is very much a tough act to follow. But if anyone can top themselves it's PJ!

For info on Pearl Jam

[yikesharringrove]

I have a headcanon that Billy doesn"t really know how to apologize like most people do. To him, the words are kind of empty so he just does things for people instead. Things like replacing all of the dishes with better quality ones for the Byers, making the girliest clothes Max hates disappear and replaced with things she likes, a new slingshot showing up in Lucas's locker, breaking into a car to fix it. Steve is weirdly charmed by it.

These may both be you? But here’s a combo since they’re p much the same idea

anonymous asked: Billy has forgotten how to actually connect with people so he shows affection through acts of chaotic good, like planting catnip all over the yard of the lady who allergic for yellomg at Max or breaking into a car so he can fix the engine. Steve figures out Billy is the one doing all these oddly kind things but he is still kind of intimidated by the blonde so instead of thanking him out right he just leaves things like cigarettes and baked good for him in his car. Have fun with that one!

This got pretty long so I put some of it under the cut.

-

Billy didn’t believe in the words I’m sorry.

They just didn’t make sense  to him. He had never heard the words when someone actually meant them, and fuck knows he’s never actually meant those words before.

But that does not mean there aren’t things in his life he regrets.

For example: beating the shit outta Steve Harrington.

He felt like absolute fucking garbage about it. 

Harrington hadn’t deserved that shit. Billy was just runnin’ hot that night, and Harrington had been unlucky enough to have bad timing.

But he didn’t know how to fix it.

So he started leaving snacks in Steve’s locker.

He noticed how he would always be giving his friends the food off his fucking plate, so he would shove granola bars, candies, even made him a sandwich one day.

He watched as Steve would eat whatever it was Billy had left for him, just fuckin’ chowed down without question.

He would look into classes, find out where Steve sat and leave little treats on his desk.

“Mr. Harrington, I think you may have a secret admirer.” Steve flushed a little at the cupcake, and shoved it into his mouth in two bites at the beginning of history class, but he wasn’t gonna look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak, and figured whenever this chick came forward, he would thank her for being so thoughtful, and let her down gently.

-

After leaving Harrington alone with all his snacks, Billy set his sights on his other regret.

He had Max hadn’t always fought and bickered. True, Billy wasn’t the warmest, when they first met, but once he got his car they would drive around together a lot. He’d take her to the arcade and the boardwalk. They both didn’t like being home too much.

So when Billy’s informed he’ll be watching Max for the weekend while Neil takes Susan to the city, he forms a little plan.

There’s one Chinese restaurant in Hawkins. It’s totally not authentic, not like the dim sum they used to get wandering around San Fransisco, but they had steamed pork buns and Billy picked up eight.

He let Max do whatever she wanted that weekend, figured they would have better luck with one another if they both acted like outdoor cats, coming and going as they pleased, but come Sunday evening, all the pork buns were gone, and there was an unopened pack of cigarettes on his nightstand.

-

Regret number three: Lucas Sinclair.

Billy probably felt the most fucked up over this kid.

He’d gone after him, a fucking child, in his blind rage.

He had figured that out when he came to on the floor of that weird house, sitting up empty and alone, realizing I’m just like Neil.

He had seen all those kids with their nerdy toys, went out to RadioShack, early Sunday morning, leaving with a light wallet and a new idea.

Dustin was arguing with Mike over the realism of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, like there was anything realistic about it.

Lucas rolled his eyes, opening his locker, his mouth dropping open when he saw something inside.

He pulled the bag out, peering inside.

There were six brand new walkie talkies inside.

They were better than the ones they already used, had further range and more channels.

Everyone went silent.

“Um, these aren’t mine.”

Max’s eyes went wide. She snatched something up from the top shelf of Lucas’s locker.

The new Wrist Rocket had a note attached to it. She knows this handwriting, but couldn’t place it.

Enjoy the new gear. Don’t quit saving the world.

“Do you think they’re from Steve?”Max furrowed her brows at the note.

And then everything clunked into place.

“Maybe.”

The boys were tearing into the new walkies.

She got two cokes from the vending machine at lunch, handing one quietly to Billy when she got in his car after school.

-

Billy doesn’t really know what he’s doing here.

He had driven Max to one of her nerdy little friend’s houses, and somehow he got roped into staying? He doesn’t even remember.

But now he’s standing with a short kind woman, in the exact kitchen he beat the shit out of Harrington in, with Steve himself leaning against the other wall, watching the kids like some kinda hawk.

Billy’s hands were shaky, and he inserted himself into washing dishes from dinner.

He noticed most of them had chips, and all of them were mismatched. He put them away quietly, and drove to the nearest home goods store he could find.

Ceramic plates didn’t run too much, and he got a nice set of three different sizes, twelve plates of each size, light blue like the one he broke.

He left them on the porch, parked his car down the road a ways.

He rang the doorbell, sprinting and diving into the bushes before anyone can see him.

He watched as one of the sons, the one his age, the one in his English literature class, opened the door, his brow furrowing at the box of new plates.

“Um, Mom? Somebody left us a set of plates?”

He closed the door, but the took the plates with him.

-

Billy was sitting on the lawn, had just finished raking up all the damn leaves, and was taking a well-earned smoke break as he watched Max skating up and down the street, practicing her kickflips and ollies.

She cut into the driveway across the street, the only one on the entire block that was well paved, no cracks in the cement.

“Get out of here!” Max started as Mrs. Reynolds, a mean old woman was shouting through her screen door. “You little hooligan! You’re going to leave marks!”

Max bit her lip, trying not to laugh as she boarded back over to their house, standing next to Billy.

“I’ll be having a word with your father!” She rolled her eyes as Billy ground his jaw.

Cat nip was way more expensive than Billy was expecting, but he bought plenty of packages, returning home just past sunset.

He waited until about three in the morning, when Mrs. Reynolds’ sprinklers had finally turned back off before he climbed out his window, spreading the cat nip through her yard.

He flipped her house the bird.

Max was awed at the cats the next morning as Billy drove them both to school.

There must’ve been at least a hundred.

“Isn’t Mrs. Reynolds allergic?” Billy tried not to laugh.

“Damn. That sucks for her.”

-

Billy was sitting on the hood of his car, reading one of his lit books while he waited for Max to get out of her nerd club.

He startled a little bit when someone knocked on the hood.

And it was Harrington, smiling sheepishly at Billy.

“The Byers got some new plates last night. You know anything about that?” Billy tracked the thin scar on Steve’s head. It disappeared into his hairline. Billy wonders how long he had sat in front of a mirror, picking glass out of his thick hair.

“Who’re the Byers?” Steve huffed a laugh.

-

Max was standing in front of the mirror looking like a grumpy old cat.

Susan had bought her a lovely new dress, and Max fucking hated it. Susan was fussing over it, saying I ordered it from the Sears catalog! and can you believe it was only fifteen dollars?

Billy slipped a five and a ten into Susan’s purse later that day, taking the dress to the Goodwill downtown.

He found Max a couple crappy t-shirts there, bands she would hum to on the radio, shit like Journey and Foreigner, and slid them into her closet where the dress used to be.

She wore one the next day, blinking slowly at him over breakfast.

He avoided all eye contact.

-

Steve has long legs.

this was of course something Billy always knew, but watching him stalk in all his righteous fury down the street towards the high school really solidified that fact for Billy.

He was stomping, his strides long as he hustled to class. Billy thought about offering him a ride, didn’t think they were there yet.

Billy found himself in Steve’s driveway later that night, popping the hood of Steve’s dead car and searching over everything with a flashlight.

Billy rolled his eyes.

Steve had probably always paid someone else when his car broke down, didn’t realize if your oil was low, your car wouldn’t work.

Billy kept a few cans in his trunk, refilled the bad boy for Steve, making sure that was it.

He found nothing else wrong and Steve pulled into the school parking lot the next morning.

Billy could feel Steve staring at him when he walked into school.

He found Steve sitting on his car at lunch, holding the sandwich Billy had snuck into his locker, and a loaf of bread wrapped in cling film. .

Billy raised an eyebrow.

“I saw you last night.” His cheeks went hot. “Thanks for fixing my car. And all the snacks and stuff. And for the Byers’ plates. And for all the stuff with Max.”

“Nothin’s happened with Max.” Steve appraised him for a moment.

“She said you’re being nicer.” He held up the bread. “Homemade banana bread. Made it while you were being not at all stealthy fixing my car.” He smiled at Billy, one a’ those perfect sunshine smiles Billy had only ever seen Steve direct towards his kids.

“I just changed your oil. Car won’t run if you don’t got oil.” Steve furrowed his brow.

“My gas tank was full. I had just filled it.”

“Nah Pretty Boy, oil. It’s different.” And Billy took a deep breath. “Could show you, if you like. Teach you some basic car shit. How to jump, how to change a tire.”

Steve beamed at him.

“I’d like that! I don’t know shit about fixing cars. Always figured it would go way over my head.”

“It’s pretty easy. There’s usually only a few major things that go wrong in nice cars that are easy fixes. You’ll figure it out quick.” Steve slid off his car, and Billy lamented that for a minute, liked how Steve looked perched on Billy’s car, wondered how he’d look in the passenger seat, in the backseat-

Steve pushed the bread into Billy’s hands.

“Y’know, I forgive you. For that night.” Billy tightened his jaw. Steve’s eyes were a little green in the sun. “There was a lot goin’ on, and I was being sketchy. I don’t hold it against you.”

“I, uh, thanks, I guess. I’m sorry, about it.” Steve smiled at him again, the corners of his eyes crinkling just a bit.

“Yeah, I know.” Steve took a bite of his sandwich, his cheeks all cute and full. “And I’m more of a ham and cheese fan.” Billy rolled his eyes at Steve, taking with his mouth full of turkey sandwich.

“Sorry man, you get what Susan buys.” Steve laughed, his mouth still full. Billy was uncomfortably endeared by it.

“Don’t be surprised to find some lasagna on your porch one night soon.” And Steve winked at him, walking backwards towards the school. “You’re not so bad, Billy.”

“Tryin’ not to be.” Steve gave him a stupid little finger gun. Billy’s heart melted.

“You’re doin’ a good job.” And Steve set off back into the school.

[jemej3m]

Idk if I said this already but Romeo and Juliet au where Nathan makes sure Neil doesn’t marry Andrew and Neil and Andrew are a little smarter than the original Romeo and Juliet

how much smarter, though

*

Red gown, drawn above his waist. The sleeves fell from the elbow, sweeping the floor with a slit for his forearms. Atop of his fire-lick curls was a golden circlet, glistening in the candlelight. 

It was rumoured that Mary Hatford’s son was the most beautiful thing in a world. Unfortunately for Andrew, he wasn’t just Mary Hatford’s son: he was also the heir of Nathan Wesninski. 

Though the Wymacks and the Wesninskis had once shared Palmetto peacefully, the tragic murder of David Wymack’s wife, Kayleigh Day, and the kidnapping of his son, had not been forgiven. Equally unforgiven was the suspicious death of Riko Moriyama, allied to the Wesninskis under ancient laws. 

And so: they all hated each other. 

War is profitable, Aaron always said, when Renee insisted that perhaps they negotiate a ceasefire rather than another duel. Nobody wants peace.

And whilst Andrew knew that to be true, a traitorous corner of his heart wished that, just for one moment, the two families weren’t constantly at each other’s throats. Only then would Andrew allowed to be with him: the Wesninski son. 

Most knew him as Nathaniel. As his father’s shadow. 

Andrew knew him as Neil. Neil Abram, the flame to Andrew’s shadow. A man loathesome of his father and anguished over his dead mother. 

He was, undoubtedly, the most brilliant thing on Andrew’s horizon. Everythnig else paled in comparison. 

Even now, with the top-half of his face obscured by a golden mask, he was stunning. 

And even though Andrew wore a mask of his own - to be seen on Wesninski grounds as one of Wymack’s proteges would be certain death - Neil gravitated towards him. 

“Why,” Neil said, voice low. He was trying not to smile. “You don’t look like you’re from around here.” 

“I’m simply a travelling merchant,” Andrew bowed. “Seller of souls and blades.”

“Would you, by chance, be selling a moment of your time?” 

Andrew offered his arm. 

It was dangerous to dance with him, when his father was sitting at the banquet table and waiting for Neil to dance with Ichirou Moriyama instead, but Andrew didn’t care. He had a knife up his sleeve and boundless wit: if he was questioned, he’d escape. The only reason that he wasn’t knifing everyone in the room was for Neil’s sake: he’d seen enough bloodshed in his life. Andrew didn’t need to contribute to it. 

“Abby has a plan,” Neil whispered. His apothecary was his only ally and confidante. Andrew had received many a correspondence via her aid. 

“What is it?”

“You need to trust me.” Neil squeezed Andrew’s hand as he was spun around. “Alright?”

“I hate surprises.”

“I know.” 

The tune acquiesced. They stepped back from one another to bow once more. 

“Be at Eden’s Chapel at noon on Sunday,” Neil whispered as they brushed shoulders. “No matter what you hear. Okay?” 

“Neil,” Andrew tried, but he was gone, swept up in a crowd of gathered velvet and silk. 

*

Wymack had many a protege, most of which he considered his own children. Of course, he did also have Kevin, his genuine son, but in his absence he’d procured the strangest mix of deviants and created a family. 

Wymack rescued Andrew and his family from certain peril and poverty. It was the only reason Andrew willingly sat at his large dining table every morning for breakfast: he owed Wymack his life. 

It was Sunday morning: they were all dressed finely to attend the service. Andrew would be departing early to meet Neil at Eden’s chapel, a church way up on the hill. He would have too come back and retrieve a horse to make it there in time for Neil’s arrival. 

Since the masquerade of Friday evening, Andrew had been bereft of all knowledge about Neil’s plans. He could only hope that it would work, and that they would finally find peace and sanctimony. 

Amidst his thoughts, he did not notice his cousin barrel into the room like a rather tenacious tumbleweed. Panting, he gripped the back of Aaron’s chair, eyes lit up with glee. 

“The Wesninski heir!” he announced. “He’s dead! That old bastard is childless and his name will die with him!” 

Every hair on Andrew’s body stood on end. No. No. They had been so close to freedom. Neil could not be dead. He couldn’t.

“Andrew,” Renee said. Andrew had stood up with a sharp jolt: now the whole table was looking at him, shocked he had such a vicious reaction to Nicky’s news. 

“I must leave.” 

“But -” Nicky blinked, confusion. “What about mass?”

Andrew grabbed the first horse he could find and hitched himself onto the saddle, galloping Wesninski-bound. The noble family had their long line of sons buried in a mausoleum on the edge of their land, facing over the cliffs. Beneath their rocky faces were raging waves, smashing themselves against the unforgivable stone. 

The wind was cold but Andrew was colder: the burial grounds were all but abandoned. He threw the reigns over a thinning branch of an olive tree and stumbled towards the stone monolith. 

The door was heavy but desperation was Andrew’s fuel: he shoved it open and shivered as he entered the tomb. 

And there, in the centre of marble coffins, laid Neil. 

Andrew had never seen his skin so pale. A cloth was pulled up to his shoulders, but his head rested on a pillow of rosemary and satin. His hair was pushed back, eyes closed. Between his brows rested the gold pendant of his circlet, the one that fated him as a Wesninski. 

With trembling hands, Andrew reached out for his cheek. He was cold to the touch. His chest neither rose nor fell: his heart was still. 

Agony. Andrew was pretty sure that was what he felt: pure, unadulterated agony. His chest ached. He couldn’t breathe. Neil said he’d had a plan. Neil said to trust him, and now he was dead.

“You,” came a cold voice. “You.” 

Andrew turned around. 

If Neil was beauty, his father was all brutishness. He was sharp and stiff, his face etched with anger and sadism. Andrew felt the pain in his chest rise to his throat. 

Nathan Wesninski pointed a finger at him. “You are one of Wymack’s spawn. You sullied - ruined - my son. The one at his window. The one in his ear. You turned him against me.” 

“You did that yourself,” Andrew said. “And I will kill you for what you’ve done.” 

Nathan drew his sword with a feral roar, but Andrew was faster. Smaller, faster, angrier. It was, retrospectively, an unfair fight: the man was older, with a renowned capacity to inflict pain but none of the finesse. 

Andrew feinted and shoved his blade between one rib and another: the man dropped to the floor with a furious wheeze, eyes rolling back into his head. 

As he dropped, a new figure stepped into the tomb. 

Abby wasn’t much to look at, narrow and cautious. She had her hands held close to her chest, looking at the body of Nathan Wesninski with wide-eyes. 

“Andrew,” she whispered. 

“He’s dead,” he said, hoarse. “How could you let this happen?”

“He’s not dead,” she stepped closer. “He drank a tonic that makes him appear dead.” In her palm rested a small bottle. “I have the elixir to wake him.” 

He snatched it from her grasp and ran to Neil’s side. There were only three droplets: Andrew watched them coat Neil’s lips, grasping onto his hand and praying under his breath. If Renee could see him now, he thought absently, pressing his forehead into Neil’s shoulder. 

With a gasp, the man woke up, colour rushing to his cheeks. He choked, coughing and spluttering. Andrew held his shoulders. 

“Andrew?” he mumbled, weak-voiced and bleary-eyed. “What are you doing here?” 

“You fool,” Andrew snapped. “How did you think I would react when I heard the news that you were dead?” 

“But I wasn’t,” he said, petulant. “I told you to trust me!” 

“I told you we should have written to him,” Abby chided. “Now your father is dead.” 

Neil’s eyes went wide as he looked at his father’s corpse. His head whipped back, gazing up at Andrew. “Did you do that?” 

“It was him or myself,” Andrew responded. “I cannot live without you, Abram.” 

Neil’s lips were still bitter when he pressed them to the corner of Andrew’s mouth. “And I, you."

*

it was short because I'm tired lol 

[thenightling]

What might have Been (Sandman fan fiction)

What might have Been...

Someone out there really does not want me to write Sandman fan fiction so naturally I must write more.  

This story was inspired by the fact that over on his Tumblr Neil Gaiman was asked on at least two occasions that if Alexander Burgess had freed Morpheus, would he still have been condemned to eternal waking or if he would have shown mercy? Both times Neil Gaiman answered that Morpheus would have shown mercy.  And yes, Neil Gaiman has a Tumblr.   So this is a story of what may have happened of Alexander Burgess had freed Morpheus back when he probably should have.

Note: This story does contain a depiction of early twentieth century homophobia and some period accurate slurs.  Based on my own personal experiences as a non-straight person I understand if the scene might make some readers uncomfortable.  However you might find the end result of what happens to the abuser somewhat cathartic.  

             What might have Been…

            The boy stared intently at the glass cage in front of him.  It was domed and rather egg-like in shape and tall enough to hold a man or something very man-like.  The leadened quartz-crystal was as clear as any well-made window.  Alexander Burgess watched the creature with the fascination of a child watching a pet lizard in a terrarium.  

           The naked being in the cage stared back at him with cold intensity and a proud contempt as well.  The creature was pale as chalk, and his eyes were like back pools of water with twin stars serving as pupils floating in the darkness.  Later Alex would be able to compare this vision to the claimed “Grey” alien encounters he would read about in grocery store tabloid magazines.   One stark difference from those creatures though was that this creature had a shock of wild, black, hair that reminded Alex of a disorderly pile of raven feathers, thick and heavy hair that framed the pale face staring out at him from behind the glass.  The creature was improbably thin.  It was clearly intelligent and generally humanoid.              If Alex hadn’t seen the summoning for himself, if he had not detached himself so thoroughly from the alienness of this entity, he might have even found him beautiful or attractive. But all potential for that had been lost to fear and the unavoidable and frightening knowledge that this was not a human being.

           Alex did not know why he found The Creature so fascinating.  He had discovered who and what the creature was in the Paginarum Fulvarum.  The King of Dreams.  That revelation had somehow not resolved his sense of curiosity. This was the being accountable for everyone’s dreams, all of humanity’s secret fantasies and all those shameful imaginings that come late at night when people are at their most vulnerable.  For Alex there was a secret shame in his own dreams…

           “I hate you.” Alex whispered.  It was a childish proclamation but there was some hidden pain there.              The bony, wraith-like, creature moved his head slightly, acknowledging Alex’s words without responding verbally.  He never spoke to them.    

Alex wasn’t even twenty-years-old yet but he knew he was not like other men.  He was not “manly” by the usual definition of the term.  And he believed that if his father knew about his secret yearnings, his Desires… He would be disowned…

It was this thing’s fault, wasn’t it? The cruel bastard there in the box.  He was the one who gave him those dreams.  The dreams that Alex dared not describe to anyone.  Dreams of other young men.  The feel of their lips against his face.   The tingle through his scalp as the lips vibrate against his earlobe as something gentle and inviting was whispered into his ear.  Their affection, their touch, their love…              How Alex dreamt of that love, that sweet, terrible, sinful love.  And why?  Why was this such a taboo?  His father had used magick for so many cruelties.  He had even killed with it.  So why were his desires, ones that could never hurt anyone, considered to be so much worse?  …And who decided that a form of love could be deemed evil anyway?  Wasn’t love supposed to be ultimate redeemer?  The ultimate absolution?  As far as young Alex was concerned humans and the powerful beings that governed the universe- they were all hypocrites.  All of them!  Hypocrites who took pleasure in the befuddlement of others by tempting them with …with deviant dreams…

 Alex had enough of staring at the alien-like boogeyman there in the cellar.  He got up off the cold, damp, floor where he had been seated, eye level with the crouching, naked thing.   Almost staring each other down, as if in a contest of wills neither was entirely sure about.   Alex stood up.  Unlike the pale creature imprisoned there, Alex could leave.  He could leave at any time.   …Then why did he feel just as trapped as if he was the one in the glass bubble?

The months passed and not much had changed.  Alex had grown a bit, but that was normal.  He had read somewhere that some men grow until they’re twenty-five. He was taller, leaner.  He discovered he needed spectacles, which wasn’t too surprising.  He had squinted often when reading father’s dusty old books.        

One thing was different though.   Father had hired a new gardener.  A pretty, red-haired boy, barely Alex’s own age.  And Alex had the distinct feeling that perhaps this young man was also… different.  Different in his capacity to feel for men what most men usually only feel for women (or so Alex believed).

It was a warm summer afternoon when Father finally took notice of Alex and the peculiar way he watched the gardener.  Alex, whom he often ignored.  Roderick Burgess found it distasteful and rather Crowley-esque that his own son should look at another man in that way.   He watched as Alex observed the gardener.  Roderick hoped what he was seeing here wasn’t what it appeared.   But it seemed so.   Alex was as infatuated with the near androgynous gardener boy in a way that he should only feel toward women.  Well, something must be done about that!  

 “Father, please!”  Alex tried to shield himself with his arm as his father’s heavy, old, walking stick came crashing down on him again.            “You are an EMBARRASSMENT!   The heir to the Order of Ancient Mysteries, my ONLY son… a worthless, useless… Mary!”  There was another crack from the gentleman’s cane being used in a very ungentlemanly fashion.            “No, Father, I…  Magus. Magus, Please, I-“            “It’s that boy, isn’t it?  That Elliot? Well, he doesn’t work here anymore!  I sent him away.  You’re lucky I don’t just stop his heart to rid myself of this shame!”            He was one to talk of Shame.  His father, the infamous occultist, rival to Aleister Crowley, head of The Order of Ancient Mysteries, and source of scandal after scandal. The papers always had something to say about Father.  They never spoke about Alex.  Alex knew how to keep a low profile, to keep to himself, to go virtually unnoticed in his father’s shadow.              The threat to stop Elliot’s heart was very real.  Alex knew his father had enough magick to do such a thing to someone without the occult means to defend himself.            “No!  He’s innocent!”            “Innocent?!”  What did that matter to someone like Roderick?  Alex had always been too damn soft and now he had gone over to fairyland as far as Roderick was concerned.   Well, at least he knew his son hadn’t soiled his bed with his deviance yet- he had not acted out his profanity in the house, at least there was that.  “Look at you!  You’re a disgrace!”            Alex was cowering and crouched in the corner of his room, which was in disarray from his father’s attack.  He knew he couldn’t hide what he was from him.  His father was just too powerful…  

It also didn’t help that Alex had kept those old novels under his bed.   The picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, a few selected Greek myths carefully bookmarked in a thick, leather-bound, volume, and the closet drama Goethe’s Faust parts 1 and 2 translated perfectly from German into English.  Anyone with the ability to read between the lines, as they say, could tell what Mephisto’s relationship with Faust was really all about…            Alex couldn’t tell what was worse, the words his father said or the cane coming down again and again.  He was too afraid to fight back.  There was no telling what his father or his father’s minion might do if he tried.  Sometimes he had nightmares of his father’s darker wrath, much more extreme than this.            “You dress like a fairy!  Look at you! Growing your hair out like a girl, walking around in long velvet jackets like they’re frocks!  You think you look like Henry Irving or something?  No, you look like a little girl!  No woman will ever find you attractive.   I should have realized, the way you bury yourself in those books, like a little wanna-be priest.”            Alex saw nothing wrong with dandy fashion and as for his hair, plenty of respectable men had hair longer than his. His hair wasn’t even really shaggy. Oscar Wilde’s hair had been longer than this at the time of his death.  Though he knew that was, as far as his father was concerned, an awful example.             He whimpered and tried to wait out the pain and dared not argue the accusations.              “They stare at you, you know.”  Roderick continued in his tirade to shame him.             Alex knew the only person who actually scrutinized what he wore was his own father. He kept to himself too much to be the focus of anyone else’s attention.  “You think I don’t see it?  How they turn and look at you and whisper on the street what a pansy you are.  Maybe if you dressed normal you wouldn’t forget you’re supposed to be a man!”            No one was actually saying he was a pansy. That was clearly Father’s own insecurity about his masculinity talking.

           “Clean yourself up.”  Roderick said, finally too exhausted to beat him anymore.  And in an after-thought “If anyone asks, you fell off a horse like the clumsy idiot you are.”

            Roderick walked from the room, gentleman’s cane (if you could call it that) still clutched in his hand.

           Alex slowly pulled himself to his feet.   He was trembling yet, and sniffling, trying to choke back the threatening sobs.              Alex had long ago abandoned the childish (as he saw it) hope that a parent’s love was truly unconditional. The child in him still insisted it was supposed to be unconditional, that parents are supposed to love you and accept no matter what, and Alex still craved his father’s approval and acceptance.  It had been some naïve governess from Alex’s childhood who had taught him that foolish notion he could not shake, that a parent should love you without condition. And he never could quite let go of that belief even if all of his life experiences insisted that no parent (at least his parent) could not love in that way…              Could Roderick Burgess love at all?

Alex finally left his badly disheveled room once he was certain his father was no longer nearby. There were papers and books scattered, along with a knocked over chair and some random knickknacks.  Some ceramic and glass items were broken, fragments of childhood playthings lay on the carpet.              Something had broken tonight and it was not merely some old toys…            Alex walked …or more precisely he stumbled, down the hall.  Alex’s back ached where he had gotten the brunt of the caning.  He knew the marks were going to scar.  Everything ached.  His shoulders, his legs, especially his back.  One eye was blackened and his cheeks were red from the heat of crying.  He wiped furiously at his own tears.  It was foolish to cry.  And it was dangerous to dream…

He would never really be free. He was as much his father’s prisoner as the creature down in the cellar…  If he tried to run away he knew his father and his magick would find him.  And… he had nowhere to go anyway…              Even if his situation was “Normal” and there was no fear of magical ramifications for his defiance, to whom could he turn?   Where could he run?  There was no sanctuary for someone like him…

           Alex made his way to the secret passage, to the stone staircase that spiraled its way down to the windowless chamber.  He knocked on the heavy wooden door and announced himself for the two guards his father had watching the prisoner.  One of the guards opened the door for him.  They knew better than to question the boy’s condition but there was a slight trace of pity in at least one of them, a softening to the man’s usually unreadable expression.                          Alex managed to steadily walk to the glass cage, hiding that he was in pain.  He slowly laid his hand against the cool glass.  “Please leave us.”            “But the Magus says-“  One of the men started to protest.            “My... Father,” Alex practically spat the word, “is the one who pays you.  And I speak on his behalf.  Now go!”            The men exchanged looks and then shrugged, deciding not to argue with the young man.  They both were eager to have a tea and coffee break anyway.                        Alex lowered his hand and stood outside the cage. He looked at the pale, emaciated figure behind the glass.  He had never changed.  Not since the day they had captured him.  He had not aged, nor had he grown a beard.  And yet Alex felt as if he, himself, had changed so very much in that time. Changed in such a way that he saw now that he was in no better of a situation than this creature here.                 Trapped in darkness, trapped behind the glass, unable to touch or be touched. Alone…  Naked, exposed.  Everyone could see everything about him.  And yet he- The King of Dreams- was unashamed.  Proud.  Not trembling or cowering from a brute of a father. Alex’s contempt for the creature mingled with long, distant fear, was now being replaced by a different emotion.   Something not unlike empathy and maybe even envy.  Envy at the defiance of will, envy at the hidden power that such a fragile, delicate looking thing could have…            Almost beautiful.  The King of Dreams was almost beautiful…    

            Alexander Burgess saw this weakened, helpless wretch, and he saw himself.  A prisoner locked away from light.  A prisoner stripped of dignity. Utterly at his father’s mercy until he said or did what his father wanted…  Would this proud creature eventually cower and break as Alex felt like he had broken.                Alex bit his lip.  If he freed this creature it… he might kill him… or worse…            But maybe… Whatever his fate might be, it was better than this.  Right now, as it stood, they were both prisoners. But if he freed him, this so-called King of Dreams… At least one of them would be free.  And Alex would have some small revenge on his father, the Magus of The Order of Ancient Mysteries…                          Maybe it was some half-hearted attempt at self-destruction, a suicide without noose or razor- that Alex felt he would either die by this creature’s hand or by his father’s but he wanted this thing to end and let it end tonight.  This felt like the only true way to end it.              Alex had gotten a hold of the heavy brass key and placed it into the lock at the base of the crystalline cage.  He was really doing it.  The key fit easily into the hole of the metal base just within the binding circle’s confines.   Alex dragged his foot over the old, chalk, binding circle, deliberately breaching it, as he turned the key.  The crystalline cage opened at a discrete seam.            The pale figure stood up slowly, cautiously, moving like an uncertain animal. He blinked those wide, black eyes, like doe reacting to being offered food by a human.  

           The King of Dreams stepped out of the cage and toward Alex.  He tentatively moved beyond the binding circle as if worried that Alex might change his mind and try to stop him, or perhaps that someone else might.              Alex stepped back but only slightly.              Alex waited for whatever was to come next.              The pale figure moved to him, the glassy black eyes stared at him, stared deep into his own and for a brief moment Alex felt… understood... maybe even accepted.  And most importantly he felt… forgiven.  Not for the sin of what he was- this creature saw that as no crime, but for how he had treated him.  For taking part in the summoning spell, for being complacent in his father’s abuses and humiliation of this proud entity.              “I’m sorry…” Alexander said, swallowing back fresh tears.  “I’m sorry… It was my father, he…”            The pale figure put a finger to his own lips.* “Shhh.”            Alex was trembling, afraid of what he might do next. And for a second, there was such a softness to the usually cold creature and a slender hand touched Alex’s cheek but only for a brief moment.              Alex had never heard him speak and he was startled by the soft sound of an audible voice coming from him.  He didn’t say anything really other than the “Shhh.”           Alex blinked several times.  The King of Dreams moved past Alex, toward the stairs.              Alex went to bed shortly after that as if nothing had happened.  He had just felt so very tired.  He tried to behave as if he had not just released his father’s prisoner.  The next morning though things were different.   Alex had slept peacefully and felt quite well rested.   Even his black eye had seemed to have mostly healed and his back didn’t hurt anymore. There would be no scars after all.  But something was wrong in the house of Fawny Rig. The servants were in a tither.              Roderick Burgess would not wake form his sleep. He was alive.  And he seemed to be dreaming.  He would moan and mutter, and occasionally whimper or beg for it to stop, crying out in his sleep, but he would not waken.            Alex stood to the side of the bed. “Father!  Father, please!  It’s me, Alex!  Please wake up!  …Please.”   But the situation was hopeless.

            And despite everything he had suffered at his father’s hands Alex still grieved.  He wept as if his father was dead and he knew his father’s fate was worse than death.  Alex still mourned. Alex still pined for what might have been, still longed for a father that would love him unconditionally and accept him for who and what he was without question.   If the world’s most infamous sorcerer couldn’t even do that… who could?   Who could… love him?  

            Alex was scared.  He had been in his father’s shadow so long he did not know how to function without him and he had been so isolated, he had so few friends.  All he could do was rely on the servants, the lawyers, and his father’s money to support himself.              His father was moved to the hospital and eventually diagnosed with some sort of Encephalitis Lethargica.  A sort of brain swelling related sleeping sickness but Alexander Burgess knew better…  Somehow he knew…      

           His father would never wake up…            The years passed and everything that was Roderick’s passed into Alex’s hands.  His father died years later in that hospital bed but Alex was not sure of his father’s nightmares were truly over.   He imagined his father’s soul was still trapped somewhere, still suffering an endless nightmare leading into another nightmare, and each time he thought he was waking he would just find himself in yet another new nightmare.  Somehow Alex knew this.   Where his father was now condemned to eternal waking did he know his body had died or did he have a futile hope that he would one day wake up?  

             The estate, Roderick’s fortune, everything was now Alex’s.   No one was there to be critical or to tell Alex what to wear, how to speak, or… who he could love.   And Alex eventually met a beautiful young man named Paul.  Oh, how he loved Paul.   They would travel to such places together.   London, France, Berlin…   They traveled together on a private yacht and drank Champaign on the deck as they watched the sunset over the Mediterranean Sea. There was no secret prisoner to worry about, nothing to shackle them to Fawny Rig like Dorian Gray shackled to his painting.  They could go anywhere. They could do anything. They were free.                And Alexander Burgess lived Happily Ever After…                  It was a pleasant dream.   Too pleasant…

Elderly Alexander Burgess woke in a cold sweat. There were fresh tears in his eyes.   He sat up in bed and Paul was there beside him.  At least there was that…  At least Paul was there.  Paul was real.  

But that’s not how the story played out, not really.   Alex had never been brave enough to defy his father.  He had not slipped down to the cellar the night that he should have.  He had never freed the prisoner.  Even when his father had died he had never freed the prisoner that he both resented and related to.  And he had been the one punished with six years locked in a nightmare that would seem to end only to reveal a new nightmare was starting, and on and on it had gone.   He had woken from that “eternal” curse to his beloved Paul waiting for him.  He had been forgiven.  He was relieved that Paul was here.            Paul looked at him now. “What is it, love? Did you have a bad dream?”            Alex nodded.  “I don’t know what’s worse… that nightmare that I was trapped in or…” He bit his lip before choosing the words. “…knowing I could have saved us all… saved myself…if I had just done the right thing at the right time…”

           “Hush now, darling.  You’re still half-asleep. I’ll get you some tea.”              Alex was soothed and sighed.  There was no use dwelling on what might have been.  But sometimes those dreams of what he could have done- what he should have done, if he had just been brave enough… Sometimes that felt so much worse than the actual punishment the Lord of Dreams had subjected him to before finally forgiving him…

           But at least he was safe now.  At least he had Paul. And at least he had been forgiven. And he was loved and accepted for who and what he truly was.  And his cruel, old father, was very much dead. A loveless old man was gone.  But Alex was alive.  Paul was alive.  And they were in love.  And no one could take that away from them.  And Alex and The King of Dreams were both free from the shadow of Roderick Burgess forever.

           There was no point on dwelling on what might have been.  That did not matter now.  What mattered was the love that Alex had finally found and the freedom that he and The King of Dreams both had gained.

The End

[stanbillyhargrove]

Demons - The Rewrite

Chapter 4: I’m Floating But I’m Heavy

Once I had ushered Billy out of the house I ran back to my room to masturbate to the memory of his lust filled groans and the forceful way he had fucked my throat. But once the high of that wore off I was once again left with the demons of my mind. Telling me to be ashamed of the way I look, that Billy would find me disgusting and that’s why I couldn’t let him see me naked. That I’m not special, Billy just wanted sex and when he grew tired of blowjobs he would leave, one way or another. I had to quiet the negativity in my mind, the only way I know how.

–

“Hey..”

“Billy? What are you doing here?” I asked as he slid through the window.

He tried to force a smile but kept his face turned from me, “wanted to see you.”

I grabbed his hand and tried to pull him into the light from my lamp but he didn’t budge.

“Turn the light out.”

“Why?” I asked trying again to pull him forward.

“Don’t.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Nothing, Cat…please, the light.”

I gave him a worried look and reached out to turn my lamp off, casting us into the dim glow of the moonlight. Billy let me pull him a step forward then, but kept his face cast down.

I tilted Billy’s chin up to get a better look at his face and the evidence of a fight. Delicately, I thumbed away the streak of blood by his mouth, saying nothing as I examined it. Billy swallowed hard as I looked him dead in the eyes, his heart was beating nervously against the hand I had resting on his chest.

“Who did this to you?” I asked quietly, my whole body tense with barely restrained anger.

Billy smiled tightly and looked down at the ground, “I got in a fight.”

“Yeah no shit, with who?”

“Just some guy from school,” he mumbled.

“Don’t bullshit me, Billy,” I snapped, hand trembling as I reached up to touch the bruise spreading across his cheekbone.

He sighed, taking a moment to collect himself.

Breathing in deeply he looked at me, tears welling up, “Neil.”

My whole body was shaking now, rage quaking through me as my hand cradled Billy’s bruised face. Billy laid his hand on mine, pressing my hand to his face and closed his eyes, breathing in sharply at the pressure.

“Oh Billy, baby, come here,” I whispered, pulling him onto my bed and cradling his head to my sweater-clad chest. I wrapped my arms around him and rubbed his back as he silently let tears fall, clutching at me. I bit my lip to keep my own tears from falling as we held each other until finally Billy took a shaky breath, sniffed and sat up.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “I didn’t mean to come unload all this on you. I wasn’t sure if you would even want to see me…I just ended up here.”

I looked at him confused, “why wouldn’t I want to see you?”

“I dunno, just the way you ran off earlier.. I thought maybe you felt pressured..”

“Oh.” I paused, pulling on the sleeves of my sweater, “Billy that’s not why I ran inside. I just- I needed to get my thoughts together and that wasn’t going to happen with you around.”

Billy’s eyebrows furrowed, “do you want to be with me?”

“Yes,” I sighed, “I just can’t, not in the way you’re used to…”

“Why? You saving sex for when you get married?” He joked.

“Something like that..” I hugged my arms into my chest.

Billy was quiet for a minute, processing what that would mean for us - if there should even be an us - before reaching over and placing a warm hand on my knee.

“But blowjobs are okay?” He smirked.

I looked up at him, chuckling, “yeah, that’s okay.”

“Fuck it,” he quipped, “that was the best blowjob I’ve ever gotten from the most amazing girl I’ve ever met. If you want to be with me I’d love for you to be my girl, let’s see where this goes.”

“You’re so romantic,” I teased as I crawled into his arms.

Laughing, he pulled us down to the bed and held me to his chest, breathing in my hair. We laid there, relaxing into each other until I fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat and with our limbs tangled together.

–

I walked through blades of grass that stretched over me like trees. Past stones that towered like the largest of mountains and over carpets of fallen flower petals.

A horse sized mouse scurried past me. A gust of wind followed, catching in the iridescent wings on my back and sending me down into the dirt.

“Oh you poor thing,” a voice boomed.

I was blinded by sunlight when I looked up and felt myself being picked up while I was trying to rub the spots from my eyes.

“I’ll clean you up,” the giant cooed, dropping me into a glass jar.

The face came close, inspecting me and I realized it was my mother’s, “I’ll make you pretty and perfect.”

The jar was set on a dark wood shelf, the cool shade replacing the warm light I was used to. Stale air and cigarette smoke filled my lungs, making me feel like I was slowly suffocating.

I cried and beat my palms against the glass, begging for freedom. Fluttered to the top of the jar and clawed at the lid until my nails ripped backwards.

“Stop it!” The voice commanded, shaking the jar.

I heard the snap of my wings under my body before I felt it. The sick, hollow crunch as they bent under me.

“Well now look at what you’ve done. We can’t have you looking like that now, can we?”

I was dropped back into the jar, my body cold and shaking violently. I curled into myself and let the darkness wash over me, hoping I’d wake back in the field.

But I didn’t. I woke up in that jar, with searing pain in my back. I reached around myself, to the source of the pain. Felt angry wounds where my wings had been and screamed.

“Look at you,” the voice soothed, “look at us.”

The giant bent and a face came into view, my own face now. Skin stretched tight over pointed cheeks. She started to shrink, until she was tiny and light as a feather. Until I saw my shimmering wings fluttering on her back, lifting her off the shelf.

“We’re perfect.”

–

I awoke early in the morning to Billy carefully trying to untangle himself from my limbs, the movement and him unknowingly grabbing fresh scabs on my hip being enough to rouse me with a groan.

“Sorry, Babe, I was trying to be careful,” he whispered into the top of my head.

Rocky, my German Shepherd Rottweiler mix who had climbed onto the bed while we were sleeping and made Billy his pillow, huffed at Billy’s movements, jumping off the bed and stretching before laying down on the floor.

“Where you going?” I mumbled, nuzzling back into his chest.

“If I’m not home when everyone wakes up it’ll make things worse.”

My eyes snapped open as I shifted to look up at his face, taking in the purple splotches on his chin and cheek.

Carefully, I reached up to cup his face, “I wish you didn’t have to. Does it hurt?”

Closing his eyes, Billy leaned into my hand, hissing under his breath but not moving away, “only when I touch it,” he chuckled.

I bit my lip, “will you come pick me up later?”

“Right after breakfast, Babe,” he promised.

That’s how we spent the rest of the summer when he wasn’t working. Billy sneaking off to my house at night and sleeping with me and my dog Rocky using him as a pillow, aggressive blow jobs after make out sessions, holding Billy after fights with his dad, biting my lip to stop my silent tears from turning into heart breaking sobs and lots of talking. Everything was going great until school was about to start and the last party of the summer was announced.

@charmed-asylum

[dreamjournal18]

some dreams I vaguely recorded on notes, some from a long time ago

New York dream

Running away from school dreams, one time I go on train to c, T/ E come to find me

Pausing time dream

Black kittens rescue dream

Sophie and I go back to college dream

Elsa snow dream

ASOUE dreams - acting on strings, being children, indoor “cave”

Annie Miranda dream

Luke dream

Dreamt Dad had another stroke at Derren Brown / Earthling Ed event (he had photo of brother and me in car, can’t remember what he was demonstrating) Encouraged lady to go vegan she was kind after Dad went to hospital and grew vegan food

Went to cinema with brother and heard children debating whether it’s better to have a job that makes you rich or happy, and later in playground, debate

Dreams about Neil and his friends, “Rachel” being harrassed

Trans Siberian dream

Animals at zoo locked up dream. A horse. I’m teaching? Lea?

Walking with Jo Mossy dream

Lee Mead Mossy assault course dream

Lee Mead covid bar dream

Ice skating with separated toys dream

Swimming to Disneyland dream

Mum bitten by cat and fox dream

Escape from attackers Cassie park dream

C became skye

Messages with her

Instagram

Prince harry died

China dream

Tess had ocd

Cassie theme park dream rocket

Keith singing on ship dream

“Sophie

Tom dream

S and I fell out

Had to make word list

Catch up on work

Whole class came

Laura G

Helped person in tall building

Shopping centre”

“Train station

Cassie and bf? Other girl

Kidnapped dream”

“Dreamt I was tired trying to find necklace”

“Dreamt we rode llamas Mossy Swam climbed wore my (?) other ragdolls

Dr appointment dream

Louisa on train

Caravan

Lego Rose drown dream

Hospital

DMwedding

Louisa train

One direction ticket

“Frozen Amanda seyfried Idina dream friends drunk fairground” ??

Girls in love dream / project with Molly

Molly wedding

They lost Maggie

Stuck at cottage due to covid mossy there and wriggly

Another dream to do with covid

Covid Disney dream

[shark-from-the-park]

FIC: The Fitzier of It, Episode Three

A Fitzier The Thick of It AU in several parts.  You can find Episode One here and Episode Two here.  With sincere thanks to @casperthefriendlylittlefan and @coffeesugarcream for their cheerleading and encouragement and to everyone else who has read and enjoyed so far. Mwah.

In this installment, James is getting stressed out as Sir John’s resignation looms and he still hasn’t finalised his future plans. And Dundy eats some more.

Warnings for bad language, NSFW themes, endlessly snacking LeVesconte, a badly mangled baguette and Cornelius Hickey.

@litttlesilkworm @boisinberryjamarama @thegreenmeridian  @cinemaocd @the-jewish-marxist @hereliesnils @nashilena @itisa-profoundbond-sarandom @idlesuperstar @what-a-terrorific-mess @kahootqueen69 @jaredharrisankles @shit-in-silk-stocking @bobbole @fellowshipofthegay @aconfusedwriter @uncannybrightside @glorioustidalwavedefendor  @zaphodbeeblebro @sasheenka @intrepid-inkweaver @full-of-terrors

Contact me via some smoke signalling or other method if you’d like to be tagged/untagged (mostly things I tag as fitzier do not show up in the fitzier tag).

Episode Three

James had an extremely productive morning forcing the resignation of a junior minister whom he would have happily eviscerated for getting caught up in another bloody PFI scandal, and then swinging by Hudson House to comfort Henry Collins, an anxiety-ridden shadow cabinet minister of Sir John’s whose past addiction to prescription painkillers had just wound up splashed across the tabloids.

James was secretly quite fond of Collins, and he put in a few phone calls to newspaper editors to see if he could get them to lighten up on the man via the use of a few veiled threats (his intimate knowledge of what the news teams had gotten up to at their last Blackpool conference once again proving invaluable).

Hungry enough to eat a horse, he dropped into Pret-a-Manger on his way back to Sir John’s offices. He was perusing the baguettes, struck by the notion that without Dundy present he might actually get to finish one by himself, when Cornelius Hickey oozed up behind him from whatever crack he usually called home.

“Fancy bumping into you on this side of town, James Fitzjames.” The diminutive man said.

James felt every hackle he had rise.

Clutching a chicken and avocado baguette as though it had wounded him in some way, James turned to face his rival spin doctor, a winning smile plastered on his face.

“Cornelius. What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Not on your way over to Baffin House are you, by any chance, James?” Hickey was, as so often, offensively chipper. “Only I heard that you’d been sniffing around Francis Crozier’s door...”

“Well, as you know Cornelius, Westminster whispers often can’t be trusted.” James beamed, only just this side of a rictus, avocado squidging out of the sides of the baguette between his fingers.  

“I thought, surely not, James can’t possibly be so desperate for a candidate that he’s sniffing around Francis. Him and Francis have always hated each other… Poor James, I thought, it’s almost like he doesn’t know what to do in the face of Sir John’s resignation...”

“Rumoured resignation.” James said quickly. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear on street corners at 3am, Cornelius. Wasn’t it you who Francis once called the most immoral man in Britain? What else did he say now... That’s it, the love child of Piers Morgan and Katie Hopkins… Oh dear, you weren’t hoping for a shot at working for him, were you Cornelius?”

“Oh James, you know I never discuss my plans with anyone, even a dear friend such as yourself! And while we’re reminiscing, what was it that Francis said about you while you were still doing the long hair thing? Like you were trying to look like David Ginola, but were coming off more as Neil from The Young Ones? That was it. Ouch. The man’s references can be a bit dated but he does tend to hit pretty much on the nose, doesn’t he? Anyway, sit down James, let’s get some lunch and have a proper chat, shall we?”

Struggling not to visibly shudder with revulsion at the idea, James said “Er, no thanks Cornelius, I have to get a sandwich back to Dundy, you know how he gets, blood sugars and all that...” He grabbed blindly for another sandwich and a few packets of crisps before making his way to the queue, feeling Hickey’s grinning, calculating gaze on his back all the way.

*****

“So what you’re telling me...” Dundy managed around a mouthful of pulverised avocado and baguette. “Is that you and Hickey fought over Francis in Pret, and I missed it?”

James swallowed a huge mouthful of New York deli sandwich. “I could honestly have strangled the little weasel-faced bastard. As if he could ever even stand a chance with Francis after everything that happened with Silna that time. And even before that he never stood a chance anyway... The slippery little prick...”

“Tell me you had a dance-off James? Give me this one thing. I mean, you and Hickey having a dance off for rights to Francis Crozier in Pret-a-Manger, that’s pretty much gay culture in a nutshell, isn’t it?”

“Dundy, you’re straight. You don’t get to say what is or isn’t gay culture.”

Dundy inhaled a handful of crisps, then spoke around the bulk of them. “What, even after I’ve been your hag for all these years?”

“Anyway, if we had had a dance off I definitely would have won.”

“No question.” Dundy agreed loyally. Then he ruined it by getting a stupid sly look on his face. “You’re really quite possessive over this Bolshevik boyfriend of yours considering that you don’t fancy him at all, aren’t you?”

“Fucking hell Dundy! If you don’t start taking our next moves more seriously we could both well end up working in a bloody Pret-a-Manger before the year is out! Do some fucking work and stop making daft jokes or I’ll choke you with a sandwich and use your corpse to bludgeon Hickey to death!” James was surprised to find that he had raised his voice.

“Everything alright out there gentlemen?” Echoed the kindly voice of Sir John Franklin from his voluminous office next door.

“Fine thanks!”

“Right as rain, Sir John!”

They bent their heads back to their work, James pouring over his notebook frantically and Dundy redrafting a speech on his laptop, still with a stupid smirk on his face.

*****

To say that James and Dundy were snowed under with spin in the run up to Sir John’s resignation speech would have been a gross understatement.  Between them they killed more negative stories about boot-gate, redirected more journalists and called in more favours than a likeable but frankly mediocre politician probably deserved.  

James Fitzjames was a born charmer, but the thankless offensive he’d been on these last few weeks had exhausted even him.  

Now he and Dundy stood next to each other, squeezed in at the back of the public gallery at the House of Commons, awaiting Sir John’s resignation speech – a masterpiece of class and dignity that they’d painstakingly co-written.  

The session before Franklin’s slot was a foreign policy debate that they were catching the tail end of.  

A cabinet minister made the sort of crass and factually inaccurate generalisation that characterised his administration.  

From across the other side of the house, there was a flash of greying ginger on the back bench as Francis indicated and stood to respond. His lyrical yet acerbic voice resonated clearly around the chamber as he calmly eviscerated the cabinet minister’s comment for the patent absurdity that it was. His words were polite enough but his tone loudly called the other man a racist piece of shit.

The house erupted into murmurs in the aftermath as a completely unruffled Francis sat down again.  

Excitement rumbled low in James’ belly as he imagined Francis on the front bench, forthright and unapologetic in his leadership, giving the party the direction and purpose and bite it had been lacking for so long.  

He laughed breathlessly.  

Dundy elbowed him in the ribs and gave him an incredulous look.  James sobered at once, just in time to see Sir John rise to deliver their masterpiece.  

*****

There was a small, slightly subdued sort of function at HQ afterwards, canapés and weak champagne and Lady Jane milling around, that sort of thing.  

James smiled charmingly at everyone and was overwhelming in his enthusiasm and positivity.  Even Dundy turned on his own not-inconsiderable charm.

Many ministers, aides and hangers-on had come to commiserate with Sir John and wish him luck for the future.  Also to congratulate him on his excellent speech.  

Francis sent Sir John a brief message of goodwill for his retirement, but declined to attend the gathering, which was exactly what James had predicted.

The two or three other likely candidates for party leadership in the wake of Sir John’s resignation were all in attendance, however.  And they all had to be seized up and courted as James considered his and Dundy’s next moves.  

As the evening wore on, Dundy stepped out to call his wife, and James found himself stood alone at the counter which was serving as a bar, deep in thought.  

His soul nearly jumped out of his body when a voice to his left intoned;

“Ey up.”

Tom Blanky was standing beside him, dressed in his his usual rumpled suit, hair as wild as ever. James’ arrow paper-clip was still affixed to his shirt pocket like a trophy. He appeared to be wrapping canapés in serviettes and shoving them into his jacket pockets.  

“That was a right nice speech of Franklin’s today, James.”

James blinked. “Well. I can’t take all the credit. Henry wrote it with me.”

“You two come as a package deal, I expect.”  Blanky said conversationally.  

“Yes.”  James responded at once, though he wasn’t at all sure where this was going. It was true that James did the bulk of the work, but he couldn’t have coped without Dundy’s steady, loyal presence beside him. A spin doctor with a close colleague who was also a friend was almost unheard of.  A thousand times better to be working with Dundy than to have to work against him in some capacity.  

“Yer’ve done a right good job with Franklin these last few weeks, the two of yer. Tha’s just a fact.”

James tried not to let his surprise at this unexpected praise flummox him.  This couldn’t possibly be the invitation it appeared to be, could it? He needed to keep his wits about him.  

“Well, thank you for that, Mr. Blanky. And I, er, I thought Francis spoke brilliantly in the house today. Very upstanding and forthright.”

Blanky gave him a considered look with his sharp, intelligent little eyes. One corner of his mouth was quirking into what might have been a smirk.  

“The thing about Frank, James, is that he says exactly what he wants to say. Obviously he spoke off the cuff today.  He usually does.  He writes his own speeches.  Has me and Ed look over ‘em for ‘im, ‘course. But he always knows what he wants to say, and ‘e usually knows just how to put it, too. He’s a wicked smart man, is Frank. D’yer really think you can be of use to someone like that?”

The question surprised him, but he answered as confidently as he could, even under scrutiny.  “If I didn’t think I could be of use to Francis, I would never have approached him in the first place.”

Tom Blanky smiled at him then, downed two glasses of champagne, stuffed a packet of crackers inside his jacket, and bid James goodnight.  

*****

Whether Blanky’s approach had been sanctioned by Francis or not, James had no idea, but he couldn’t help but feel encouraged by it.  

James’ other rival spinners had already begun to attach themselves to other candidates for the leadership. Meaning that James was now going firmly out on a limb by trying to work for a man who more than likely still hated him.  

Dundy, as always, was simply content to follow where James led.

There was a short, and no-doubt stressful, window of opportunity here, a matter of days in which for James to make everything fall into place.

He had to keep himself and Dundy relevant, and ideally still working in top-tier politics.  

With overwhelming support from the grass-roots of the party, and the general public generally perceiving him as a breath of fresh air, Francis really was the one to watch.  All of James’ political instincts had been telling him that for years now.  

And Blanky hadn’t approached any of the other spin doctors who had been schmoozing at the gathering last night, had he?

No.  He only came to talk to me.  

That had to mean something.  

Time to swallow my pride and approach Francis again...

Maybe Dundy, and even Sir John, had been right in a way though.  Maybe James did need to inject a bit more humility into his manner.  

The thought made him feel uncomfortably warm somehow.  

James huffed in irritation.  

The thing was, he’d already reached the top of his profession, being Sir John’s media enforcer throughout his leadership of the opposition.  The only way for him to go now was down.  

Unless Francis really was considering hiring him.  

James knew, deep down inside, that Francis was the man for the job.  The one who deserved it.  Francis was someone you could actually – perish the thought – believe in.  

That sort of thing hadn’t seemed to matter very much to James, before.

And yet here he was.  

Definitely sensing a sea change.  

Right then.

There was nothing else for it.  It was time to do what he did best.  It was time to get to work.  

*****

“Word on the street,” Dundy informed him with a conspiratorial air between bites of carrot cake in Cafe Nero, “Is that Francis actually chased Hickey out of the building last week, James.  Out of the building. When you look at it from that perspective, we’re actually still in with a good shot.”

Dundy, having a wife and kids and therefore a life outside politics, could always be relied upon to take a more balanced view on things than James.  

“You’re right.”  James said, mostly just for something to say, though if he’d considered it, he might’ve realised that he meant it about more than the Hickey debacle.  

James didn’t pause his furious scribbling into his Moleskin notebook.

Names, phone numbers, offices.

He had a plan.

*****

Episode Four here...

[theniftycat]

for the quarantine asks: all the questions you haven't been asked yet but really want to answer :)

 Thanks! That’s really sweet :)

Your go-to bar order, if you drink?

Guinness or red wine. Sometimes vermouth. I don’t drink often, but I enjoy it sometimes.

What was your first word as a child (that wasn’t a variation of “Mom” or “Dad”)?

Ok, so, I asked my mum, she had a little book where she’d write down thing like that, but she doesn’t know where it is now. So, I told her the question and she said “revolution!” I’m not literally Ponyo from the meme, it’s just that my parents would ask me to repeat difficult words when I was small and I’d do it. It wasn’t one of my first words tho, I’m sure. Also, my mum told me to say that it was “empiriocriticism”. I remember repeating that word when I was like 3.

Do you own any signed books/memorabilia in general?

I own 3 books signed by Neil Gaiman from his 2010 visit to Moscow. I also have a photo and an envelope signed by Murray Melvin who was my first favourite actor and a hand written letter with a CD by Conal Fowkes. I feel like that’s telling too much information about myself. 

Preferred way to spend a rainy day?

Give me an umbrella and an old city.

What’s that one TV show that you’re a little bit embarrassed to watch but you still like nonetheless?

Do I even like any TV-shows that aren’t at least a bit embarrassing...

Do you match your socks?

I had a time period when I didn’t and it was deliberate. But not anymore.

Have you ever been horseback riding?

Yes, I love it, I did it for my birthday last year with my whole family, it was great.

What was your “phase” when you were younger? (i.e., Mythology Nerd, Horse Girl, Space Geek, etc)

I was a total Mythology Nerd at about 11. I was also into Medieval legends like Faust at that time. Then I was into sci-fi until 13. Then I just became a total bookworm.

Have you ever been to jail?

Only as a museum experience.

What’s your opinion on Lazy Susan’s (the spinning tray in the middle of tables)?

We have one on our kitchen table, it’s lovely.

What section do you immediately head for when you walk into a bookstore?

Classics. There are always more classical books I could own.

What’s one thing you’re trying to learn/relearn in your downtime right now?

Writing. I have a number of stories I want to develop, but it’s hard.

Who’s your go-to musical artist when you’re feeling upbeat?

Queen, early Mika, Fun.

What’s that one outfit in your closet you never get the chance to wear but want to?

My black Voldemort robe that I wore to cosplay Snape. I wish I coud wear it in my everyday life.

Rainbows, stars, or sunset colored clouds?

Clouds are the only thing I ever feel inclined to call divine.

If you could own any non-traditional pet (dogs, cats, fish, rodents, etc), what would it be?

A raven would be neat. I have read about it and in reality I wouldn’t commit, but if it was easy, I would.

Do you have more art on your walls or more photographs?

Art. I don’t really like having photos around. At art I can look and ponder.

Are you a “Quote that relates to the photos” caption-er, an “explanation of where I took the photos” caption-er, or a no caption kinda person when you post pictures online?

If an explanation is needed, I’ll post it.

[dollarbin]

Nickel Bin #11:

Uncle Tupelo's Sauget Wind

I see my famous brother, who refers to me in true Three Amigos's style as infamous, which surely does mean more than famous, is currently busy on DoomAndGloom revisiting Tweedy and Farrar, so let's set the record straight here in The Dollar Bin by testing your own knowledge with a little true or false action:

Sharpen your pencils, Dollar Binners. True or false:

I was introduced to the band in 1993 by my 20-something counselor at Journalism Camp after she heard me cranking Live Rust.

A few months after camp I stood on a freeway off ramp with a handmade sign waiting for that same counselor to pick me up and take me to the band's only LA show during their final Linda and Richard Thompson impersonation acrimony tour.

She, like everyone else at the camp, was an actual, real journalist when she wasn't volunteering with high schoolers like me. I learned after the fact that, unbeknownst to us campers, she and the rest of the staff got fairly drunk most nights while we campers slept off another hard day of pounding out stories on actual typewriters. You got that right: I spent two weeks of my youth producing copy on a typewriter.

She'd interviewed Farrar and Tweedy after the release of the band's last record. She described Tweedy as bubbly and Farrar as monosyllabic. She complained to them about Anodyne's lack harmonica; they, in turn, looked at her with speechless wonder.

At the show she stood in the back like a grown-up. I rocked the front row, screaming and riding the rowdy LA alt-country crowd surge while Tweedy grinned and Farrar seethed. Afterwards she reported concern for my well being.

I still have my t-shirt from the concert.

Well, what do you think? True or False?

Okay, obviously not all of that is true. Number 6 is a lie: I wore that shirt out in a few short years; eventually my wife demanded that I throw it the hell away and I humbly did so, saying, "yes wife, I shall wife, right away wife."

The rest of it? Gospel truth, people. Journalists, like Uncle Tupelo, are gnarly.

Anyway, let's celebrate the band's epic greatness by listening to a song that sums up perfectly, in just three and a half minutes, everything vital about Uncle Tupelo.

Sauget Wind features Farrar's trademark baritone sorrow. Plus there's plenty of jangle from the guitar, a sighing accordion appears, there's spacious depth in the mix because Tweedy is not a show off and, twice in the song, it sounds like a jumbo jet airliner crashes directly into the studio.

The most Tupeloish fact about this song is that it's an outtake: Jay and Jeff left it altogether off their second record. Not good enough, apparently. But it's good enough for me every day since.

Unlike Farrar, I know exactly what I'm breathing for: the never ending search for more previously unknown-to-me Dollar Bin bands like Uncle Tupelo. They're out there people, just waiting for us to take note.

After all, listen the latest Rosali record... It's Neil and Crazy Horse meets Tupelo meets Joni. I trust teen journalists everywhere are taking note...

[justablueeyedscribe]

It’s Just A Name

Summary: When Max’s home life finally comes to Camp Campbell, with the excuse that they showed up for Parents Day. But that was many weeks ago. So why are they really here?

WC: 1,219 Rating: T (Swearing, Very Mild Referenced Child Abuse/Neglect) Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Chapter Two: Introductions

Outside of the mess hall, the sound of confused and excited campers grew louder. “I need to hide now!” yelled Max. David kept his grip on the kid as Max attempted to wriggle out, “Now Max. We should go greet your mother! She’s clearly here to see you! Why else would she be here? She probably misses her little man!” The only people left in the mess hall where David, Gwen, Quartermaster, Nikki, Neil, and Max. “Let go David!” yelled Max, “She’s probably here for something. Probably to make me or everyone else miserable.” Nikki and Neil left the building followed by Gwen and Quartermaster. David followed them with Max still in his arms but Max wasn’t making it easy for David.

There were three vehicles outside. The closest one to the mess hall was a small, beaten up, two-door, tan, car. It looked like it barely ran. The next vehicle was a large bus, it was a half-repainted school bus. It was still mostly the original yellow but toward the end were paintings of horses. In the middle of the bus was multiple horseshoe shapes all in different colors. There was an abstract race track wrapping around the bus. In the back of the small caravan was a large black SUV with black tinted windows. Max continued to struggle, trying to get out of David’s hands. “Max?” said Neil, “Does your mom have a thing for horses?”

Cameron rubbed his hands together, “It looks like little Mattie has a little money to his name.” Nobody responded to Cameron. Gwen’s eyes were wide and sparkling, “Do you not know who this bus belongs?!” Gwen gasped and didn’t wait for anyone to respond, “It belongs to the world renown horse breeder and racer! Her purebred horses can make millions of dollars by just people looking at them. She’s also in multiple reality tv shows! She was the Bachelorette about nine years ago, she was the winner of Big Brother a few years ago, she had a wardrobe malfunction on that one talent show when she was a judge on it last year, and she’s currently the biggest star on the Real Housewives of-”  Max finally got free from David, “Yeah and she started her trashy career twenty-ish years ago on Maury. It’s all she cares about! So, if I just hide, she will leave sooner,” said Max as he turns to leave. Gwen grabs him and holds him in place, “No you don’t you little shit. Put on a good face and maybe I can get a pic with her-“ David and Max both raised their eyebrows at the other camp counselor. Gwen stuttered, “I mean money for the camp?” David sighed and shook his head, “Come on Max! That can’t be true! I mean she is here to visit you right?”

Finally, two bodyguards emerge from the black SUV that was behind the bus. They stood in front of the bus doors. Then two people step out of the beat-up car upfront. One was a woman, possibly in her mid-twenties, her skin was somewhat tan. She carried a clipboard that had way too many papers on it. She was wearing a pastel green button up blouse, a white skirt and brown mary jane heels. Her black hair was pulled back into a messy bun on top of her head and had a pen holding it up.  The other person that stepped out of the same car was an older man, about a head shorter than the girl, he wore a dark blue jumpsuit with a pair of bright yellow boots with a matching baseball cap. The two stood in front of the bodyguards.

“Hello everyone!” said the girl way to cheery, “My name is Layla-Rae. I am an assistant to Max’s mother. And this,” she points to the man next to her, “Is Mr. Walter. He takes care of the general needs of Max’s mother’s horses.” Mr. Walter grunted but didn’t add anything to the speech. Layla-Rae sighed and her smile faltered a bit but she went back to her overly cheery speech with an overly cheerful smile plastered on her face, “Which she brought 11 of her horses here today to show you all! Any questions from anyone before I introduce her?” Almost everyone, except for Max, raised their hand, “Great! Now introducing the legendary horse breeder, trainer, and racer Ms. Devi. Or Max’s mom.”

Layla-Rae and Mr. Walter step to the side as a very tall woman comes out of the bus, followed by one large horse. The woman shared the same sunshade colored skin as Max, as well as the black hair. Her hair was down to her waist and straight. The horse next to her was pure white, just as tall as Devi and very muscular. Ten other horses stick their heads out of the bus windows. Devi wore a hot pink t-shirt with black skinny jeans and a pair of tall hot pink platform shoes, making her another two or three inches taller. “Hello everyone! I am little Maximiliano’s mother or you may also know me as Devi! The star of multiple reality shows!” she said raising her hands up in the air, showing off her black bangles and her hot pink bejeweled phone in her hand. None of the campers say anything. Layla-Rae pulls out a sheet of paper from her pile of papers and showed it to everyone. It said APPLAUD PLEASE in large bold black letters. The campers clap slowly. Devi starts to bow. Layla-Rae steps forward “The campers can continue on with their day. Devi would like to meet with a counselor to plan her visit. That is if it isn’t inconvenient at all.”  Gwen steps forward and starts to wave her hand wildly, “I can help!” Devi looks at her and snaps her fingers, “You’re spunky. I like that! Let’s go!” Gwen leads Devi into the mess hall and the bodyguards split up. One stayed by the bus the other went to the mess hall doors and stood in front of them.

Mr. Walter heads into the bus and starts to lead the horses out. The campers all start to disperse except for Max, Nikki, and Neil. David walks over to Layla-Rae, “While they plan out the day could I interest you in a tour of the campgrounds?” he asked. She smiled “I would love to!” David smiled, “I’m David by the way. A camp counselor! And a previous Camp Campbell camper myself!” Layla-Rae laughs, “It seems like you really enjoy being at Camp Campbell! I like someone who does what they love!” Max’s eye starts to twitch. “We can start the tour over at the tents,” said David as he started to walk, “Mr. Campbell could you watch the kids at the activity stations?” Cameron rolled his eyes, mumbled something and walked slowly toward the large group of kids. Layla-Rae looks over to Max, “C’mon Max. You can update me on what’s been going on at camp and you can introduce me to your friends!” She starts to follow David. Max crossed his arms, “No thanks. I’m going to hang out somewhere else. Come on guys,” says Max as he walks toward the lake. Nikki and Neil follow closely behind.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER ------ NEXT CHAPTER

Read on AO3

[jemej3m]

radio silence (chapter 4: aaron and andrew’s people)

of course i had to do neil 

here’s ch.3 

warning for canon typical violence (baltimore, aaron’s perspective) and minor acephobia (if you squint)

*

Aaron did not like Neil Josten. He hadn’t from the start. He was quiet until he was loud-mouthed,  he was pathetic until he berated a psychopath on national television, and he was flighty until he socked said psychopath in the mouth. To sum it up: He was a walking contradiction.

It made sense that Andrew would be enamoured with him.

Andrew had told him that Easthaven had been uneventful, and that he hadn’t let Proust near him. Aaron supposed he had Josten to thank for that. It didn’t mean Josten had the right to fuck his brother, especially when it seemed that he was jumping off his ‘I don’t swing’ high horse right into his brother’s bed.

Aaron wasn’t an idiot: He’d suspected Andrew was gay for a long while. He’d known there was something different about Josten, even before Thanksgiving.

So when the idiot had gotten himself kidnapped, it wasn’t surprising that Andrew lost his shit.

Andrew’s version of ‘losing his shit’ was distinctly more conservative than one might suspect: He came back with Josten’s duffel and racket with corpselight in his eyes. He’d sat in the corner of the bus with Neil’s phone and gone over his call history, the texts in his deleted folder. Aaron watched the way Andrew’s shoulders curled, a spring wound tighter and tighter and tighter.

I’ll look up that area code, Aaron offered, when the number 443 kept circling in Andrew’s mind, loud enough for Aaron to hear without prompting. A quick search yielded an unexpected result.

Baltimore.

Andrew’s gaze snapped up to Kevin. “What’s in Baltimore?”

Kevin went white.

Matt, Aaron and Renee had to wrench Andrew back from genuinely snapping Kevin’s neck. We won’t find him if you kill Kevin, Andrew. Andrew, listen to me. Do you want to find Neil? Renee was sat across his lap, Aaron holding down his elbows. Andrew. Stop.

“Get off me,” He snarled. Aaron did as he was told, staying close and holding Andrew’s gaze as he breathed heavily, cheeks flushed with anger he hadn’t seen Andrew express in years.

The story tumbled out of Kevin’s mouth haphazardly, voice hoarse with the damage Andrew had done to his throat. When he was finished, Aaron watched him retreat into his corner again, staring listlessly out the window as Wymack nosed the bus further north instead.

Hurting Kevin was one thing, but watching Andrew reunite with Neil was a different monster entirely. Aaron watched from a distance as Andrew fell to his knees and battled with the way anger and relief. When Neil switched to German and told Andrew what’d happened, Aaron ignored his words, instead watching the way his brother’s eyes flickered over every burn and cut and bruise, fingers harsh as they wound themselves in the thread-bare, bloodied hoodie Neil wore but infinitely gentle over his injuries.

Aaron wondered if he looked at Katelyn like that.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Andrew said, bowing his head closer to Neil’s with his fingers fisted in his obnoxious red curls.

Aaron almost told Andrew that he was fucking whipped to all hell, but Andrew had been through enough. Instead, he watched Andrew as he stood and followed Neil out with the other federal agents, and said don’t do anything stupid. Including Neil.

Andrew only responded with a scathing fuck you.

*

Aaron walked into the cabin and let the familiarity wash over him. It was six years since the Foxes had stayed here for a week on Allison’s forgiving dime, six years since the nightmarish weekend in Baltimore. He looked much the same, Aaron noted (but with old scars instead of bandages and a new brand of confidence holding up his chin), still with the haunted blue eyes and scowl of his lips.

His brother still stood, tucked into Neil’s hip. And Aaron—well, Aaron couldn’t fault Neil for it any longer. He’d stayed by Andrew’s side all through college, and now, through two years of Andrew’s professional career, one of his own. He was trading in the off-season to Andrew’s team, which meant Aaron would get more peace and quiet now that Andrew wouldn’t be so lonely.

The cabin was just the same, too. New countertops in the kitchen and covers for the pillows didn’t dissuade the character of the place. Aaron had never found affection and friendship in his Fox family, but it was familiar and safe being with the nine of them. He wouldn’t trade that for anything.

They talked about old memories. They asked about their respective careers. Renee had been off hiking last Spring, so it was nice to see the way Andrew leaned towards her, talking quietly under the din of music and an Exy game playing in the background.

Aaron wandered off when the sun was just about setting with his beer, enjoying the cool breeze where he leaned against the railing. He took a photo for Katelyn and sent it: She didn’t respond, only because she was also away with her Vixens. It worked out well: They always took this week off in Spring and took an extended moment away from one another. Living together, med-school, residency planning and mentorships were a lot.

He’d propose to her soon. Maybe in the summer. It wasn’t like they hadn’t talked about it: They’d both agreed that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together. Marriage was just, undoubtedly, a big-ass deal. He’d gone to Nicky’s wedding, and helped with probably 95% of the planning procedures. He wasn’t sure he was ready for that chaos.

The door behind him slip open. Aaron didn’t look back, expecting his brother: He startled when Neil stood next to him instead, sipping on what was probably his brother’s glass of whiskey.

What is your menace doing out here? Aaron inquired, sending Neil the appropriate scathing look.

I don’t own him, Andrew answered, an amused drawl in his tone. Aaron huffed.

“Remember when you tried to punch me with mummified hands?” Aaron remarked, resting his beer against his ankle and straightening up again. “Pathetic.”

“Remember when you accused me of using your brother?” Neil arched an eyebrow. “That was the shittiest shovel talk I’ve ever heard.”

“You’ve only heard one.” Aaron grunted. “Monogamous fuck.”

He was really just talking about him and Andrew: They were settlers at heart. Neil knew this and snorted at the irony.

“Speaking of,” Neil murmured. “Andrew wanted me to invite you to something.”

Aaron narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his brother’s boyfriend, who backtracked slowly with a small smile playing across his lips. His hand subconsciously drifted to the hollow of his throat, playing at the collar of his t-shirt. Aaron noticed the new silver chain around his neck and felt a strange tightness in his chest.

“Text me the details,” Aaron said, looking back out to the sun which had just managed to disappear beyond the horizon.

Neil disappeared inside, quiet.

Are you messing with me? Aaron asked.

No clue what you’re talking about, Andrew responded, cooly.

I can’t believe you’re getting married before me.

Everyone’s invited to ours for 4th of July, Andrew said, ignoring Aaron entirely. That’ll be the reception, but you and Matt will get there the day before to be witnesses at the courthouse. Katelyn can come, unless you open your mouth.

Aaron snorted. Nicky is going to fucking shit himself.

Andrew simply hummed.

*

the fluff finally comin’ along now

also i nearly gave up lmao i was sold on scrapping the whole idea, good thing im a sucker for the social construct that is marriage 

[dreamdragonfics]

Chapter Eight

John tried to get the cart turned around, but to no avail. "Alright, get ready to fight!" he shouted.

Attackers jumped out on all sides of the cart. They all drew their weapons and braced for a fight.

"Best put those down," one of the attackers hissed. "We have direct orders from the Grand Leader to bring you in alive."

"He is a fool to believe we won't go down without a fight," John growled. He pulled the arrow back and loosed it. It struck one of the attackers squarely in the chest. "And I don't condone killing, but that's what's going to happen to us if we don't fight!"

Bowie and Mick shared a smirk. They split off in opposite directions and started swinging at their enemies.

"We'll stay low and work as back up," Jonesy whispered to Jim and Brian. "Both of you have minor healing powers, so I'll be looking to you to help after this is done." Jim and Brian nodded curtly.

"Alright, we don't always work well together, but I'll be damned if we don't this time!" Cory hissed to Chuck and Danny.

"We'll cover you, don't worry," Chuck hissed back. Danny nodded and loosed an arrow.

Keith started going into a panic. He was having problems readying his bow while Blue freaked out. "I wish Pete was here, I can't do this without him!"

Suddenly, Pete's horse flew through the air and Pete's sword struck the attacker going after Keith. "Robert, John! Take the far side! Roger, stay with me! May, fight where we need you!"

The attackers balked and ran off as Pete struck at them. Robert swung his spear around and hit several attackers that John chased off. The dust cleared and all of the attackers were gone or dead.

Pete breathed heavily. "For God's sake!" he screamed. "Can you not take care of yourself?!" He swung his anger toward Keith.

"I can't fight without you!" Keith pleaded. "I can't make myself! I destabilize!"

Pete sighed. "Keith, come back with us. Plant and Bonham are going find Page. Something's gone wrong." Pete surveyed the troupe. "Bowie, come back as well." Pete dismounted and led his horse to John. "Here. Take him with since we're taking Keith."

"Do you really have to?" John asked softly.

Pete touched his shoulder. We have no choice. He said himself, he's been destabilizing. He can't force himself to stay here and break down completely.

John nodded. Fine then. Keep him save. I have our connection, but I need to know he's safe anyways.

He will be.

Pete motioned for Keith and Bowie to follow. Brian and Roger got back on their horses and started off.

"Plant, Bonham. Find Page and return immediately. You have a limited gap of time to get there and back. He is in the castle of Rix." Pete looked back at time. "Bring him, Taylor, Deacon, Krieger and Densmore back immediately. We're about to go to war."

    >*<>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<      

Jimmy breathed heavily and shook.

"Jimmy? What's... What's wrong?" John asked him. He took a few steps toward him.

"Hah... Hah... Mother never kept... She couldn't hold her form...for very long either..." Jimmy wheezed. His arms gave out on him and he fell to the floor.

"Oh, God... What happened?" Greg muttered. He sat up and jumped to his feet when he saw John, Densy and Robby holding swords to his chest. "Hey! What's going on?!"

John lowered his sword. "You don't remember...?"

"How were we supposed to remember?" Keith asked from the floor. "We were knock unconscious and... Nothing's there until now."

John turned to him. "What's the last thing you clearly remember?"

Keith shrugged. "Seeing Greg get attacked. It's black from there. I..."

Carl stood up and dusted off his shirt. "We were attacked at our meeting place. It's hidden in the woods, no one should have known it was there. The people that attacked wore a strange crest on their tunics. They attack Greg, then Keith, then me." He looked around. "The castle of Rix? Why are we here?"

Geddy ran over and carefully pressed a hand to Carl's temple. He pulled it away and a thread of black followed it. "Repressed memories. Tainted even." He flicked the thread toward the ceiling. "We'll see what happened."

The thread exploded into a projection. Keith and Greg were in defensive positions in front of Carl.

"Don't fight back, we don't know their intents!" Keith hissed. One of the attackers lunged at him, another at Greg.

"Listen, Keith! I really hate to be that person, but their intent seems to be killing us!" Carl's voice shouted.

"Alright! Fight back then!" Keith snapped. One of the attackers struck him down. A large red patch was on the man's tunic. The projection went black.

Geddy turned to Greg, Carl and Keith. "That was clearly before you arrived here. I couldn't find any memory of every coming here. You had to have been controlled."

Alex walked over. "That crest reminded me of one I've seen before. But it was different the first time..."

"It was on the collars he used to control people," Neil quipped. "He's gotten stupider, it seems. A patch? On a tunic? Anyone could easily take that off."

Robby shook his head. "No. I can't go through that again. John!" He grabbed Densy by the shoulders. "He's back! He's back!"

"Robby, I know. We'll be fine. We'll be okay!" Densy said quietly. He started breathing heavily. "He won't get to us again."

John turned back. "Geddy, Neil, Alex... Get Carl, Greg and Keith somewhere safer. I can feel someone approaching and they will not hesitate to kill them." He walked over to Roger. "And I'll work on healing you..."

    >*<>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<      

Robert and John pressed their horses faster. "We have to get there!" Robert cried. "Page lost himself!"

"Then let's move!" John shouted back.

    >*<>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<>*<      

The horses burst through the castle doors. Everyone inside the castle froze.

"Don't attack!" John screamed. Bonzo and Robert stopped their horses. "Do not harm them."

"It's just us!" Bonzo shouted back. Robert jumped off his horse and ran over to Jimmy.

"How long has he been out?" Robert asked John softly.

"Not terribly long. He exhausted himself."

Robert nodded and carefully turned Jimmy over. "Please wake up. I'm here now. You fought so well, Jimmy..." He brushed a strand of hair from his face. Robert frowned and pulled the hair away from Jimmy's ear. He gasped. "I knew it... You've finally let your true self free."

Jimmy's eyes opened slowly. "Robert...?"

"I'm here."

Jimmy smiled. "I did it. I'm free."

Robert smiled back. "I know. We need to get you home now." He looked up at John. "How is Roger?"

"Almost healed." John sat back. "His injuries are healed, but I can't bring him back..."

Jimmy leaned over and brush his hand over Roger's chest. The blond man sat up screaming. He took a breath in and gingerly touched his face.

"I... I was dead... What..."

"Roger!" John cried. He threw himself around his friend. "Thank the gods!"

"Oh, hey Deaks... What happened? I was fighting and then..." Roger looked back at the six "rulers." He jumped up and pointed violently at Carl. "You did this to me!"

"No! I didn't mean it!" Carl pleaded. "We were controlled!"

Roger straightened up. "He controlled you...? For how long?"

Keith stepped forward. "Not terribly long. But long enough."

Roger nodded. "Longer than a few passes?"

"Three at the most," Greg said.

"Three? That's not so bad. I know... Robby and John were only controlled for a few days."

"Thankfully," Robby added softly.

"Three passes of the moon... Bowie... He was gone for six or seven passes," Roger chuckled weakly.

"No." Jimmy pushed himself off the ground. Everyone turned to him. "Bowie was controlled for three years. Years, Roger. Richards started to control people ten years ago. Five years after, he had it perfected. That's when we fought him. And now, he's able to control people through barely any contact. The collars didn't work well enough. He knows how to control anyone from nothing."

"What are you saying?" Alex asked.

Jimmy looked at him. "I'm saying, he's far more of a threat now than ever before."

<< Part 7 | Part 9 >>

[bonjovian]

Blood Ties Chapter Three

Masterlist

Chapter II

Chapter IV

"Shani Avdol?" Hol Horse asked, confused and surprised.

"Yes, Mohammed Avdol's niece," Neil said calmly before continuing to talk on the phone.

"You know her, dad?" Grace asked, tilting her head slightly.

"I knew her uncle. We weren't friends, obviously, but the way he protected his friend, Polnareff, was honorable," Hol Horse responded. "I heard that Vanilla Ice was the one who killed him. It's a shame."

"Huh," Grace sighed. "Vanilla Ice was one of Dio's most loyal servants, right?"

"Yeah. Luckily he isn't around anymore," Hol laughed, "Otherwise I doubt I'd be taking care of you. He'd probably take you from me."

After a short moment, Neil ended the call.

"She'll be here tomorrow. She's currently closing up her shop," he said, putting his phone back into his pocket.

"Her shop? What business does she run?" Grace asked.

"She is following in her uncle's footsteps and is a fortune teller," Neil smiled, "She specializes in Tarot reading and astrology."

"I see," Grace nodded. "Though I personally don't believe in such things, I am quite interested."

"Oh, trust me, Shani can change your mind on that."

"I'll trust you, Neil," Grace laughed. She then paused for a moment before asking, "Do you have a place to stay? I know the sun is probably going to set soon and it isn't the safest after dark."

"I have a hotel a short drive away," Neil responded. "Thank you for thinking about my safety though."

"It's what friends do, Neil," she laughed. "Just come over with Shani when you both are available. You know I don't leave the house much."

"Alright. We'll see you tomorrow then." Neil walked over to the door calmly, gave an informal wave, and walked out to a waiting car.

***

The next day, Neil strolled into the entrance hall, motioning for a woman to wait outside for a moment. "Grace!" He yelled. "I'm here! And I've brought Shani with me!" His voice echoed in the seemingly empty hall. Footsteps echoed from the nearby room.

"Well, bring her in!" Grace laughed, leaning against a wall, arms crossed. "You're setting up a dramatic entrance, you know."

Neil stepped to the side, and a woman casually walked in. She stood a few inches shorter than Grace, with a chubby build. She tucked some of her black hair into her headscarf and gave the vampire a confident smile.

"I am Shani Avdol. I've heard a lot about you, Grace. Neil seemed excited to see you again," she offered Grace a hand, which Grace cautiously shook.

"Grace Brando. The pleasure is mine, Miss Avdol," Grace smiled.

"Show me your stand, Grace. I want to see what it's all about."

"Huh?" Grace was confused. She had just met this woman, and she was already demanding her to show her stand?

"I'll show mine first, then," Shani said calmly. With a motion of her hand resembling lighting a pocket lighter, her stand manifested. It had a humanoid appearance, though it was distinctly a dragon. Flame-like hair flowed down one side of its head along with two large horns. It- no, she, it was feminine- wore a loose white gown with a gold collar around the neck. "This, Grace, is Fire and Flames! Like my uncle's Magician's Red, she controls fire!"

Fire and Flames let out a confident roar, her wings flaring open for a moment as if to show off. Grace smiled. Holy Diver manifested behind her, its blue hair and cloak flowing as if caught in a breeze. A soft wry escaped its lips, bearing its fangs. Fire and Flames seemed unphased, letting out a growl of her own in return.

"Holy Diver," Grace responded.

"Shall we test our stands out?" Shani asked. "Just a brief spar."

"Why not?" Grace laughed. "Just a few minutes, that way there isn't too much damage to this place."

"Of course," Shani nodded. Grace motioned for Shani to follow her, and the two, along with Neil, walked into the second-floor art gallery, the same room that Vanilla Ice tore up in the fight with Polnareff many years ago.

"This is the closest thing to a sparring room that I have," Grace laughed. "Do be careful."

"I see," Shani laughed, cautiously walking over the carved floor.

"Well, let's begin," Grace smirked. Fire and Flames once again manifested in front of Shani, letting out a snarl. Holy Diver appeared beside Grace with a soft wry. It then lunged forward, readying a punch. Fire and Flames blocked it easily, catching Attitude City's fist. It was then Shani noticed something.

Time was moving slower. Grace and Holy Diver weren't affected, but Fire and Flames seemed much slower than before. Holy Diver swung again with its other hand, the blow connecting with Fire and Flames's muzzle. Time began to move like normal yet again.

"What was that?" Shani asked, a bit confused and unsettled.

"That's Holy Diver's ability. It slows down time for moments, but we can move freely as if nothing happened," Grace responded. Holy Diver pulled away, smirking. Fire and Flames saw her chance, and a blast of fire came from her maw, sending both Holy Diver and Grace back to escape the inferno. The fire spread a bit before putting itself out.

"Fire and Flames's attacks can burn for as long as I'd like," Shani laughed, "And since I don't want to cause too much damage, so she only used a short burst. Holy Diver is an interesting stand, Grace. I'd love to see what else it can do."

Neil chuckled. "Well, we saw Holy Diver in action, as well as Fire and Flames. Now then, we should probably go out and pinpoint where exactly this Agent of Dio group is hanging out. I am pretty sure that we could figure out where to begin if we find the person who was dropping off those threats. I've talked to Hol Horse and he agreed to come with us."

"Well then," Grace smiled. "Let's go then. Just let me get some of my things."

"Fair enough," Neil nodded as he walked to the stairs leading back to the first floor.

Grace walked up to her room, grabbing a large messenger bag. "Suppose a few changes of clothes is obvious," she muttered to herself as she opened the dresser and grabbed some outfits. Holy Diver manifested and began looking around the room for other things for Grace to pack. She heard an old case open and looked over to see Holy Diver hunched over what she thought was a weird rock.

"Hey, what is that?" Grace asked, walking over to the stand. It wasn't just a rock. It was a stone mask. "That's my mom's stone mask! Put that back!" Holy Diver handed the mask to Grace. She looked down at the object, noticing the small spot of dried blood on one of the sharper corners. "I see. You want me to take this with me to get more information on it. Fine." She stuffed the mask in the messenger bag, sandwiching it between outfits to keep it protected. "I suppose I should take my journal with me, too, just in case."

***

With the sun having set, the group sat down in one of the many rooms to discuss the plan of action.

"I believe there are a few of the Agents of Dio still lingering in Egypt. The Speedwagon Foundation tracked down Alessi, Daniel D'Arby, and a few others. They seem to be some of the higher-ranking members, so to speak," Neil said. "We don't know when they'll attack, but they will be after us now that we know they're back at it again."

"Ah, D'Arby, huh?" Hol Horse chuckled. "That's a name I thought I'd be able to forget."

"I've rented a car that should work for us," Neil continued. "It's parked right outside, so let's go."

The group walked out of the mansion, Grace taking a moment to look back. "I don't know how long we're going to be gone. I hope nothing happens to this place," She laughed.

"I have set up a couple of guards in case anyone thinks it's safe to break into," Neil reassured her. The group got into the car, similar to a Jeep in the fact it seemed great for offroading.

"Well," Shani laughed, "Let's start the adventure."

[mavrustheunskooled]

I’m sad and crave attention so I’m doing this thing

I was tagged by the radical @a-marvellous-miscellany thanks m8

I should tag people but I’m lazy and awkward and I don’t want to be annoying.. if you’re a star rat you can.. or not.. whatever you want..

Rules: Answer 30 questions and tag other blogs

Nickname(s): anything starting with an E or a J depending on who you ask

Gender: lol

Sign: Capricorn

Height: 5′10

Time: 10:32pm

Fav band(s): Jim and the Povolos, freelance whales, not my favorite but remember backpackparty?? classic

Fav solo artist(s): Darren Criss, Troye Sivan, Dodie, basic people like that

Song stuck in my head: yellow by coldplay(?) but specifically Brosenthal singing it

Last movie I saw: a wrinkle in time?? idr

Last show I watched: I don’t really watch shows but if a yt show can count then on the spot (I spend 90% of my time watching on the spot)

When did I create my blog: at least 5 years ago?? 2013 maybe?? idk

What do I post: starkid/tcb/shipwrecked, stuff I find amusing, lots of cats

Last thing I Googled: I was trying to get to my college’s website to see how many meals I have left

Do I get asks: not really but I’m always thirsty for attention

Why did I chose my URL: I’m a walking garbage can

Following: too many probably (I checked- it’s 572)

Followed by: 779

Average hours of Sleep: not enough!! (8ish)

Lucky number: 14 and 3

Instruments: I can fake my way through clarinet, harp, handbells, and steel pans 😎 also who can’t dink around on a piano so that too

What I am wearing: the tank top and cardigan I wore today but with pajama pants (I looked real cute though trust me)

Dream job: author or editor

Dream trip: anywhere- I love big cities but I also love the middle of nowhere and hiking and stuff like that (despite the fact that my legs don’t work) so I wouldn’t turn down some cool country

Fav food: LASAGNA

Nationality: American

Fav song: I can’t pick a favorite song who do you think I am.. always by p!atd is up there

Last book I read: American gods by Neil Gaiman (I haven’t finished it yet but I’m 230 pages in and it’s alright)

Top 3 fictional universes I wanna join: Harry Potter obviously, the island of Thisby from the Scorpio races I don’t care about killer horses I want to go, anywhere in the universe of the grisha trilogy/SoC/CK everyone is cool and good