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atlantianfell · 4 months

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It'd been just two weeks since the fateful (I shan't call it 'miraculous', for it seems the Gods worked hard against us for so long), and the generous General had been welcoming of an old friend, providing him with a place to stay in his humble Roman abode while he got his land-legs stretched out and oriented his bearings. A thousand fucking years and several thousand miles is a tremendous distortion of space and time to suffer in a single instant. He knows. He's been there. The transition was admittedly a little easier for Hector; the world has never ceased the need for more leaders and vicious warlords, but the number of princes has notably dwindled since the Medieval Era. He knew first-hand through experience that Viktor would need some time to settle in, adjust, live the world, breathe easy in the Connecticut countryside within New Haven. So he kept his regal, respectful distance and courtesy, but, you know.

Walking home for another night at sunset to a peaceful, breezy march from the town to the country, he makes the familiar sound of his keys jingling the lock of the white-painted wooden gate on stucco walls, announcing the man of the castle has returned from his days of labor at the fire station, and would be staying home for a few days. Passing by the central impluvium of his property, and heading straight for his bedroom to stand before the large full body mirror and try to wipe the sweat of his working man's brow, adjust his hair; still in his tight fireman's navy blue shirt and light pants. Instead, he fights Viktor already in his bedroom--their bedroom, you could even say. Hector built this place with one man in mind, thinking he'd be lost to time forever and longer, therefore Viktor shared the bedroom. Slept together on the days Hector was home from the fire station, even if respectfully, at least for the time being. New Haven's system implied that Viktor would learn and acclimate to the world, he'd be assigned his own place, find his own career, unless...

They greeted with a hug standing by the foot of his bed near the open window bringing in the last of the natural light for today (largely immaterial for a species of the depths and well sighted in the dark), Hector holding onto Lascaris for a little longer than usual, head past his shoulder, thinking, pondering, strategizing. The lingering scent of a working man, ashen and smoky, ought to help Viktor decide, when Hector pulls his head back to look into his eyes, endearing, wanting, arms still largely enveloping and embracing, grip of his calloused hands on Viktor's elbows, holding him closed in tight and small. "Your Highness." He begins, addressing with that bygone title that he uses whenever he's up to not good, which should tell you lots, in case the toothy grin and flashing canines were not sufficiently revealing. "I had a revelation today. It was tragic and wasteful and bitter, and I shall not burden you with the loss I witnessed, but, it did illuminate me of this..." strong hands begin to slide down Viktor's forearms, then wrists, and smoothly fit upon his hands, holding them. "Prince Viktor Lascaris, Imperial heir of Atlantis, first of Triton." With the regal dexterity he still possessed even after all this time, a single knee knightly bent before him on the terracotta tiles, one hand escapes Viktor's palms gently, reaching beside him on those deep fireman's pockets, producing a faintly glowing orichalcum-green crystalline ring with a single blue-rose pearl centered; the design is entirely simple, it's the material wealth that's largely extinct, invaluable to find, if not for the secrets of the trade of a bygone civilization. You know what it is, he needn't say it, but he does so anyways: "Marry me."

@atlantianremained

#ic /#atlantianremained #coming back strong 🤭

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feverinfeveroutfic · 4 months

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The Confectioner’s Tale | Chapter 4

On that night, I knew that I was going to have to hustle, between hanging out with Alex's band before their set, and then going over to Pete's band to be with them afterwards, and thus, I had to keep my strength up for the time being. It was going to be a long night hanging out with all of those boy, but I knew I was up to the challenge. If I could spend six hours on a big wedding cake, then I could spend six hours with a bunch of guys.

I clocked out for the day at around two thirty, and I returned home to change my clothes and run a brush through my hair. Some slinky black for the darkest, hottest boys I could ever possibly think of meeting, and the black shirt with the low plunging neckline as well as the fitted black skinny jeans and the red and white studded belt. I was the confectioner and the baker, but I knew how to dress away from it all.

I was once told I look like an artist, after all, especially when I dressed in that way.

I never could be sexy for a moment in my life, and especially not for Ben. There was so much that happened there that I simply could not afford to show myself to him, and yet in hindsight, I knew that I had to have done something like that for him if I wanted him so much. I told myself that I wanted him all for myself, but something held me back. Something tugged on my leash and told me to stand back and let the real ones flaunt themselves for him.

Something about working around food ascended me to a different level, however, perhaps more so than making art. I could feel the food and I could feel something within me as I handled something as malleable as bread dough or poured my heart into a cake or a pie.

A quick spritz of perfume on my neck and shoulders, and I picked up my purse and walked on out to my car, and I headed in back to the bakery as well as the hotel in question.

Pete and his band had already left for the venue, which meant I was going to follow Alex’s band instead on the way over. The five of them had tucked themselves into a robin’s egg blue van which had an Oakland Raiders sticker plastered on the back window: no way I could miss that as they led me through the narrow side streets to the theater, the one that rose up against the gray sky in a tapestry of eggshell white stucco and scarlet trimming. It looked like something straight out of a painting, and more so when I parked behind the van and followed the five of them into the backstage

Pete’s band had pitched their tent at the place right across the street, which meant I had to run over there after their set, and I hoped that the shadowy-looking guard over by the door of the tour bus could let me in at such a short notice.

Alex’s band had a small van barely big enough for five guys and their instruments but Pete had a big luxurious bus.

Then again, I was the kind of person to trade between two extremes no matter what the cost.

The backstage door stood wide open and I gingerly stepped inside: I hoped that no one would object to me being back there as I spotted Chuck, with the long hair that was the color of molasses and with the behavior of static, right near a long low table covered in a bright red cloth. Those eyes seemed to follow me like the northern lights, and more so when he approached me in all of his towering might.

“Hannah, right?” he asked me in a voice that sounded like the same color as his hair.

“Yes!”

“Oh good!” He brought a hand to his chest. “We meet so many people while on the road, such that it’s hard to remember their names. Alex told the rest of us all about you and the beautiful cake you made for him.”

“And?” I asked him. “What did you all think?”

“I should probably tell you that that cake is truly delicious,” he told me with a smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle up. “We seriously can’t get enough of it. In fact, Eric—our other guitarist and the band founder—wants you to make another one for us.”

“You know, now that you mention it, I want to make more stuff for you fellas now,” I confessed. He put his arm around me and guided me over to the table in question.

Alex then breezed into the room from behind a separating black velvet curtain on the other side of the room: he was wrapped in a black button-up shirt and snug black jeans: big chunky white sneakers donned his feet to the point he almost looked like a cartoon character. It took me a moment to see that he had only fastened two buttons on the shirt; he had fully exposed the buttery skin of his chest as well as the sprigs of hair at the dead center.

“And it’s the man of the hour!” Chuck declared, to which he let me go and helped himself to another slice of the cheesecake: by the look of it, there were only two slices left behind, and I knew I had to get to work soon enough for them. Meanwhile, Alex showed me a smile as he took his seat on the spindly, shabby-looking couch of scratchy-looking tweed tucked in the far corner of the room.

“Hey, you,” I greeted him as I walked on over to him.

“Hey,” he replied back, and the bottom hem of his shirt lifted up to show me a bit of his slim, slender belly.

“Peek-a-boo,” I said with a finger to his exposed skin, to which he flinched back at the feeling of my finger there.

“Hey, watch it!” he quipped, and a warm blush crossed his face.

“What’s the matter, are you ticklish there?” I teased him as I took my spot next to him.

“I guess you could say that I am,” he confessed with a slight bow of his head, and a few locks of hair dangled down over his shoulders and onto his chest. He moved his hands out from his waist a bit, just enough for me to see the bottom hem and button over his belt. He was so slender, elegant even, that I never would have believed he loved to eat as much as he did.

I glanced over my shoulder to the rest of the room, only to find Chuck and Eric congregated over by the rest of the cheesecake together. I then returned to Alex and the slight soft rosiness to his face: thin and elegant and yet there was this sweet roundness to his face. Still very much a young boy.

“It’s so really sweet of you to have a slice of my cake,” I told him in a low voice.

“I like to eat,” he pointed out. “I found your bakery quite attractive, too.” He showed me a sweet little smile.

“Well… there’s something just so personable about working in food, especially with baking,” I clarified for him. “You put your heart and soul into it, like it came out of you in such a way that you can only feel with the swipe of your tongue.”

“So, it’s kind of similar to the whole thing with music,” he followed along with a little nod of his head. “Putting yourself, your blood, sweat, and tears into it all so when someone says it’s terrible or it sucks, you feel it in your bones.”

“And when someone praises it, it gives you a shot of good feeling, especially when you thought it wouldn’t go very well.”

He licked his lips ever so slowly, and then he peered over his shoulder right as the other two guys of his band emerged from behind the curtain. They all had long dark hair, and they all were wrapped in solid black and had those big sneakers on their feet, such that I wanted to laugh a bit.

“Did I ever tell you that I’m also an artist?” I started again, that time with a clearing of my throat. He turned his head to me with his eyes lit up.

“I don’t think you did, that literally explains everything!” he proclaimed, excited. He leaned forward so he could be so much closer to me. “You have the heart and soul of an artist. And you have the gift of making things that feed your fellow humans. You and I, we can make things out of nothing. In fact…” He turned to his band mates again, and then back to me. “…come with me. I’ll introduce you to Eric, Greg, and Lou in a bit.”

He took me by the hand and guided me back to the velvet curtain. I bowed my head even though he lifted the edge for me, only to be met with a stagehand who extended his arm out to me to stop me right in my tracks.

“It’s okay, Bishop, she’s with me,” Alex told him off.

“Oh, okay—my bad.” He flashed me a thumbs up, and I walked on up to Alex to be side by side with him.

“Thank you for that,” I said to him in a hushed voice, and he led me to his dressing room tucked back in the corridor away from the rest of the room.

“I mean, it is true,” he assured me as he nudged on the door panel and then held it open for me. I was met with a little chair before a vanity mirror surrounded by those golden yellow lightbulbs and a heavy cherry wood table, as well as a small but cozy-looking loveseat on the right side of the room. Beyond the loveseat stood the doorway to the shower.

“Fancy,” I remarked as I stepped over to the loveseat. “Cozy, too.”

“It’s actually the runt of the bunch, if you can believe it,” he told me. “Chuck and Eric have minibars in their rooms. Greg has this big floor where he can do some exercise before the show. And Lou’s got not one, but two couches!”

“It’s like it was made for you and me, though,” I pointed out to him as I took my spot on the loveseat. I leaned against the arm and pulled my feet up so I could strike a pose for him.

“Ooh, hello,” he quipped with a run of his fingers through his black curls. He then turned to the table before the mirror, where I spotted a pair of hairbrushes, some combs, and what appeared to be a cloche, the latter of which beckoned the raise of an eyebrow out of me. He held the cloche by the handle and showed me another slice of my cheesecake, like he had taken it all for himself and hid it away for me to bear witness to when I saw him again.

“You saved yourself an extra slice,” I gasped, and I gazed up at him.

“Well, you know what they say: the gateway to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” he explained as he set down the silvery dome on the tabletop behind the slice. He picked up the fork there on the plate’s edge and sloughed off a small piece. He gestured for me to come on over to him. With a lick of my lips, I stood up and sauntered over to him.

He pointed the tines of the fork towards my lips. I opened my lips and took the bite for myself.

Creamy, smooth, silken, and lush, just like Alex himself.

“All’s fair in love and baking,” I told him once I swallowed it down.

“I love that,” he declared, and he hooded his eyes a bit. It took me a second to realize he was looking at my lips. He lingered closer to me, such that I could feel the delicate nature of his body even from a few inches away. He had such a beautiful body, and one that I wanted to feel all the way from that long lush hair down to his toes.

Those soft lips grazed my own, as smooth as the outside skin of a cherry. I moved in a bit closer for some extra spice on the cake, and he rested a hand on the small of my back.

He was the musician. I was the confectioner.

That is, until someone knocked on the door panel.

“Alex? We’re about ready to start rehearsals.”

“I have to go,” he whispered into my lips, and a shiver shot up my spine. He then turned to the door and opened to find Eric there on the other side.

“We were just talking,” Alex assured him, to which Eric dropped his gaze to me and squinted his eyes.

“Talking about cake?” Eric then joked.

“Talking about cake, yes!” I went along with it. I followed them out to the backstage area once again, where Alex walked on over to a little red guitar leaned against an amp about the size of a breadbox.

“I’ll see you later, baby,” I said to him in a low enough voice for us to hear over the noise of that strip of floor, and he showed me a little smile from over his shoulder at me. Alex ran his fingers through his black curls and turned towards his little red guitar there on the wire display. I watched him from behind as he slung it over his slender shoulders.

I knew I was going to taste him for the entire evening thereafter.

But there was simply no way I could go over to Pete’s camp without that in mind at all.

#the confectioner’s tale fanfic #the confectioner’s tale #fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic writing #testament #testament fanfic #alex skolnick #eric peterson #chuck billy #testament band #sweet exists~#romance #also on ao3 #writing #text

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archergrid · 6 months

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<< Chapters 1-5 Chapters 6-10

Chapter 6

The brewery was an unassuming stucco building a few blocks from the university. One of Lear’s murals covered the east wall—a massive, dynamic figure carved with intricate geometric textures. An article once described his work as Klimpt meets Basquiat, but Lear’s murals were mathier—frenetic, for sure, but playing more with geometry and dimension. He used clay and wood to give the paint and figures a kinetic, blocky depth, painted gold and carved with reticulated patterns. Even amidst Valpo’s cacophony of street art, it stood out.

I checked my phone. 2:04 PM. Lear’s been to jail, I thought. I could ask him what it’s like. If the gang does have something nefarious planned, I could just offer to turn myself in. I’d get swept off to the US federal prison system, and they’d never see or hear from me again, as good as dead. After a few more shaky breaths, I marched my badass black boots through the graffitied steel door.

The brewery proper was a maze of stainless steel metal vessels, lined up like redwoods on either side of the cavernous back room. It was like walking into a grand estate, or a prison. Squat windows near the ceiling drained light in, casting the brewery in sleepy, afternoon blue. Every step echoed. I was almost at the opposite end of the building when Lear popped out from behind a brew kettle. I nearly shot out of my shoes.

Lear looked like an arrow—rail-thin, sharp features, long gray hair puffing out from under his beanie. The wrinkles of his drawn face pointed up towards his high forehead, so he always looked like he was pitying you. “Whoa, whoa!” He checked his watch, then spread his balsa-wood arms, snapping his fingers like jabs. “Don’t be so jumpy-y-y.”

There was a dark spot under his linen shirt where he kept his gun. A deep breath balmed my frazzled nerves. “H-hey, Lear. The crew around?”

“Might be. You got your computer?”

I hugged my laptop bag and nodded.

“Cool. Let’s jam.” Lear swaggered into the shadow between the back 2 brew kettles, checking his wrist and whistling Ennio Morricone.

I didn’t follow. “Lear, p-please tell me what this is about.”

Lear’s tight shoulders slumped. He pursed his heart-shaped lips. “Come on, now, don’t make this hard on me.” His voice was flat. Panic reached up from my stomach and choked me. I backed up, but bumped something solid and warm. I spun, twitchy as prey. Cat raised her wooly-bear-caterpillar eyebrows at me.

Cat was the muscle in the crew, a big woman with a strong jaw, long silky hair, and a manslaughter rap Lear helped her out of. Her grease-stained tank top showed off meaty arms holding a tall baking dish with a lid on it. “Hey, Dom.”

“You’re late!” Lear scolded, jutting his knobby chin out at her. “Jig’s up, I guess.” Throwing an arm around my shoulders, Lear pulled me with him around the corner towards a black shadow between cylinders. My heart hammered my ribs. The dark alcove in front of me, Cat behind me blocking the exit. There was nowhere to go.

“Lear, please, just wait. You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, I think I do.” Lear clapped his hands once, the sound shuddering against the stainless-steel kettles.

“No, really, I promise, I’ll leave and you’ll never-”

Overhead fluorescents blinked to life over the picnic table we used to look over blueprints, count money, and eat greasy takeout. It was Jackson-Pollucked with every color of sticky acrylic paint. Unfamiliar paper cones were stacked on it. Inscrutable chalk-scrawls covered an ancient, wheeled blackboard situated beside an equally antique television, also on wheels. Paper streamers hung haphazardly off pipes and valves. A few feet back, U.H. stood beside the fuse box in skinny jeans and a pornhub hoodie, their phone in one hand. “Um. Surprise?”

Behind me, Lear crackled out a raucous chorus of cumpleaños feliz. I twisted around in time to see him elbow Cat, who grudgingly joined in. U.H. pointed their fingers at me as they ran up, hooked an arm around my neck, shouting the song in my face.

“Wh-what?”

“Well, you wouldn’t tell us when your birthday is, so I thought we’d pick one for you,” Lear said. “September 18th. One hell of a surprise party, right?” One hell of a surprise party was right. September 18th wasn’t my birthday of course, it was… January, definitely January. The 27th, maybe? The 23rd? “Look at her face, Cat! Told you she’d never see it coming.”

“Yeah, Boss, you made up a birthday for her,” Cat said flatly, bumping past Lear to set her ice-white dish down on the picnic table.

“Why did you tell me to bring my computer if you were just throwing a party?”

“You’re so paranoid, I had to pretend it was for work. Plus, I want to talk over your idea.”

“It’s not an idea, Lear, I’m just curious.”

Cat lifted the lid of her baking dish. The cake was a puffy cloud of chantilly cream drizzled with caramel. A rum-colored puddle covered the bottom of the plate. U.H. sat down across from us, smoking weed from an electric-green vape pen.

U.H. was an adrenaline-junky from a young age. By the time their rich parents gave up on them, the teenager had accrued 10 charges for driving without a license, 8 for reckless endangerment, 13 for destruction of property, 6 for grand theft auto, 24 for drug possession, and 1 for public nudity. U.H. was a gearhead with an obscene knowledge of cars and no slouch when it came to gadgets either. They once escaped from a Hyundai they crashed by fashioning a high-powered laser cutter out of the CD player, but beyond working Tinder, they weren’t very good with the software side.

Cat slid a slice of cake my way. The yellow sponge glistened with rum, bifurcated by a layer of icing and dulce de leche in the center. U.H. promptly reached across the table, dragging the plate towards them with a single finger. Cat flicked them behind the ear. “That’s for Dom, you gremlin.” U.H. flinched but took a bite anyway.

Lear passed us 4 unlabeled beer bottles, each one foaming at the mouth. “You tell her about the bike?”

“Oh yeah,” U.H. said, hopping to their feet as they licked their plastic fork clean. “Cat ’n me stole you a bike. It’s out back, wanna see?”

Still gobsmacked by my fake birthday party, I followed Cat and U.H. in a daze, unable to process this new piece of information. We took 2 lefts through brew kettles and mash tuns to the loading bay doors that led to the brewery’s gravel back lot. Cat slid the garage-style door up.

When U.H. said they stole me a bike, I assumed they meant something with a basket and some tassels. I didn’t expect the sleek-black paint job, angry headlamps and chunky engine. I should have—Cat and U.H. didn’t run a chop-shop for bicycles, after all.

“I know the 400 is baby’s first bike, but I didn’t know how much experience you had with motorcycles,” U.H. said (none was how much experience I had with motorcycles). “They had this moronic turbo setup—because, y’know, let’s strap a rocket to a tricycle—but I fixed it for you. We figured you don’t come out much because you must live real far away, right?”

It was less than 2 miles, but I didn’t have the heart to tell them that. I couldn’t explain why it wasn’t safe to be around me; that if I get caught, the crew will too. Besides, trying to drive a motorcycle through the roller-coaster hills of Valpo sounded like the definition of a death wish.

“Anyway,” U.H. went on as we walked back inside, “buy a helmet, not a shitty one, spend half a mil at least, otherwise your head’ll be-” U.H. made a wet noise as they scraped the palm of their hand across their skull. “Can’t let you die until we kill your new job.”

“It’s not a job,” I said as we walked back to Lear at the table. “Is that really why you called me down here?”

“Nah, nah nah,” Lear protested. “It’s about the party, a rowdy row wrapped in ribbons. Job’s just the bow on top. After what you said about the campaign I confabbed with a few folks around town who might be in the know. You weren’t kidding about this law and order angle.”

“The kids are out of control!” U.H. mocked. “They’re delinquents, they’re violent, they stole my 1984 Pontiac Firebird and crashed it into a Starbucks!”

“So, I took your advice and sent Cat and U.H. in. Told ’em to push the mayhem angle.”

“Yeah. I threw a brick through a window,” U.H. bragged.

“That was you?”

“Oh yeah. Didn’t even get yelled at. I might quit boosting cars and just do this now.”

“You got in no trouble at all?”

“No,” Cat said. “They said to keep up the good work.”

“My god… He’s really doing it, he’s paying people to be violent to validate his message.”

“And when U.H. is already validating his message so well already,” Lear japed.

“Fuck yeah I am!”

Chile had seen fascism. The right-wing dictator installed by the CIA in the ‘70s “disappeared” thousands of Chilean citizens for protesting his “presidency.” If Godoy played dirty like this, he could go full Pinochet once elected. What would happen to Valparaíso, Chile’s bastion of bohemian revolt? “You’ve sent all this to Teresa, right?”

“Nope,” Lear said, checking his watch. “In fact, it’s imperative she doesn’t find out.”

“Lear, there’s no score.”

“Oh, but there is,” he said, walking to the ancient TV. “See, I did send Teresa one tidbit from the whisper mill. It was just a rumor to me, but she did her multiple sources thing. She said it’d break at 2:30.” Lear switched the TV on.

There was Teresa’s scolding gaze and severe haircut. She leaned over a glass desk, oversized and gleaming with studio lights. A picture-in-picture of the Ek building was up on the screen beside her. “In an unexpected move,” Teresa told the camera, “presidential candidate and television personality Adalberto Godoy is holding his campaign fundraiser in the city of Valparaíso instead of Chile’s capital, Santiago. Ek Inc., the tech company best known for its Ekko mobile phones, plans to host Godoy’s gala in its newly-constructed and controversial office building in Valparaíso’s historic district. Godoy’s pro-business agenda is expected to attract corporate donors from across the globe who use Chilean copper and lithium in a broad range of electronics. Sources close to the campaign report they expect up to $20 billion pesos in donations the night of the gala.”

Lear whistled, muting the TV. “I’ve been to plenty of charity blowouts. Small donations go into envelopes on the tables, but the big stuff gets entered into a tablet.”

My job. $20 billion Chilean pesos—about $20 million USD—donated through a piece of technology. “You want to rob the fundraiser,” I realized aloud.

Lear grinned, all graveyard teeth. “No, you want to rob the fundraiser. This was your call, D-zero, and you called it. It’s only right that you manage it.”

“Me? I-I just wanted to see what Godoy was up to.”

Lear lowered his voice as U.H. chatted to Cat. “Exactly. You’re in it for the right reasons, D-zero, just like I am. The money isn’t what you’re after, that’s just icing.” Lear dipped a knobby finger into his slice of cake, popping the wad of chantilly cream in his mouth. “We want to even the odds. We want these bastards out of Valpo. What do you say?”

What a stupid, sloppy idea, I thought. The last time I went up against Ek directly, he ended up acquitted and I ended up here. I’d be risking detection, capture, federal prison, or worse: another 4000 white-knuckle miles of static. Yet, how could I sit back and watch Ek and Godoy take over Valparaíso, the town that had sheltered me for 4 terrified years? How many more times would I let Julian run me from my own home? Lear, as off-kilter as he was, took care of me when I arrived in Valpo in a broken down car, delicate as an exposed wire. Paula too, who gave me a dark and quiet place where I felt safe. I loved Valparaíso, with its crooked streets you couldn’t help but get lost in; never be found in. I felt safe cradled between the mountains and the sea, holding me in cupped hands with paint-stained fingers.

He can’t just get away with it. Not this time; not your thumb; not this scale. If the law can’t stop Julian Ek, I’ll black his eye for them. “I’ll do it. I’m in.”

“Good,” Lear said. “I’ll take care of staffing, you just figure logistics. U.H. and Cat will keep looking for limits on hell-raising. I’ll drag for contractors.”

“We should get someone in the campaign staff.”

“See? You’re bossing me around already.” Lear’s smile went soft around the edges. “You’re a peach, Ms. Mysterio. Sorry to do this on your birthday.”

“It’s OK. It’s not my birthday.”

“Oh, you about to tell me when it really is?”

“No.”

“Then far as I’m concerned, it’s September 18th, baby.”

“Don’t call me ’baby’,” I said, rolling my eyes while trying to decide between 1/23 or 1/27. Lear set an occupied brown paper bag on the table. Whatever was inside was the mass, volume, and density of a textbook. “What’s this?”

“What’d I just say? Sept-tem-ber 18th, baby.” Lear tapped the bag with each syllable.

“And what did I just say?” Reaching inside, my fingers found something solid and poly-smooth. It was heavy, and I needed both hands to pull it up and out of the bag. The sturdy frame had hinges drilled into one side, attaching a small, squat door. A dollar-store lock held the door shut, covering whatever painting the frame was framing. With a bit of digging I fished the small, notched key from the bottom of the bag. The lock clicked open with spring-loaded satisfaction. I unhooked it from the latch, then opened the door like a book.

It was me. Bands of butter yellow and daubs of ultraviolet chiseled me out from the black canvas. Gold geometric patterns marched along the seams of my jacket and zigzagged through my textured hair. It still smelled like turpentine. In the painting, I was laughing, my sunglasses in my hand and my eyes wet with molten gold. Looking at it was uncomfortable. The girl in that painting wasn’t a big, bad cyber-revolutionary. She was small and jagged, laughing through her tears. That girl couldn’t do what I’m about to. That girl was an open wound. “It’s beautiful, Lear,” I said, and meant it. “How is it meant to be displayed? With the door open or closed?”

“Suppose that’s up to you, D-zero.” Lear smiled, but barely. “That’s not my name, y’know.” He tapped 4 sweeping, capital letters in the bottom-right corner. L-E-A-R. “It’s Reyes. But you knew that already, right?”

Yes. You were arrested by Pinochet’s military police after one too many avant-garde acts of vandalism. After that, the Universidad de Chile’s art program revoked your admission.

“Why do you think they call me that?”

“Seems obvious. You’re the king, and…”

“And?”

“And you’re a little crazy.”

Lear nearly fell off his seat, howling with laughter. “Nah, that ain’t why. It’s because I let little girls like you push me around.”

You treated jail like the university you couldn’t go to. You learned; networked, and not just with the other political prisoners. You graduated from avant-garde to direct action. “I’m not a princess,” I said.

“Don’t I know it. So? I showed you mine, you show me yours.”

You have a real daughter in Santiago that refuses to see you. I know what kind of soap you use, what kind of porn you watch, what kind of emails you write but never send. I know everything about you, and you don’t even know my name. “I think it’s better if you call me Domino,” I said as I shut the door on the painting, “and I call you Lear.”

“4 years and you still don’t trust me.” With a heavy sigh, Lear stood up from the table. “Guess that makes you a good criminal.”

I couldn’t process any kind of answer to that. Had 4 years turned me into a criminal, or did my chemical makeup fundamentally change the moment I opened that video? It seemed like a lifetime since I’d gone on the run, that 2-month road-trip panic-attack, screaming south until no one knew my name.

A strange revelation hit me then—a bug in my code. What was my real name again? I hadn’t used it since I left, and the news only referred to me as “Former Ek Inc. Employee.” It was on the tip of my tongue. My brows pressed together, as though the information could be folded back into my brain. My thumb was running down the stained wood of the painting’s closed door when the syllables floated up from a dusty corner of my mind, like a piece of trivia.

Lia. My name is Lia.

<< Chapters 1-5 Chapters 6-10

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staticspaces · 2 years

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Nineteen Seventy-Nine

See below for the brand new video!!

https://youtu.be/YGGAQ7PgTAk

Here is our first look at this house that was built in 1979!!

While driving down a busy road, you may pass this brown brick side-split house with a combination of both wood and stone on the facade. The house which has sat abandoned for a couple of years or more was originally custom built in 1979. The exterior reminds me of many of the single detached homes in Toronto built during the same period of time. Once you get inside you see that this home is actually quite simple with a lot of beige paint and minimal finishings. What it does have is the nice stained wood staircase going to the second floor, a great retro handrailing to the basement and decorative stuccoed ceilings.

Sitting on 10 acres of prime development land, this home sold for $7 million almost 10 years ago and could be worth twice as much given the current market conditions. This house will almost certainly be demolished in the near future to be replaced with higher density housing.

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journeydb · 8 days

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October 11 2023 Santa Lucia, Anfitreatro de Praca de Republica, Vila Nova de Cacela, Vila Real Santo Antonio, Algarve

We packed up our things from our villa and headed out to breakfast because we are changing lodgings today. I have REALLY enjoyed the villa and this WONDERFUL resort and I highly recommend it to anyone visiting the Algarve.

The breakfast room was so comfortable and the food was yummy every day. It turns out I could eat the eggs because all the eggs in Portugal are cage-free! I typically avoid bakery products too, because they are almost never vegan, but they did have a an oat bread I could toast and that was tasty.

We rode our bikes along the coast this morning to Santa Lucia, to stop and take photos because Alex insisted this was one of the most photogenic spots along the tour. He and Suzanne were also quite photogenic!

We stopped at a cafe and bakery in Anfitreatro de Praca de Republica for a snack and drinks. The cafe was in a lovely little plaza and a guy was playing guitar and singing, creating a relaxing ambiance.

After the snack we walked over to the bridge, which Alex said had a story of a Romeo and Juliet kind of sad love tale about Tavio and Faro who defended the bridge and the independence of Portugal and died in the process. There was a plaque with the story but it was hard to read in Portuguese so we pretty much had to take Alex's word for it.

It was a lovely spot, with brautiful white and gold stucco homes with gardens on either side of the river and everyone else decided we needed a group picture so we took one.

The next stop on our route was Vila Nova de Cacela, which is also considered one of the loveliest spots on that part of the coast for photos, so we complied.

We thought another group shot was called for at the interesting church near the beach, so we gathered in front of it, which also gave us a chance to rest a bit before heading off on the last leg of today's journey and LUNCH at the beach club in Vila Real de Santo Antonio, after which some of us went swimming in the Atlantic Ocean!

Because they had loaded our bikes on vans at the beach clubs, I needed to walk to town after my swim, which was quite tiring after all the riding, so I was really happy to be able to take a shower in our pretty, comfortable room before resting before dinner on our own.

Luckily, we found a sweet little vegetarian restaurant and the female chef made some exquisite vegan dishes for me. We saw our guides Rita and Pedro eating outside at the same restaurant and spent a few minutes chatting with them. They have both been SO helpful througout our tour.

We walked around the square behind the hotel after dinner, where there waa a kind of fair going on, and then walked back to our beautiful hotel, the Grand Hotel, with its heavy wood Portuguese furniture, iron stair railings, and porcelain painted pots everywhere.

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hawkeyepaintingandyardservice · 1 year

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skaddy111 · 2 months

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myspettro · 2 months

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