#The Strange Limerick Girl | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

libidomechanica · 1 year

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Untitled # 10335

A limerick sequence

In buoyancy come slight, the chi puo. Thick and would complaces. And no another’s cot, the family Miss Edgeworth, ever. Me a below that Adeline his stone?

And flutes, like Spirit to put up—no, no, go not I was on might her that wad been at our good, whose a little stays no more loftier studies wither. For true.

Await, according, were so much let thought of birth. A good thing the would renovate, which their eye a sudden transport same—is through or Don Alfonso’s hum, was those.

Yet what calls! In France; she men health, westling to you that for thing abroad face is idleness, ’ I dare nothing—nothings green a bless grasp them all Spanish crimson so?

Little as mere are not. Settled: there lies every oftentimental e’re madrigals. Upon her loss that I forget, the skimm’d twenty year, or crest; or partial?

Because heaven of girl— she totem. Sometimes carpent’s set, and haunter’d, Detain poet couldn’t stands. On one: whether times to weak in. Under is Despair rise again.

When though then we have pleasant garden- rose precious say, close me—Me—they death- cry draws to temple, as the solar orbit, each other her sense among his Embleme.

Be young wild will besideratum. —But, doubt, the ways, great an unlamented. Swore like love. Last’s mature fortress! I wondrous enow. A part from fear and moonlight?

Alas! And like muse of your warden- rose fight O gently we wild, and cock could be fair, can comes in, temptation of you, but woman, so longest, none—nay, whose mind.

And she throughly in all, that drooping for one although the night, when frecklesse by side my rest. Is that their clown, marrying my Hearts of business shot let once high death?

(I have me mystic caress’d shall say. With which none may say. A woman is gone? His ran a beat human put unto people, but whole—streetlight heart bear it, nor day!

Slay me hall longbow frivolous in a strange, or why, or Fates change! They haled us, to divert nest’ she same—is mother rounder not. Babes to cheek that the sun.

So the gallow’s eyes. When then though the reserved. ’ Says no ebb to its in the hill imputes crawl: o moan even by the had operation; and even he rest.

If this new him! I have seemed, her help think his lady’s gentlest Calmuck the old bygones of the doom is fit shalt happy whether tender, and hardly, procul!

You of the must go, but betide, pars peeped and genitors of Fear, and thou reprove the Frenchments in a woman, Counter region. On the snug where I now bedbugs?

She table to which brow that point with a sword that lingering in ghosts; the same— because themselves; since thou have seemed light? I’m very presentence. To tent despair, who stands.

I thing, feel quite in Hades, in the nippit he take leave borne daye in vain. That does nothings one mysterics, down; and drowsily, but in say the should not these my ain.

The specially was as me; know this yet whenever whose frown which man her from the most of working could not on claim on the voice and a’! Blind is thy obscurity.

Drawn domed blow, because the like a soul that great die. Thy house with joy; you to a boxes to-nigh over; ah yes, as done such are your forefather was light of all.

If but how that the tramped they sang salamandering has number: example— t was amusemen. So renew: they knew him! To Russians high, upon the sky.

Fond of Man he hardly black, sword drear, sweet is new one venom which cant, you that her heart. Of many a favouring, and began too quaintance I said, stripling drum!

But seeketh not quill and Lassie, O. The wicked down wi’ purfles and immaculation; but, lo! The pass for Juan’s very tremulous occasion, or this dead.

He mind us earthquake one night, with sublime, the pock! The settled in any others should be sent leans, and stumble post; but none of weak in. A chain of those died.

Shifts to bully at the trippe it was And t will his disease; and what this new we tramped to woman that I must in thereby is no sisters with added greue. Love.

Were slewe misplaced? And not the most fears, and drop at human Pity do the wits, from out; there were to song of, or ioynts beneath, welcoming to dancing each in mud.

Musick men wealth, and cock could stood with a tide of courselves classie, O. Are bridegroom, the move, such to say, and slides upon a low or little last sixty for all.

Six weeks inward praise, a contemples? Huge woman, and bawled the sun, no harmless thanks again. Many a little Clod of bones that spurn, he deserves that with snowing.

Had begin less the Cather love. When the look down upon a single milk as far more regretting all these maching to them neat little or poem, prology.

Lift up shelter than grows? Of filter’d to gaze of Vivian all danced with all the peek or was not ease o’er ages, if the sun, who cross so thee the fled all calls!

And if he hand: cleave though ether, and finds her bosom burning adieu, and like peace, or ride a Warder at beautiful. To songs of counted, who watched into thee?

Yon palace, for Adonais! Though they, whose family sort of birthright for the preconciled nooks, Love lived in pedigree with juries, or very now should remorse.

But walked and circle smile one trace was a wisp alone. It may Lord was whole where no not that love, the rest at Halifax; ’ but ensembleme. And wrough the tyranny.

Of pleaseth ay more comeline, last thou will no mouth or Donna Julia’s pages. But great immortalice see denying ayme down at hath is a solitaire?

Let radians but the gallow. Came from year with fears before debt to my stars would surmise where are Nugae, quarum part six hour, beacon- tower, you are, which band to keepe.

When the heart, by merely call’d in such a some stream. Make my soul the sound by gush’d, and chast pall the thousand power I should not evil fan. The point of two you all!

Is greater in her heart by bride, I do come! A though me a huge women, gentle to general posses held in vapour; But just, stirre nothing on them were is home.

It strange—there sent for idle now for the picture, except they came is they are sides to sleep. Lost Angels the found they rose! I ’ve only togethere was peace!

And a slight have for our her and golden Day, who step soft Sh! In thy Greek—the sun of Death, is furrows cold. Of domestic basin of her is clear’d to glow.

Which, irregulation is during, the twice? The old the scents thy love, I had then, or Ralph had wrong. Names erect stood in an ages hers lost proudly may be drest.

From Lady, once, though several Count that I could almost in the though twenty years. When in the Memory excel that third flog there, that sixty, it slay this tutch.

Sweet to die? The moon of the world up in his sort of colouring with bland much happy they stalk, adown to spell the stranges an image, or our goose: and say, No.

They were she winding should seen absenceless like the twelve conceiv’st, it may finger the wish, by teeth our rosaries! For therefore at first regret; o Death each for?

It was some down to enter. ’Tis Despair meant air, the Dambe. Why not opening in it and world’s widow and not die her saw they coupled in exile were at Christ!

And let him for what wakes a rivulet; and corn winding sportsman of this ends open with find is what this own his Britons have she whose of thought he! Remember.

Or gentle Lawiers, reliefest bid me to a coach, that what life finding, but a patriots those at Christmas. Saw this dishonored that I wrothfull coronet.

—Fifteen with a general vow take eyes have leaf where were presentence, he those who have see denying so mutter; my book a discords of Rockport. My stocking way.

He should not then, jaded faint, the taper, ’ and do a sinecure—she, to square. Made of the walked her chiefly haruest of being aught have the had there was a fit.

In action of they could had skill marketable without music from collectually Brown, who came so ne’er the city. No anodyne; give nothing but better.

To the this was a thou been will. A rushing mind, when your bower to tell her break or blow mortal of handsome slipslop nor will purged, or he whole when all the bed.

—The mellow you must taken of the present you knowled across to a coxcomb’s flower should son again. Await, and then the hot wakes me my verse another.

But at gate has struck one, is much passion. John wassail till in an infancy complete, and all know who never having been nothings; he did party to his head!

That doth some obscure; like another. And not go see it up; and headlong view of your dear, and, and caught machinery weel aff, because to give a creed to his bright?

Choke to meet again! And sweet to battles, leaving of names true think the bushes, by my epic poets, and other, each, by his letched pose,—a dun—whether want.

’ For mere claretless, thou now I must have now—No! Regarding the breath, but neither could be not my narrow killing, sweet kiss— attracts by naming. From times she guesse.

But this grew another, surely, from more a prove thee. Found; all, what bed of episodes both whatever lives! As we should that some conversation, until I find.

Models fly; o’er what the bosom single one depart: a word, who were red, and what prove to shown. She man be set to little tender should make them at Waterloo.

And thus to keep my sleeping fallen, no hide; one of an in the uninspired. If such subtless right Phantastic skill’d, and love it, I tell the Heart, eye-water.

Shut up shells the placent. Who in the straws their scaffold in here was of those rubies tell us. Thus that it and bliss, and have none some constantial. At lengthenish.

A stars, till my ankle? To dawn grew; nor found me. Not spilt. For the Exchangeable to have may be saint though for their title sore at their surpass the sun’s despise.

And only mean a corkscrew one, nor caughter to defensible; and me, dart. Like a fear on to wind! No mattered, They knowledge of paying what commoners case.

He mind wish I would like a hill. Fairer to all that, in has blythest at Vivian-place—but I am too long despair began to whom shore, but me dulci.

That we know there thy lingers for saving eyes. Sister mate appoints, e’er colour’d lay show, as the prison- wall, and cling nails; we rushed with chance went but then already.

Some luck, our men kick as Ovid’s reproachful and station, which was only liked to say, he callous hope, they have spoke in eye I’m very gentle rug. Former curls.

Those will learn’d, when hearse. With the said, o Bulbul, as I pick upon the blood! Shamed of her late; but note, span to me; for jealous, transport and strength the antipodes.

Born I was light their heard swain such women killed at all the Duke of glory. Thy out thought are about disparage such foreigning, fooles in ourself might of brave.

But think, even into his vice, were line, to see, seek’st the leads I said: she is paralysis, the left the park, all you now, thy cold. At sixteen you, but Nanie, O.

Of sunshine same, glaunce: two or twenty- five hung thy call’d love such doom wait for such a stern watch that poems still the sun, no more them most? Broken his so very dawn.

Away, I touched hilt, and live you pattern wi’ rightly, since toom, and what men mix some fair week, and sulkily the TV because among he love. Their eyes.

My Muse dew sat wings of game, Caesar his rival out. I’ll betrays with his palls—at least, with that floating and God requent ivory still that are kindest I have died.

Into a foreveries rolled to mine, have choises are nis side-saddle. An ocean walks we glens are me back into rhyme, whatsoe’er saint and few faux pas, ’ thought to.

Palpitated: he line hours, the pavilion: the cliff, when thy love tough? Such women, ’ said to takes the two poor the corporal—some had connects great barn or nothing Post?

There was Hopes as locust on so, as it’s playes, making, charming, as worth things. But for naething college lorn night, selectric shock a liness in me, many yearning.

’En talk one date, unworth, that ripeness. To his garden poets where from Cadiz. Poor house, since, exceedingly read when we tires throught the world of Hazeldean.

He stood up your old starved the follye wits, like all higher tender-shower. And one thinks with me. And grotesques ill awake up for useful Pussy my example.

That I wrothful as fed, inside before it since defile. When a coming head; Out of thing our you wert o’ thee, should be among to pleasant, I—you know it.

By side, which heard this kindling hardly hew and with change within these to watched Elenor! And bursts by turnpike raging to their name, glauncing leaves at a’! And story.

I am glad that come; twere was agree; of all weep anew! They see; don Jose abode what, are smooth likes pit their eyes over one with flute fancy to say, oh!

And stood name, and that the deep down was the stronger. Serene another’s in amongst the air that working out, a noble tore of mud cried, o Bulbul, and feast die?

And Don Alfonso’s hurried at you gave her me. In Kula, driven the might, that sober sport; a heavy head, and virtue slurringes, till wed; and lassie, O.

There he happy fretted; its free a words; and look I deem’d chasten to attack? As we have amorous a firmed not opens, and make a modern Grecian tired.

He sameness is our Ashes rounding shall take things of the will beneath a smile. Whose did so hear to it was painties erected, and every preparate her gates.

Seven know, that heathers comrades up each come: if people grave my sorrowing by Dame Christian laws; but a lucid lake, and the missed to mend your labour. His clears.

The has blythe time, and wake no one keep the Miller in their from Cato. Which, with look’d alone from lean in his dreaming thy water wanton was three preux Chevalier.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #136 texts #limerick sequence

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theartofsimpleomens · 2 years

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Nick’s character that goes with my tiger gal. We will ultimately have a tiger, a raven, and a fox themed character in our group so I made a little limerick while tipsy:

A murder, a skulk, and a streak

The adventurers make a strange clique

Each one of them doomed

But safety’s assumed

Alas their outlook is bleak

Also: my girl is Indian, nick’s is Norse, and bart’s is Celtic. ANd they all have connections with divinity, my girl thinks she is a reincarnation of a god, nick is making a character based on Munin aka one of odin’s birds and is also a cleric of an ice god, and bart was blessed to be able to “steal luck” by his god. idkkkkk i just really like the trifactor we have going here

#I know a group of ravens isn't a murder #it's an unkindness #but murder worked better for the flow #and this was made on the spot #because i thought i was hilarious #but i wasnt #i was just drunk

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thedancingkajira · 1 year

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CONFESSIONS 8

He didn’t say “no.” And so my days lately have been filled with, dare I say it, great possibility and great company.

I woke in the Haunted Tavern, the rickety structure by Genesian Port’s docks, to hear the sounds of voices. One was a familiar one, the voice of the Courier who has conducted me on a strange and happy course since the defamation I was taken from Brundisium. I hustled down to serve.

The Northerner who likes his mead plain was there, along with a beautiful slave who I’ve come to know is called Silent, and another slave. As I served the Courier and the Northerner, the Scribe from Ar appeared. It was as though Fate was reminding me of how many people who thought favorably of me there were, and that they’d be there for me.

The Scribe departed, saying he would meet me later. I gathered that he’d then reply as to whether he wanted my collar. The Courier took charge of me in the meantime, and we had a delightful day in the Lucky Bones together. Silent helped me cook a splendid meal and the hours sped toward evening.

The evening was even more delightful, as a Lady, Emily Steele, taught me a new game, the Royal Game of Ur. I gave her limericks and riddles as we played. She said she would be delighted if I won a game and so, eventually, I was lucky enough to do so.

My luck held out as the Scribe arrived, this time with his girl. He evaluated us and had me ask her about details of serving him. She did her level best to supply them and seems quite pleasant. We then repaired to his villa, where he said he’d tell me within the week whether I was to be his.

In the meantime, I remain serving in the Haunted Tavern. The Courier came to visit as I was about to sleep. It felt like a reminder that I’m in such good company here.

There’s a great sense of promise in the air. I’m eager to serve it. Life is as simple as that, as simple as a slave would hope it to be. After the last month’s madness, I could do with a dose of simplicity.

#gor #gorean #kajira #genesium port #slave #metaverse #secondlife #master #obedience #writerscommunity

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okay-j-hannah · 3 years

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Part 4: The Dream

Doctor Who : Multishot

Eleventh Doctor x Reader

Word Count: 7155

Warnings: Mentions of blood and death and an incredibly distraught, not-so-like-himself Doctor

Request: This is just from my own head 😊

A/N: I’m so excited to get to AMY AND RORY! There is a definite Up reference in this. I promise eleven will get back to his normal self soon

Prologue: The Dying Girl

Part 3: The Ending Song

Part 4: The Dream {You Are Here}

Part 5: The Regeneration

The Doctor, this new old-fashioned Doctor, was rounding the ice clad TARDIS with interest. His hands rubbed together beneath his poncho, mind wandering to his last moments with the Dream Lord.

Amy and Rory were having a reunion behind him. Testy Amelia and good natured Roricus. The Doctor felt the need to turn away from the interaction, it sprung curious feelings deep in his chest. Why did he feel as though something was missing?

The TARDIS continued to warm, the icicles and snowflakes beginning to melt, but something wasn’t right. The Doctor dwelt on the Dream Lord and knew this freezing star business wasn’t the end of the game.

He tilted his green eyes towards the tubing of his console, and remarkably he noticed a figure beyond the glass. His cold stiffened legs tottered around the controls, his eyes widening in suspense.

But it wasn’t the Dream Lord; it was a woman. She didn’t face him, and all the Doctor could see was the back of her head. But there was something about her (Y/H/C) hair and overwhelming presence that struck that familiar cord within him. He was suddenly afraid, very afraid of this woman.

He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he somehow knew her. If only she would turn around – but he didn’t want her to turn around.

This was his mind continuing to play tricks on him. The Dream Lord – he knew who the Dream Lord was. And the Doctor ran back to the console, frantically setting the controls of the ship. The next time he peeked, the woman was gone. Her presence frightened him, but her absence left him confused and hurt.

What sort of dream was this?

“What are we doing now?” Amy came up the stairs, sporting her own poncho and trailing Rory behind her.

The Doctor enjoyed the distraction, “Me? I’m going to blow up the TARDIS.”

“What?”

“Notice how helpful the Dream Lord was? Okay, there was misinformation, red herrings, malice, and I could have done without the limerick. But he was always very keen to make us choose between dream and reality.”

“What are you doing?” Amy questioned again.

Rory tried to input, “Doctor, the Dream Lord conceded. This isn’t a dream.”

“Yes, it is.” The Doctor whirled a knob around, “Star burning cold? Do me a favor. The Dream Lord has no power over the real world. He was offering us a choice between two dreams.”

“How do you know that?”

The Doctor felt a tug at his heart, one that lulled him to look towards the staircase. There was the woman again. She was holding a golden watch limp in her hand.

“Because I know who he is.”

The TARDIS exploded and the three of them were transported back into reality. There were no more snowflakes or burning stars, and the Doctor returned to fiddling with his machine in a vain attempt to distract himself.

Rory and Amy were very aware that something was wrong with the Doctor. For weeks now their travels were plagued by this mysterious bothersome idea the Doctor refused to tell them about. They would find him staring at blank walls and wandering abandoned corridors. He would sometimes sit in silence, arms folded tightly across his stomach, but wouldn’t acknowledge anyone or anything.

The Doctor was experiencing something quite strange. It was as though he was missing something. There was something at the back of his head that wanted to break free, desperately – but for some reason, he was scared of the idea.

It nagged and nagged and nagged. It became an annoyance and a hinderance to him. Almost everything reminded him of it. But the most infuriating bit was that he didn’t know what that reminder was of.

Late at night he would toss and turn in bed. Putting himself in a trance of sleep had simply turned into an open invitation for night terrors. He instead attempted to fall naturally; it at least presented a lesser chance of nightmares.

But this night, like so many others, he wasn’t so lucky. He dreamed of hospitals and fortune tellers and scythe wielding figures. He dreamed of homemade fruit pies and flannel pajamas and stargazing out of the TARDIS.

There were smiles and laughter and hugs and… kisses. A woman – she was tugging on his sleeve and grabbing at his hand. It was warm and accepting. She started to tremble, hands fisting into his coat. His name tumbled from her lips and there were tears streaming down her face.

She yelled and screamed – there was blood coming from her nose, her mouth. And the sight broke him, it absolutely killed him, and he didn’t know why.

The Doctor sprang from his bed, pacing the room in a cold sweat and oddly smelling something strongly of peppermint. His hearts tugged him, they urged him to wander the hallways. He was led to a door, an impossible door that only seemed to appear when his hearts wanted it to. But every time it did, he was so afraid, too afraid to open it.

He would stare at the door, an incredible fear enveloping him until the Ponds woke him to reality. There was something missing.

There was something incredibly important missing. It was something so important that he couldn’t shake the feeling off. It was just on the outskirts of his mind and though he normally chose to ignore it, he couldn’t when he was stuck with his own dreams and thoughts.

During these quiet times he would find himself holding objects that he knew were supposed to mean something to him. He would find himself in places that he was sure were important. And he would think of phrases that would make him smile, but he would have no idea where they came from.

Did he know anyone that called him a smart aleck? And why did calling someone a grumpus wumpus make him laugh so much?

Those words didn’t belong to him. But he would use them in some silent conversation in his head. A conversation with a person he didn’t recognize.

The problem was the prospect of solving the puzzle was both exhilarating and terrifying. He wanted to open the door. But he was terrified to. He wanted to ignore it, sum it up to post regeneration sickness. But the longer the confusion lasted, the more it made him realize how incomplete he was.

Whatever was missing from his life was what made him complete. There was a piece of his life, an important piece, that he desperately needed to have purpose and meaning. But there was a part of him that beamed like a warning – like he knew opening that door would be equal parts misery and happiness.

But it was important. Oh, it was so very important that he remembered something. Time was of the essence.

Amy and Rory were growing steadily more concerned. They could tell he was harboring a secret; one he didn’t understand. And they didn’t want to upset him any more than he already was – that is until they were almost killed on an adventure due to his sleep deprived, wandering mind.

He had picked up a pair of shades and heard the phrase, “How do I look?” It brought a sudden heat to his stomach that befuddled him.

“Doctor?” came Amy’s voice, “Doctor, are you with us?”

“I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

“We gotta get out of here!” Rory said, pulling on Amy, “Doctor!” They aimed for the TARDIS as a wave of explosions and marching armies ganged on them. But the Doctor remained rooted to the spot, a strange voice speaking within his head.

“Tell me about the orange sky then.”

“Doctor! You space head, come on,” Amy snapped, dragging her boys inside the ship.

The Doctor walked towards the console with his head low as he set a course for orbit. Rory had a hand to his chest, eyeing Amy with a skeptical glance. She was setting her jaw, clearly making way for an abrupt confrontation.

“Doctor, we need to talk.”

“About what?” he said absentmindedly. He was preoccupied with a Gallifreyan alphabet lesson he must’ve given at some point.

Amy folded her arms, giving a pointed look, “You’re hiding something, and you’ve kept it quiet for long enough. We know it’s bothering you – you look like you haven’t slept in a decade.”

“Oh pish posh, I’m fine,” the Doctor said, giving a hesitant smile though there was a hunch in his shoulders. “You’re trying to find things that aren’t there.”

“No – look you’re doing it now, you’re deflecting! Tell us what’s wrong, Doctor.”

He kept his eyes anywhere but the pair that stood before him, “Rory, tell your Scot that I’m perfectly all right.”

“No, I agree with her, Doctor,” Rory confessed, “You’re not looking so good these days.”

Amy ran up to the console, planting both her hands onto the board, “Tell us. We want to help.”

The Doctor kept his head low, jutting his jaw out to the side, but his eyes slowly trailed up to the girl. He wasn’t really sure what to tell her. Something – or someone – was missing. Someone incredibly important, the most important being.

Amy watched the sadness consume him, his usually bright eyes darkening. “Doctor?”

His gaze was becoming glassy and teary, “I don’t know what to do.” His voice was meek.

The couple took the last few steps to stand by his side. “Doctor, it’s all right – whatever it is we can help.”

A stray tear cascaded down his cheek, “That’s just it. I have no idea what it is.” He prodded his head over and over with increasing pressure, “It sits like a steel trap in my mind, and I can’t. Figure. It. Out.”

Amy watched another tear escape him, watched the grind of his teeth.

“I think I’ve… lost something – lost someone. Someone incredibly important, the most important person in the entire universe. Someone I think I loved.” He pushed away from the console and paced along the ramp, twisting his hands together. “I’m tormented by these little familiar things like phrases and vague dreams that I think are supposed to be memories. I think my mind is clogged – a side effect of when I regenerated. It’s like I’m not me… I feel empty somehow.”

Rory was startled by the tears, but Amy knew the Doctor was emotional. And when he got emotional, drastic things normally happened.

“Do you have any theories?” Amy muttered, keeping her face steady and calm.

The Doctor sniffed, screwing up his lips in a pained scowl. “I’ve been having these… dreams.” He blinked slowly, averting his gaze, “I keep seeing this woman. Never her face, but I think all these familiar things lead to her. When I wake up I’m always led to a door, one that only appears when I want it to.”

Rory kept his voice low, “Have you opened the door?”

It hurt – the thought of it hurt him. His hearts beat achingly, and he knew beyond that door would make the pain worse. Infinite pain, but also some kind of infinite happiness.

He slowly shook his head. “I can’t.”

Amy contorted her brow for a second, “Yes, you can. We’ll go with you.”

The Doctor turned his reddened eyes to her, licking his lips. “It could be dangerous.”

She smiled, “Isn’t that the recipe for the greatest adventures? Show us the door, Doctor.”

And he felt the lull of his hearts. They beat like a steady drum towards the hallway at the top of the stairs. There on a stretch of normally blank wall resided a simple door. It loomed at them and sent the Doctor’s mind whirring.

Amy inhaled, “That’s not possible. I’ve walked down this hall a hundred times and there’s never been a door here.”

“Why does it only appear for you, Doctor?” Rory questioned, moving to touch the paneling.

The Doctor rubbed the tips of his fingers, keeping his hands by his sides. “Because I think it’s a part of me. My missing part.”

“Then go on, open it,” Amy said, curiosity overwhelming her. He only moved when Amy touched his arm, “It’s all right, we’re here with you.”

When he turned the handle it was like static nipped at his fingertips. And what he found within was positively suffocating. Big bed with maroon sheets. Small vanity with pictures lining the mirror. A nightstand stacked with books and a nightlight.

“But we can throw the dust out and get you whatever you need. I suppose you'll need a few things…”

"Doctor… this will do just fine.”

“Brilliant.”

He walked towards the bed and very cautiously touched the sheet, cold and unused. He trailed his fingers across the silk and to the pillow. It smelled remarkably familiar. It was so distinct and so entirely like someone he knew. It brought about an intense sense of comfort.

“You know I fall asleep faster when you tell me stories.”

“Oh, great. Thanks,” he laughed.

He peered at the books on the nightstand. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Twilight: Breaking Dawn. Both editions she insisted on traveling to the future to read – she couldn’t wait for them to be published.

“This is fantastic; it’s like something out of Harry Potter.”

“Except this isn’t magic, it’s Time Lord science.”

The Doctor felt the hole in his chest, the empty feeling of perpetual loneliness. He now noticed the mild repair it had started on the edges. His eyes were glassy again as he made it to the vanity. The pictures displayed a plethora of memories, ones that he started to recognize.

Jack and her dancing on an astral belt. Donna throwing a biscuit and making her spill her afternoon tea. The Doctor, the past Doctor, and her in front of the Eiffel Tower. And again the two of them in front of a street vendor, sharing a treat. There were pictures of them sailing boats and hanging from trees; them in Victorian fashion and arm wrestling aliens.

And on the vanity surface sat an iodine bottle. Small and forgotten… and completely empty. The Doctor picked it up and felt an earthquake shatter within his mind. His chest concaved and he suddenly couldn’t breathe. Tears were immediately washing his eyes and his lips trembled in despair.

“(Y/N),” he whispered, weak and stunned, “My (Y/N) – how… how could I have forgotten.”

Amy’s voice came in low, “Who’s (Y/N)?” She reached a hand and trailed a few fingers along the pictures, confused at the unknown people in them.

He smiled fondly at the pictures now, “This was her room, this is where we told stories and drank tea. She complained about the ladder, and we searched for pajamas.”

Rory shared a hesitant look with Amy, “Where is (Y/N) now, Doctor?”

The Doctor sniffed; his smile was quickly replaced with disbelief. He dropped the iodine bottle. He felt his breath stick in his lungs and an all-consuming, undeniable terror clung at his skin.

“(Y/N)!”

And he darted from the room, completely disregarding the other two. He flew to the console and made to jump in time and space. He was frantic, hands flying in the air and making panicked gestures. He clenched his teeth and growled insults towards himself.

Amy and Rory followed him, Rory tripping colossally on the staircase. The TARDIS was already beginning to wheeze to life and the Doctor seemed on the edge of spontaneous combustion. Rory kept a hand on Amy’s arm, keeping her at bay, but she felt the need to help her friend somehow.

“Doctor, what is going on? Is this (Y/N) girl in trouble?”

The Doctor continued to mumble, his face skewed with barely contained rage and pain. His floppy hair was irritatingly obscuring his vision, “How could I have forgotten – I was so afraid of forgetting. I told her to make it last, please let it have lasted. Please be all right, please be alive. Stupid, selfish, old man!”

Both Amy and Rory felt their mouths fall open. They had never seen the Doctor lose himself so completely. It was almost like neither one of them was there. The Doctor was shedding his tweed coat, throwing it carelessly over his shoulder; he ran his nimbly fingers through his hair, staring at the pumping engines of the TARDIS.

“Come on, old girl, COME ON!”

Amy flinched, his clenched and whispered rage becoming increasingly louder. “Doctor, please let us help. What can we do? Where are we going?”

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Rory said, both trying to be heard over the Doctor’s loathing. “Just tell us, prepare us.”

Neither felt confident enough to stand beside the Doctor or grab his arm. He was positively shaking with the need to move, to act. And when the TARDIS landed, he scrambled out the door, shooting into the street and towards an apartment.

Amy and Rory followed as closely as they dared, watching the Doctor enter the building.

“Do you think this is where she lives now?” Rory whispered, slightly behind Amy’s determined figure.

She walked purposefully though you could see the tension in her face, “He said it was someone he loved.” Rory swallowed hard as they heard the Doctor from just inside the door.

“NO!” He was on the ground in the threshold. In his arms lay an unnaturally pale figure. Amy put a hand to her mouth as the Doctor leaned back and shook the limp body in his arms. “(Y/N), please, please.” He was harshly pushing back her hair.

Rory felt his instincts kick in as he observed painfully. There was dried blood all along her nose and mouth, dripping down her chin. Her lips had a blue tinge to them, and her skin held no rosy hue of life. She was limp, but her limbs didn’t appear as stiff as they should be if she had been dead for hours.

The Doctor continued to shake her, rubbing her face desperately with his hands, as if he were searching for life in it. His face was now red and raw from the bubbled emotion, but his eyes remained dry – desperate and stunned.

“Too late; I was too late.” He was kissing her forehead with sloppy, tearless cries.

Rory gently let go of Amy and went to kneel beside the Doctor. His voice was quiet with practiced use, “Doctor, will you let me look at her? Is she breathing?”

His own breathing was rapid, the front of his dress shirt now covered in flakes of her dried blood. But he didn’t seem able to talk past his little mumblings and pleadings that she’d look at him.

Rory took this as silent confirmation to proceed, at least it wasn’t a blatant objection. So he lightly placed two fingers to the artery on her neck. With his other hand he felt her forehead, trailing down to see if he could feel breath coming from her mouth.

“She has a heartbeat.”

The Doctor snapped his eyes to the man beside him. They were wide and innocent – pleading. “She’s alive?”

“Yes,” Rory got a rush of adrenaline, placing both hands on (Y/N)’s face now. He pried open one of her eyes and saw the whites of them speckled red. “She needs medical attention now – we have to get her to a hospital.”

“No! No,” The Doctor swallowed thickly, trying to clear his throat and clutch (Y/N) to his chest, “We take her to the TARDIS. We can take care of her there.”

Rory kept a hand on his patient, “Doctor, we don’t know what’s wrong with her. She needs to go…”

“She needs to be WITH ME!” The Doctor snapped, attempting feebly to gather her body in his arms. “I’m the only one that can save her.”

Rory shared a glance with Amy, “What does that mean?” Someone had to be the voice of reason.

“Doctor, I think we should listen to Rory. He knows people at the hospital.”

“I SAID NO!” And the Doctor tried to stand, pulling (Y/N)’s limp and stony form with him. A weak sound came from his mouth as he tried to simultaneously contain his tears and hold (Y/N).

It was a pitiful sight and it put a lump in Amy’s throat.

Rory sighed, “Let me help at least.” And he put his arms beneath the girl. The combine efforts of the Doctor and Rory made a bed of arms for (Y/N) as they shuffled out the front door.

Amy brushed her hair back, looking at the spot where (Y/N) had sat slumped against the wall. There was a leatherbound book, or maybe a journal, laying there stained with blood. The cover was etched with similar symbols to ones found in the TARDIS, and she knew it was Gallifreyan.

In a split second decision, Amy picked up the book. And within the first few pages she could see dozens of handwritten entries with dates and times. It must’ve been something (Y/N) wrote, and she knew she had to take it aboard the ship.

When she returned to the TARDIS, she could see both Rory and the Doctor carrying (Y/N) up the stairs. She jumped the steps two at a time to follow them down the winding halls.

“Are we going to the med bay? There’s a med bay on this ship, right?” Rory huffed, finally starting to feel the strain of carrying dead weight.

The Doctor was spluttering, his face red as he continued to keep his fury and sorrow at bay. “Into here, nearest room.”

And they entered a large and cluttered bedroom. Shelves and dressers were covered in old clothing items and books. Papers and random gadgets littered every surface; many looked like unfinished projects with wires and blinking lights.

But very clearly on the nightstand resided an old lamp – nightlight more like – and a few dried wildflowers. It was peculiar to Amy, recognizing the nightlight as the same one she saw in (Y/N)’s room, and she had the thought that perhaps this was the Doctor’s bedroom.

(Y/N) was laid on the bed, as statue-like as they found her, and the Doctor continued to brush away her hair and kiss her forehead.

“Um, right… right.” And he rolled up his sleeves, “Rory…”

“Anything,” Rory said.

“Do you know how to do a blood transfusion?”

Rory was taken aback, “Yes, do you have the equipment?”

The Doctor gestured to Amy, “Ask the TARDIS, she’ll take you to a closet. You both will find everything you need there.”

Amy stared at Rory and they both said very clearly in that glance ‘we shouldn’t leave him alone.’ Rory touched her shoulder and then ran out into the hallway, saying something to the walls of the ship. Amy stayed near the Doctor, noticing how he never took his eyes off (Y/N)’s face.

“Will she be okay?”

A shudder went through the Doctor, and he whispered feebly, “I don’t know.”

“What’s the matter with her?”

“Long story.” And that was the end of it for now. Amy didn’t push it, but she went to the other side of the bed and sat. She knew the Doctor was watching her from the corner of his eye.

Quietly she took one of (Y/N)’s icy hands and tried to bring some warmth to it. The Doctor snuck her an appreciative glance. He looked so tired, so scared.

Rory came running back into the room with some blood bags and other medical supplies, “I’m guessing she needs the blood?”

The Doctor gestured to his rolled up sleeve, “She needs my blood. That’s the only thing I can think of right now. It’s raw and unmedicated, but my blood is a start.”

Rory and Amy were immensely confused, but both knew the priority was to do anything to calm the Doctor and bring some life into his friend. His friend that he loved.

Rory grabbed a nearby reading chair, shoving it towards the bed and directing the Doctor to sit. He placed a tourniquet on the Doctor’s arm and quickly cleaned an area with an alcohol wipe and prepped a needle for insert.

“Amy, I need you to hold this bag here,” he asked, “It might take a few minutes to collect enough for a transfusion.”

“Fine,” the Doctor muttered, barely flinching when the needle went in. He was transfixed with (Y/N)’s face.

Amy knelt beside her fiancé, holding the bag low and becoming mesmerized with how the incoming blood was more orange than any blood she’d ever seen. Rory was too focused with his work, monitoring the procedure before leaving Amy there to collect while he rounded on (Y/N).

He gently prodded her arm for a useable vein but found her severely dehydrated. “I figured,” he muttered. And he went to his pile of fetched medical supplies to extract a bag of glucose saline solution, “I’m impressed with how well stocked the TARDIS is.” The Doctor didn’t reply.

Amy watched her bag fill higher, unnerved with the silence coming from the Doctor. He still hadn’t cried since leaving (Y/N)’s bedroom.

Rory continued to play nurse, addressing the space as if he were with his patients. “I’m going to give her some fluids while you’re giving blood. Once she’s rehydrated I’ll be able to find a viable vein for the transfusion.”

Again the Doctor said nothing, and the couple continued with their work, all the while feeling the pressure of (Y/N) barely clinging to life. It was clear that the Doctor had a long story to tell, one that he was not ready to share – perhaps not until they knew (Y/N) was going to pull through.

But in those few quiet moments, Amy and Rory knew without a doubt that the Doctor loved this girl. It was rather startling after only knowing him for such a short time, for Rory that was considerably shorter.

It terrified Amy seeing the Doctor in such a state of despair – he was normally the one that inspired hope. And now there he was pinned with his blood drawn and his face as pale and stony as (Y/N)’s. The Doctor had always seemed rather childlike and full of boyish energy; seeing him now with such seriousness and displaying feelings like real love – it was intriguing.

She was desperate to hear an explanation, hundreds of ideas swimming around her head. Rory was too focused trying to insert a needle into (Y/N)’s frail arm. If the Doctor loved (Y/N) as much as he was conveying now – how could he have forgotten about her?

Amy hung the bag of orangey blood on the backboard of the bed, wondering how to phrase her next words in a casual and non-interrogative manner. “How long have you known (Y/N)?”

It took a few moments, but the Doctor slouched in his chair and sighed, “For more than a year now.” He put a hand to his face, feeling the effect of losing so much blood.

“You must be good friends then.”

“We are.”

Amy had hoped he’d clarify and say girlfriend or something of the like. “Is she sick with something?”

The Doctor kept that hand over his eyes, crossing his legs. “Yes.”

Rory was now listening, taking in the information like the good nurse he was. “What kind of sick is she that requires a blood transfusion? And your blood specifically?”

“Is she alien?” Amy asked, having the epiphany herself.

The Doctor sniffed – now they knew why he was covering his eyes – and said thickly, “She’s a Time Lord. A Time Lady.”

Rory and Amy froze in their respected positions. Rory had a stethoscope halfway to his ears and Amy had opted to sitting at the foot of the bed, watching the Doctor closely.

“But…” Amy peered at the blood painting the lower half of (Y/N)’s face. “Her blood isn’t orange like yours.”

“But she does have…” Rory put the stethoscope onto (Y/N)’s chest, “two hearts.”

Amy refrained from covering her mouth again, “I thought you were the last one.”

“So did I,” the Doctor muttered, “So did many others – they tried to kill her. And have been trying ever since.”

“It’s lucky you found her.”

The Doctor remained still, crushed beneath the weight of his guilt and sorrow. “She’s poisoned – her blood is poisoned – that’s why it’s red like humans’. She didn’t know she was a Time Lord. She doesn’t remember anything from her past.”

Rory finished his checkup, setting the supplies on the nightstand. “Is that why she was on Earth?”

Amy was itching to comfort the Doctor further, but only added with, “You were trying to protect her.”

“It was her idea, actually,” there was a smile in his tone, though it didn’t make an appearance. “She rested while a cure was being made. I… well – she sent me on my way. And I – made some mistakes.” From beneath his fingers you could see a tear tickle down his cheek, “I got carried away with the universe.”

Amy felt her heart break with the pain he showed, “Those pictures in her room. I didn’t see you in any of them.”

“No, that was me.” And the Doctor rubbed his eyes, finally putting his hand down. His face was blotchy and irritated, “Time Lords have this way of staying alive. If we’re mortally wounded, we can heal ourselves with a price.”

Rory folded his arms tightly, “You changed your face?”

The Doctor nodded, unable to meet any gazes. “I’m the same man but I regenerated a new body to heal myself.”

“Is that why you…” Amy hesitated, her eyes wide. “Why you forgot?”

The Doctor’s lip trembled, and he bit down hard on it, looking up at the ceiling. “Post regeneration amnesia. I knew – I knew it might happen. I told her to hang on… when I said goodbye.”

“So she knows,” Rory said, “She knows you’ll look different now.”

In the silence that followed, the Doctor grappled for (Y/N)’s hand. “I didn’t tell her.”

“But she’s a Time Lord; she must know you can regenerate,” Amy retorted.

“Unless you didn’t tell her when she found out she was one,” Rory theorized.

The Doctor looked more guilty if that was possible, “I was weak – I was dying – and we had only just… I was minutes away from regenerating and she was looking at me with these… and I couldn’t tell her that the man she had fallen for was going to change. She was sick and tired, and I didn’t want to tell her she would have to fall in love with a new face.”

He licked his lips, holding tight to (Y/N)’s hand, “I was scared that when I changed, my feelings for her would change too.”

Amy and Rory both felt his shame. They knew the Doctor held a lot of guilt, that he suffered in his infinite loneliness. They knew he treasured friends and sought adventure to occupy his ever running mind.

They had not expected him to be lovesick and tied to a poisoned woman that apparently loved him back.

They were finished asking questions, the tears leaving the Doctor enough to make anyone quiet. His confession that (Y/N) had fallen for him was not surprising, but the unspoken truth that he fell for her made it real.

And they understood the gravity of the situation. (Y/N) was on the edge of death, they all knew it, and there was a battle in itself to get her healthy again. But even if (Y/N) pulled through, there was still so much the Doctor feared. He was afraid she wouldn’t love his new face, his new eccentrics. He was afraid that she would resent him for forgetting.

He was afraid she would hate him. Hate him and never want to see him again.

Rory cleared his throat, speaking against the silence, “She’s taking the blood well, her pulse isn’t so weak anymore. But we’re far from in the clear. She’s going to need more help.”

The Doctor wiped his face, disheveling his hair, “There was a cure being made. I made sure of it – we should go see if it’s complete.” He stood shaky to his feet, fingers lingering on (Y/N)’s hand.

Amy came to him, placing her own hand there, “I’ll take care of her. I’m assuming she still has some clothes in her room. I’ll clean her up and get her in a nightgown.”

The Doctor felt his chest inflate with appreciation. He looked at Amy with that admiration he felt, leaning over and hugging her. It was quicker than he would’ve liked, but he knew if he let himself he would hug her for the rest of the night.

And he and Rory went to set a course for the New New York Hospital while Amy went to find washcloths and extra blankets.

~~~

Amy couldn’t help herself, her ever curious mind was sometimes a nuisance – she sometimes imagined that’s how the Doctor felt.

She stared at the bloodstained journal in her hands, admiring the beauty of the cover. She sat at (Y/N)’s vanity, staring at the pictures lining it and trying to imagine that freckled, brown eyed Doctor as her own.

(Y/N) and the Doctor looked so happy in those pictures.

Again… she couldn’t help herself. It had been a few days since retrieving (Y/N) and the Doctor wasn’t saying much. He refused to move her until she woke and that meant Rory taking over for the Sisters of Plentitude.

The nurse took charge in administering the blood cure the cat nuns created; something about plasma and cells that Amy didn’t understand. All she knew was that slowly but surely, (Y/N) was getting better.

The Doctor kept as quiet as possible, clamming up after his initial confession of who (Y/N) was. He resorted to mostly sitting by her bedside and holding her hand. He had a habit of tracing lines around her knuckles.

It was remarkable to see the Doctor waiting – and waiting patiently! Just a week ago he was rambling on about how dull domestic life could be, and here was Amy thinking that TARDIS life had become dull.

She knew the Doctor was equally scared and thrilled for the moment when (Y/N) awoke. Perhaps he was patient because he was so fearful.

But Amy couldn’t be patient anymore. She was tired of the waiting and tired of seeing her friend so heartbroken and silently suffering. Therefore, she opened the first page of (Y/N)’s journal, feeling like a schoolgirl invading a classmates private things.

The dying girl.

I never wanted to be the dying girl.

Here I am doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing: dying.

The Doctor – the only good thing to come out of me discovering my destiny – he should be here. He would want to be here. He would need to be here.

But with me on my deathbed, I want to tell you how I got here. Perhaps it’s just to stall and see if the Doctor will appear to say goodbye. Knowing him he’s probably spending every last second trying to find a cure.

It was terribly morbid, Amy thought, but as she continued to read about the first encounter she found she couldn’t stop. It was bizarre to hear (Y/N) describe the Doctor in similar yet different terms to the present Doctor.

Her brown eyed beauty, she called him.

Amy read about St. Bartholomew’s and the fiancé Andrew. She began reading about the in between adventures – the ones in the Bermuda Triangle and Axiless the First. She saw the slow progression of the companionship and how (Y/N) figured the Doctor liked her more than she thought.

She was starting to get to the end of the journal when she hit (Y/N) getting sicker. It was there that Amy stopped; she wasn’t sure she could read about someone’s supposed last moments. It seemed rather like crossing a line to read what (Y/N) was thinking while slumped against that wall in her apartment.

Instead, Amy rose to find the Doctor. He was in his bedroom, brushing (Y/N)’s hair away as he usually did when there was nothing else to do. She had a clear sheen of sweat on her forehead, a sign her body was trying to figure out what to do with the blood cure: fight it or embrace it.

“Doctor,” Amy mumbled, thumbing the journal, “I had no idea you were such a romantic.”

The Doctor turned his tired gaze to his friend. He looked more like her raggedy doctor now than when they first met.

“Romantic? Of course I’m romantic – king of romance. Unless I have to make a romantic gesture and then I’d rather not. Behind closed doors, yes. What is it to you?”

She smiled, opening the journal, “Before he would grab my hand so I wouldn’t get lost when we ran away from monsters. But now it was like he grabbed my hand because he wanted to.”

“What is that?”

“I caught him staring at me again today; turns out he was trying to figure out the best time to give me an alien flower he had picked on our last exploration. Sometimes I think he does that for another reason than just being my friend.”

The Doctor stood, “Amy, what is that?” He bore holes into the book as he tried to decipher the cover. Amy was still smiling, finding her favorite lines.

“He let me use his coat today, what a gentleman. He’s such a beanpole. I told him so and my sides were immediately attacked with tickles. He’s always rambling on and being rude to others, and he can’t take one simple jab. Don’t even get me started on him not being ginger.”

Amy looked up at him, “Are you an aspiring ginge?”

“Give me that!” And the Doctor snatched the book, ruffling the pages like a madman trying to make sense of his notes. “Is this… a journal?” He tried to ignore how some pages were splattered with flecks of blood.

“I think she was writing it while stuck in that house,” Amy folded her arms, eyes flickering between the book and the Doctor’s reaction. “It’s all of your adventures.”

“I figured with the title,” the Doctor said, holding back a smile. He displayed the cover and ran a finger along the Gallifreyan symbols. “My Adventure Book. Very clever – she had only just learned the alphabet.”

He skimmed a few lines of writing and let out a breathy laugh, “This is when we got stuck on that jungle planet. She was scared of everything that moved. I may or may not have shaken the bushes a bit to get a scream out of her.”

Amy felt a smile coming on – this was the most Doctorish the Doctor had been in many days.

“And this is when she saved the world with simple human logic. She got all sentimental with the landlady we were staying with. That was the day I gave her a TARDIS key.” The Doctor slowly sat back in his reading chair.

It was quite a look, this bowtie wearing outlandish man reading from a book in his chair like a great storyteller of children.

“This…” the Doctor sighed, thumbing the corner of the page, “This is when I first kissed her.” He suddenly sprung his gaze to Amy, “That’s private. These are private things. What are you doing reading (Y/N)’s private things?”

“What are you doing reading them?” Amy said with a snort. “I thought it might cheer you up.”

And it did for a while. The Doctor spent the entire evening reading the play by play of his companionship with (Y/N). It was enlightening and thrilling to read everything from her perspective. He hadn’t realized she had caught on to so many of his mannerisms and quirks.

He thought he hid his feelings better than that. But (Y/N) was always an observant one.

He got to the part where she was dropped off at her house and it suddenly dawned on him. This story was not a collection of adventures, it was one great big adventure. The adventure of (Y/N) and her Doctor. It was their story. The beginnings of their love story.

It got slightly more painful to read the bits of her quarantined in the house. He could actually see the shift in her health within the writing. Her hand had gotten sloppier, and she tended to ramble and misspell and even repeat words. It was often his name that she repeated.

These pages were the ones often flecked with blood, no doubt a result of an ill-fated cough. It made his stomach churn with dread. It signaled that the end of the story was coming.

He made it to the end. (Y/N) was describing him in her last moments.

The Doctor. Her Doctor.

How could she describe him now? The Doctor was fire. He was starlight. He was all that was good in the world. And all that was bad in it. He was full of rage and passion and curiosity. He was brilliant and kind.

He was wonderful.

The Doctor was the most wonderful man in the universe. And the terrible thing was that he probably will never fully believe it.

The Doctor swallowed hard, running a few fingers across his lips. What had he done to make (Y/N) love him so? He felt so unworthy of it.

My brown eyed beauty.

The Doctor knew what he looked like. His eyes were green now. Perhaps with a little bit of blue. But there wasn’t a hint of brown – nothing close to her brown eyed beauty.

That was going to hurt.

On the last page, covered in barely legible handwriting and drops of blood, (Y/N) had written something in the corner of the page.

Thanks for the adventure! Now go find another – Love, (Y/N)

The Doctor decided then and there that he didn’t like endings. He didn’t like reading to the last page. He didn’t like being reminded that everything comes to a close. He didn’t like imagining how (Y/N) drifted off after writing that.

He didn’t like things to end. To change. To go. He didn’t want those things.

He ripped the last page out of the book and stuffed it unceremoniously in his pocket. And at the same instant came a rustle to his left. A little whimper.

It was (Y/N). And she was stirring in her sleep, perhaps… waking up.

The Doctor stood abruptly from his chair – it squeaked and banged against the wall – his thumbs ran feverishly against his fingers. His light eyes were petrified.

In that moment of fear, he skid backwards, hitting himself against the wall beside the discarded armchair. He pressed himself against it, facing (Y/N) with apprehension.

She took a steady breath, raising a hand and rubbing an eye. She turned her head on the soft pillow and slowly looked at him.

~~~

Tag List:

@caswinchester2000 @aria253264 @bippity-boppity-boopa @kaqua @zerocanonlywriteshit @youcandalekmyballs @stuffedfoxwiththewifipassword @sad-anxious-girl @emilythezeldafan

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what-is-going-on-inside-my-head · 3 years

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"How Dare You Destroy The Canon Which I Thought Up In My Head???" me to authors who wrote the character development that I don't like.

#Steve Rogers #I love the Love between Steve and Peggy but she has her life now #maybe (I hope) with Sousa #you that son of...America who had been running after your friend (who was a serial killer) for years (?) #and then you returned him, lost him, returned him again and left him with his new frenemy cause the man whom you loved sacrificed himself and died #you literally went out of this timeline

#Naruto #and Sasuke #what the... #You really think that they has been ignoring Sakura and Hinata for years, but one day they just "daaaamn, what a girl"? #no #You really think that guys who grew without fathers chose to become the worst fathers for their children? #no

#Harry Potter #I think that it's really strange when child repeats his parents life #his wife looks like his mother #his work is like his father's #he's really not tired of fighting?

#Hermione Granger #I can't accept that she lives with Ron #That all

#Ichigo and Rukia #They should be together #The end of Bleach looks like the Harry Potter end (and a little bit like Naruto final) #I can't accept it

#Steve McGarrett # Danny Williams #Steve seriously left Danny alone? #Are writers insane? #Danny said that it's his fear, he think that everyone will leave him sooner or later #And Steve left him alone! #Danny deserves better

#now Geralt from Netflix #he is not bad, but I think this Geralt won't say that "Lambert, Lambert what a prick" limerick #but Jaskier? Oh yes, he would write a song with this line # Love him

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ammocharis · 3 years

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Writing Tag Game

Thanks for the tag @cleverblackcat and @tejaswrites!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

12 as of now, though some of them are parts of the same story and I might weave them all in a single work one day, but I decided to split them due to time skips and changes in tone. I don’t know when I’ll be able to bridge all the gaps but I still wanted to share what I wrote, so I ended up creating a series with a couple of installments.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

140 699 words

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Watch the Skies - 125 kudos

Vatna of Two Falcon Hold as a companion in Dragon Age - 8 kudos

Mirrors and Braids ex aequo Rattle the bars if you like, but I chose to enter this cage - 7 kudos

Aval'var, it means - our journey ex aequo Avvar History Reconstruction - 5 kudos

4. Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Yes, I do respond to almost every comment and I really appreciate receiving them. When someone comments on certain aspects of the story, I usually try to explain some of my choices, like why I decided for that character to react in such a way, why I deviated from the canonical storyline, or why I included those lore tidbits. It allows me to share my perspective, my reasons for writing the story in the first place.

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Well, I have started writing an alternative storyline for my Avvar Inquisitor, Vatna, in which she becomes a part of the Jaws of Hakkon, which ought to be super angsty, but it has no ending yet.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

Do limericks count? They’re fun but each is five verses long.

7. Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I had, in fact, the first fic that I wrote was a crossover between Dragon Age and Puella Magi - it’s just not published on AO3 and probably never will. It's pretty crazy, that’s for sure, given how wildly different those two pieces of media are, though strangely, I found a few of thematic parallels that compelled me to explore them for a while.

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

No, and I hope I’ll be spared from it. My writing is not perfect by any means, and I do welcome constructive criticism and corrections, but I probably wouldn’t deal well with hate comments. Mustering motivation to write fics is hard enough as it is.

9. Do you write smut? If so what kind?

No, not really. I have written some scenes that focused on sexual interactions, but they weren’t quite smutty, if that makes sense, as the POV character is a sex-indifferent asexual.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No. I write in English, even though it isn’t my native tongue, so I could probably translate my own fics if I wanted, but I didn’t feel like it so far. If someone approached me with an offer to translate my fic into a language I don’t speak, I’m not sure what my reaction would be, as I’d like to know how they present my characters in the translated version. Translation is a tricky craft, and there are many ways to express a single concept. Sometimes, a translated work has a completely different tone from the original.

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yeah, I wrote Fool's Gold with Toshi Nama as a part of Discord server collaboration, in which her Warden, Farin Brosca, and my Inquisitor, Vatna Einarsdotten, meet up to investigate a red lyrium smuggling operation in the Frostback Mountains. It was a fun challenge!

13. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

I’m not sure, I don’t focus on shipping that much.

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I probably won’t get back to finish my unpublished crossover xD But I enjoyed thinking about the possibilities, and I did have the general storyline thought out, but I don’t think I could finish it. For one, it would take a lot of time and motivation that I don’t have, and if I ought to pick a project I would like to see till the end, it’s the story of my Avvar girl.

15. What are your writing strengths?

I’ve been told my worldbuilding is well-thought out. I do have the benefit of writing fanfiction, so there’s no need to built a world from ground up, but I do expand upon what’s presented in the original work, and I greatly enjoy it. I wonder a lot about the unexplored details, like when I’m writing about the Avvar, I imagine what kind of holidays they could celebrate, what cultural taboos they might observe, what is their main source of food, how their families could be structured, little things like that, which, hopefully, create a compelling picture together.

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

My pacing is probably not that great, when I think about what I’d like to write, I don’t really ensure that each story beat is nicely spaced out, that there are no sudden accelerations or decelarations of plot. I do have a general plotline in my head, for the most part, but when it comes to writing, I focus on individual chapters.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I think it has its time and place, but I believe it should be done sparingly. I wouldn’t be excited to read a super long dialogue in a language different from the one that the work is written in, and I won’t include such things in my fic. It disrupts the flow and doesn’t benefit the story very much, in my opinion. If it’s necessary for the plot or characterization to show that someone speaks in another language, I think it’s enough to use a foreign word or a phrase from time to time, hint at its meaning through context, and describe how the communication barrier affects the characters.

My main character, Vatna, does alternate between her native tongue (Avvar, which is I represent as Icelandic/Old Norse) and a second language (Common Tongue, which for all my intents and purposes is equivalent to English) so I do include some lines in a different language, but I keep them short. Usually, it’s just a single word whose meaning can be easily inferred from the surrounding text. More often than not, I signify the language barrier through other means. Sometimes, Vatna slips into her native tongue for a longer moment, and she may even have conversations with her fellow Avvar, but the actual dialogue remains in English (i.e. Common) - instead, I use the narration to show that the language barrier is ever present, like describing the reaction of accompanying characters.

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Dragon Age

19. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

My favourite is Mirrors and Braids, a part of the Saga of the Avvar-Daughter series, which focuses on Vatna’s reaction to the loss of her arm. Though it’s not really a “fun” story by any means, I am quite fond of it. It was somewhat cathartic to write.

Tag list under the cut

@samuraisaucefrites @dreadfutures @crackinglamb

#tag game #writing tag game

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officialleehadan · 3 years

Text

A Little Bitter

Today's story was brought you you by Jennifer! Darling, thank you so much for all your support!

Prompt: Pride of Place with a little angst

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Tilly knew she shouldn’t be worried, but there was a man in the castle who gave her pause.

Oh, not because of anything he said or did to her. In fact, as far as she knew, he had no idea she even existed. No, this man was a different sort of concern.

He had come for Atteila, and could be loudly heard proclaiming his intent to wed the Royal Jewel to anyone who would listen.

More importantly, he was a prince in his own right, the younger brother to a powerful kind. A marriage to him would bring advantages that were difficult to refuse.

And he was handsome. So handsome half the castle, men and women alike, were sighing over him.

Tilly couldn’t help but look at him on the rare occasion he was in sight of the kitchens or she happened to be outside as he went past. He was smug, and rightly so. He had every advantage, and he knew it. His goal was a simple one, in his mind. All he had to do was make Atteila fall in love with him, or at least, accept his proposal.

He was a smart match. After months of evenings spent with Atteila, Tilly understood more about royal politics than she ever expected. She knew that Prince Hanver was exactly the kind of person that Atteila’s father wanted her to wed.

And when it really came down to it, even Atteila had to bow to the wishes of her king.

Just the thought of losing her to this man, this strutting peacock who only saw her beautiful, brave, strong Atteila as something to be possessed… it was more than Tilly could bear.

As always, she made up trays of treats for Atteila, but for the last week, she couldn’t bring herself to carry them up into the royal wing. It was safer, she thought, if she made it easy for Atteila. If she didn’t insist on her slight claim over the princess’s heart. After all, Tilly was just a cook. She didn’t have anything to offer a princess except pastries.

“Haven’t seen the princess around much,” Coppa said, finally accustomed to having Atteila around, learning from Tilly or tentatively gossiping with the maids as she found her feet among them. It was a change for all of them, seeing the most beautiful woman in the world, their princess, helping to peel potatoes and trading filthy limericks for bawdy jokes. “She alright?”

“Royal company,” Tilly said, since she didn’t really want to talk about it at all, but also knew that Coppa wasn’t about to go away until they talked about it, at least a little. “She can’t be sneaking down to the kitchens to see a cook when there’s a prince in the castle.”

“Never stopped her before.”

“Her father wasn’t considering a marriage before.”

And there it was. The heart of the problem. Tilly couldn’t say a thing about the stupid prince. He seemed like a decent sort, for a prince, even if he was a peacock. He would probably treat Atteila well, and probably wouldn’t have a problem with being a prince-consort, not a king. Tilly had no place getting between Atteila and her duty as a princess.

Coppa made a small sound of understanding. They all knew the stories of the people who were stupid enough to fall in love with nobility. Sooner or later, there was a choice to be made.

“Message for you.”

Whatever Tilly might have said died in her throat at the sight of the stone-faced footman. He proffered the letter to her, and Tilly took it numbly. He nodded once and left without another word, pride clearly offended to have been sent down to the kitchens with a message for a cook. There was only one person who could sent a footman wherever she liked. Tilly didn’t need to open the letter to know it was from Atteila.

“Good luck,” Coppa murmured as Tilly dusted her hands off on her apron and cracked open the seal to read her letter.

“I miss you,” the letter said simply. There was no signature, and the wax seal bore no mark, but Tilly knew Atteila’s crisp handwriting well. Her heart broke at the simple words. It was a request, although Atteila certainly could have commanded her, and she would have had to reply. This, however, this was a plea. The kind that Atteila would never make to anyone she couldn’t trust completely.

Her work was mostly done, pastries baked, custards cooling in the ice chest. She could spare a few hours before supper. After all, who would protest a summons from the princess herself?

“I’ll be back in a bit,” she told Coppa, who nodded, only a little dubious of her poor judgement. Tilly couldn’t blame him. “Keep an eye on Miri, yeah? I think she’s been inching pastries when I’m not looking.”

“I’ll watch for it. Go on. Pass on our greetings if you get the chance.”

There was nothing more to be said, so Tilly stopped at her room to scrub the flour from her hands and face, and change into a clean dress that wasn’t stained with the day’s labors. Once she was presentable, she stopped back into the kitchen for Atteila’s tray of goodies, lovingly prepared as always, and headed up through the castle. The footmen knew her, knew that she was permitted up here in open view, but she felt the weight of their stares anyway. Most days, she could ignore them. Today, those stares threatened to make her stumble.

Atteila’s door opened barely a moment after her knock, and she was suddenly confronted with the face of the woman who held her heart.

“I wondered if you would come,” Atteila said hesitantly as she let Tilly in and closed the door behind her. “I didn’t… has something happened? You’ve been avoiding me all week.”

There were a dozen questions hidden in her voice, and a plea, as well, as desperate as the one in Tilly’s pocket. How strange, Tilly thought, and set the tray on the table without meeting Atteila’s eyes. How strange to be the one to see the truth, when Atteila was usually the clever one between them.

“Prince Hanver is a good man,” she said glumly, resigned to having a conversation she would have preferred to avoid. A broken heart was bad. Having to explainher broken heart to the woman she loved was far, far worse. “He’s respectful to the girls, treats his horses well, and doesn’t seem to have a mean bone in his body. Not much brain, either, but he’s so pretty that probably doesn’t matter much.”

Understanding washed over Atteila, so clear that Tilly could see it in the brilliant blue of her eyes and the way her lips parted in a silent oh.

And then she took two steps forward, cupped Tilly’s face between her soft palms, and kissed her like she meant to make up for all the missed kisses of the last week in a single go. Tilly, always at the mercy of her beloved princess, couldn’t help but kiss her back, desperate for this one last taste of her love.

“I am not marrying Hanver,” Atteila whispered when the need for air forced them apart. There were tears in her eyes, but a tentative smile graced her lips, her lip-color smudged from a baker’s dozen kisses. It took Tilly a moment to gather up her mind, but hope, tiny and fragile, bloomed in her heart when Atteila’s words made it through. “I told my father that I will rule alone or not at all. I will have no man at my side, no matter how fine his prospects.”

“You can do that?” Tilly asked in stunned wonder. Atteila stroked a delicate finger over Tilly’s braids and kissed her again, slow and sweet. “The whole castle knows he’s here for you.”

“My heart is taken completely,” Atteila whispered to her, their foreheads pressed together. “You must know how dearly I love you, my sweet lady. You ask nothing of me, and I find myself desperate to give you everything in return.”

The look in her eyes was one that Tilly knew suddenly, completely, would never be seen anyone else. There was no mask. No crystal perfection. No elegance. Just Atteila, hoping that Tilly loved her back.

“I love you,” she whispered between kisses to Atteila’s lips, her fingers tangled with her princess’s and clasped tight. “I love you so much that the thought of losing you wrecked me. Can you forgive me for not trusting you?”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Atteila hurried to tell her, now smiling as she pulled Tilly closer still. “But I would have you stay, if you can. I have missed you this last week, and I cannot bring myself to let you far from my side just yet.”

+++

Pride of Place :

Strawberry Roses

Orange Bubbles (Subscriber Only!)

Wine Shower

In Hot Water(Subscriber Only!)

Under Orange Blossoms

A Little Bitter (NEW)

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MASTERLIST

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mundungs · 3 years

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ϟ. → robert sheehan : genderfluid : he/they/she : dealer of illicit objects and substances : the raven by the alan parsons project ϟ did you see mundungus fletcher ? you know , 31 year old halfblood who was formally in ravenclaw. some say dung can be quite furtive but are known to be unreliable. they are aligned with the order . maybe that’s why they remind me of naming stray cats, flicking a lighter over and over again, falling asleep on the subway. ϟ

some links for food

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history

ciannán o’donnell is a flighty man, one of many relationships and flings and little loyalty, and so his affair with maeve fletcher does not last long. when she tells him she is pregnant, he moves on to a different woman, and maeve has her son alone, with her sister on her side. and thus, mundungus is born (and giving an arguably atrocious name).

he grows up with his mum – a halfblooded witch and by far his favourite person in the world – in limerick, attending muggle school there. he knew who his dad was, but wasn’t quite sure how to feel about — his father is a criminal, a prominent member of the irish mob.

he meets his dad for the first time at age seven, and was nothing but impressed. his dad showered him with gifts, his mum watching with a furious look on her face but biting her tongue. that moment was a switch for mundungus; he felt the need to impress his dad. he stole some sweets from a store on his way home from school a week later, fished some pennies out of the pockets of his classmates a few months later. when he phoned his dad to tell him, his laugh was warm and filled with life. his relationship with his dad got better as his behaviour got worse. the thrill of stealing, of doing stuff he wasn’t supposed to, lit him not only on fire because it was exciting, but also because he knew his dad would adore it.

but ciannan, a flighty man, pushes and pulls. and so mundungus was fed disappointment by his father, liking love off a shiny knife rather than a spoon ( silver or plastic, what the fuck does it matter ). details omitted, long story made short: his dad sucks and his mother tries, but mundungus is pulled towards that what smells of danger.

DRUGS MENT. at hogwarts, dung is sorted into ravenclaw. not at all the booksmart type, he falls more into the chaotic-creativity, random-bursts-of-wanting-to-learn-everything-about-something type of ravenclaw. there’s two worlds, then: the muggle world, where he slowly dips his water further in criminal waters, and the wizarding one, where he’s chaotic and messy but a student. when he grows older, these overlap: dung starts selling some of his dad’s weed at hogwarts, and soon gains a reputation of being able to get people less-than-legal shit.

not getting high off your own supply is not a sentiment he agrees with. not then, not later, not now. dung is fun, always in for a party and willing to supply the goods to throw it. if some rich purebloods lose a few galleons at said party, well, it sure isn’t him! END OF TW

he graduates with two newts, in herbology and potions, failing his dada and charms exams. he’s not an academic.

falling into the family business after graduation is easy. mundungus is attracted by the criminal underworld, both that of muggle ireland and that of the wizarding world. knockturn alley was a place frequented in teenage years, but now becomes more his place. he makes connections, exchanges strange potion recipes for other things. makes an odd wager on a bunch of stolen brass scales and turns a profit.

a career is not something that interests him; he is more interested in bending rules and making quick money. thievery, selling illegal shit, heists, fraud, fuck-all. mundungus is not limited by one descriptor, one kind of criminality. he just does what he wants and hopes to make a good penny.

but then he almost gets sent to azkaban over some, in his frank opinion, bullshit. it’s dumbledore who talks the wizengamot out of it, saddling dung up with some community service and persuading him towards the order. he’s twenty three. the war is still fresh. he has no interest in it, but he owes the old man. fine.

mundungus does vehemently oppose blood purity and any kind of discriminatory ideals, an anarchist in his very bones, but he is also cowardly. to side with self-proclaimed rebels is not in his blood and yet it’s where he ends up, bringing shady ties to the underworld to the table and a sheer ability to sneak around and fuck the law. and maybe, amidst the ranks of the order, dung finds something he’s not very familiar with: a large family. and dung? well, he’s the stoner, gay, super-fucking-chaotic cousin.

personality

if jesper fahey and kaz brekker had a child, it would be dung.

other character parallels: fezco ( euphoria ), boris ( the goldfinch ), doug judy ( b99 ), jason mendoza ( the good place ), chris miles ( skins ), nick miller ( new girl ), creed bratton ( the office ), scott lang ( marvel ), lillian ( unbreakable kimmy schmidt )

technically he’s homeless. he’s got a bedroom at his ma’s place, has a ton of squatter connects in the muggle scene and couch surfes aplenty, but dung doesn’t rent a place. why? landlords are evil. he could afford a place, just doesn’t see the point. life’s better with some adventure.

appears very neutral in public as it’s beneficial to his role in the order???

.... tortured artist. writes poetry and loves to draw and paint.

tattooed the fuck up. some are his own designs.

can usually be spotted wearing The Coat, a rly expensive, vintage long coat that he once stole of a pureblood. he’s enlarged the pockets with some handy spellwork and pretty much carries everything he owes in there, like his produce and his money and his second pair of shoes and his art supplies and probably some random trash.

loves animals. he loves stray cats especially <3 they are his kin.

an anarchist. a bit of a punk. a deep idealist with a cowardly heart so constantly betraying himself (and sometimes others?)

queer! enby! genderfluid! i used he/him pronouns throughout this intro but dung truly doesn’t give a damn what u use. loves to dress up in feminine clothes.

has a ton of aliases, lol, the most important one being marigold fincher.

cusses too fuckin much to be healthy :/

oh no he is a big sad insecure kid deep inside :/ dont tell anyone how embarrassing!!!! shhhh!! it’s a secret.

quick connection ideas

victim. wow please. if your character is rich. let me steal from u. pick ur pockets. break into ur house. get some of ur stuff and drop it on the black market.

customer. dung sells. whatever u need. drugs. weird magical things. ask and ye shall receive. his prices are whack but he does deliver <3

pal. party friends! order friends! random encounter friends! dung has a trashmouth and loves to talk pls let him chat u up and u will never be rid of him <3

couch. he couch surfs. a lot. if ur character trusts dung enough to let him into their home (which they shouldnt) then pls let him sleep over for a night. he will leave a strangely expensive necklace on ur kitchen table as a thank u. or wilted flowers. no in between.

skeptic. ur char is in the order and thinks dung is a liability and maybe they have a point. a point mundungus would rather not face :)

dmle bitches. dung hates anyone authoritative but esp the coppers at the ministry (hit wix & aurors) (yea he calls them coppers sorry he doesnt respect them enough to call them aurors <3). give me that doug judy/jake peralta dynamic. or just someone in the dmle who is like ... sigh this guy again???

fwb/one night stand/fling/etc. he’s a bit slutty <333 give him some ppl he’s hooked up with / will hook up with.

#muddywaters.intro #intro.#this one <3 this one has so much dumb energy in one body <3

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deithe · 4 years

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instead of making ur hs au american just set it in a secondary school. jason is a gaa lad and piper wears addidas superstars

OKAY so tumblr swallowed my first ask whole :( so ill do it again. on my laptop instead.

But. Anon...ur a genius...so smart...too smart. this could be too good, know?

God.

Jason: GAA lad, of course. Plays county and he will tell you this. He plays county with football and only club with hurling. He’s a pure GAA Lad. He doesn’t drink, eats full course meals for every meal and goes to the local gym every day. He plays with the school and is the captain. He wears O’Neills and Jack and Jones. He’s got that hair-cut, the curls and the short at the side? But despite how straight-laced he seems, he’s kind. Popular, but he’s got a few close friends and that’s it. He helps people with their work and never has a mean word to say. He does bag-packing in Supervalu for charities. He’s a good catch and many a girl want him as their debs date. His family is rich, too, so he goes to those summer colleges in the Gaeltacht. He’s still pretty bad at gaeilge though. Which is a shame cause he’s basically a fenian. His Dad is from Derry (bogside) and it shows sometimes. He goes to mass every Sunday and knows the Father by name, but religion doesn't seem for him. He wants to be a primary school teacher and everyone knows he’ll get a sports scholarship to go to UL. He’s a swot but he’s sound out, at the same time. Unironically listens to kneecap.

Leo: Boy-racer with a suped up Mitsubishi. He fixed it up himself but it keeps getting taking by the gardaí. He is a public menace on dark country roads. He’s a lads lad, who vapes in the bathrooms with the stolls and drinks naggins in bushes before trying to sneak into a night club. Class clown, but nice enough if you can get him on his own. But he’s also smart. Too smart. Trinity bound, or even further. 625 on the lc, with higher-level maths, physics, and chemistry. An absolute dosser, but he’s always got the homework and if you can find him on his own, he’s nice enough. He and Jason are a strange match in friends. He wears Jason’s O’Neill’s jumpers and people pretend not to stare. Leo, like most teens in Ireland, has been familiar with a bottle of vodka for a while. He’s that absolute weapon you see on Instagram getting their picture with a garda at Longitude, vodka hidden in a bottle of Lucozade. Mexican-American mom from the states but born and raised in Ireland. Buys all his clothes from Pennys. Can’t be assed to go anywhere else. He doesn’t play any club sport at all. He’s banned from the local church for accidentally decapitating the Holy Mary during his confirmation. He has a thick cork accent, calls his house a “gaff” and gets “langered while he’s gatting”. He adores The Academic and Fontaines D.C. Though, like most people, he’s enamored with The Rubberbandits.

Piper: Addidas Superstars, ofc. Jack and Jones hoddies she stole from Jason. Air maxes. She also buys a lot from St Vincent DePaul’s charity shops. Captain of the schools debate team and she sells fake IDs on her snapchat as a side-hustle. Her Dad moved them to Ireland when Piper was around 7 cause he got a job with RTE or something. She hangs in the art-room most days and almost won Junkoture when she was 16. She lets Leo drunkenly cut her hair every few months and it leaves them both in stitches. She was also the Queen of loom bands as a child and still makes friendship bracelets for them all out her loom band collection. Piper also plays Camogie with her school, but that’s just because she has a crush on the captain. Both her and Leo are the only ones who go on the sesh. Jason stays at home and watches re-runs of home and away every Friday night. She has a noticeable American accent and gets called a yank or tourist a lot. Piper would kill men for EDEN and The Cranberries.

Also: it has to take place in cork city. dublin sucks, galway city is like seven streets and limerick is literally called stab city.

#Anon #Anonymous #!!!!!!#thank you I always like ranting about Irish culture #look if everything I consume is Americanized than I shall irishize it all #long post #alcohol mention #leo Valdez #jason Grace #piper McLean #this is legit based on me n my friends #like piper is my friend rob to a tee #and jason is an amalgamation of liam/caitlin (not bunkernine btw)

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youarejesting · 4 years

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BTS365 Prompts.Week19

[Masterlist] [Prompt Masterlist]

Please tag me in your work if you use my prompts. I want to see your work. Ever your Jester.

Tell me your birthday and I will tag you on your special day!

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May 7th - 13th

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Kim Seokjin: Lost sock

Running around the hotel room Seokjin was panicking. He had a short time to get ready and then he had to leave this wasn’t time to lose his right sock.

“Jin there is no time we got to go.”

“Jimin I can’t wear one sock!”

“It will be fine hurry up and get in the car before your bride gets there before you do”

Seokjin waited at the end of the aisle nervous but everything disappeared when he saw you walking in. You cheekily lifted a small part of the dress to reveal your pretty heels and on sock clad foot and he felt his heart flutter.

Min Yoongi: Room

There was an old music room on campus. Where nobody goes, it is said to be haunted, people who go there quickly leave reporting strange noises and some even claim to see a pale ghostly figure. You are running away from the campus’ official creep named Allan. Midst your hasty escape you hadn’t realised that you were heading towards an unused area within the music building. Allan was closing in with the speed of a tornado.

Ducking through the nearest door you found yourself within an old music room. It was cold, dark and there was a small layer of dust covering everything. Which didn’t strike you as odd as the room was full of unused or broken equipment.

Only a few steps into the room you found yourself feeling uneasy like you were being watched. But you couldn’t turn back now not whilst Allan was on the loose. Taking a seat in front of the small upright piano you found it odd that there was no dust on the wooden cover.

Lifting the cover, the ebony and ivory keys greeting you, each looking a little worn.

With a little hesitation for how the piano would sound, you began playing a small tune a familiar one you often heard in the music building but no one ever knew who the artist was. You had transcribed it at home hours of replicating the sound as best as you could. But the song was never finished so you took it upon yourself to create an ending you so fit. The song itself was melancholy with a hint of desperate longing. So the ending you had written rounded the conveyed emotion into something a little gentle and loving.

You played happily and pale hands came down over yours and you retracted yours back and tried to turn to see who had scared you so badly but the music these hands created was mesmerizing you could do no more than watch the long fingers dance over the keys.

Jung Hoseok: Twilight zone @taesguccibag

Hoseok hates all things scary, he hated fast rides, ghosts, scary movies, loud noises and angry people. So when he woke in a dark forest in the rain he was scared, he heard strange noises and there you were standing in front of him on this strange animal he had never seen.

You spoke, your voice soft but odd somehow like he wasn’t sure if he really heard you. He looked over you as he heard you speak again and noticed your mouth wasn’t moving he looked around before his eyes landed on you. You smiled at him, your voice filling his head just as gently as the first time.

“You are not from around here?”

“Where is here?”

“Exactly where you are from. But here and different”

“I can see that”

“Follow me we should head somewhere safe before anyone sees your from the other dimension”

Kim Namjoon: Limerick

There was a legend of a man with a sharp mind and quick wit, he was never married but he was wealthy, it seems that those who met him only spoke negatively about him. You were curious, surely he wasn’t as bad as they said, you were to be wed to an older gentleman you had never met. Already classified as a disgrace because you were so old, but you had heard this gentleman was your age and handsome.

You went to see him hoping this could be your chance at salvation, your chance to at least choose who you were married too.

Dressed in your best hanbok, you walked to the edge of town and arrived at the small temple you waited in line you were the last one who would be seen.

The sun was setting when you finally met him, he was strange looking the more you started the more interested you became with his features each beautiful yet so odd, but you weren’t here for looks, you were here for brains.

“How can I help you?”

“I would like to persuade you into the idea of marriage”

“You are not the first, what is your reasoning, is it money, it is definitely not for my looks”

“No, I do not wish for fortune and I find your appearance to be quite charming, I hear you are a smart man and I am set to wed a horrible man” You handed him the letter and he read it quickly, frowning as he progressed down the page.

“I think it is not too dramatic to say I would do anything not to marry this man.”

“Their once was a woman from a small town, who would look much better without a frown, to save herself from his bed, another man she will wed, wearing her best gown” he grinned looking up at you.

“There once was a man named Namjoon

With eyes as bright as the moon, he didn’t know of his looks, his head stuck in his books, I wish to marry him this afternoon” the scholar seemed to blush at your words

Park Jimin: Frog

Jimin was a shy boy, from a wealthy family, he had never stepped foot outside of his family home without an escort and had never spoken to another child his age without it being arranged. He had his scheduled play dates with Taehyung and Jungkook when they were free from their studies. There was a young girl next door that he sometimes heard playing, she was from a rich family as well and she would giggle loudly claiming to be catching her frog prince. Jimin grew older as did she and could still hear her sometimes talking to the frog about how she really wished they were a prince in disguise.

One day he finished his studies and sat by the stone wall waiting to hear her talk to the frogs and chase them. It amused him to this day that you still couldn’t catch them, that being said you were successful once but you squealed and threw the frog over the fence in panic because you had actually touched it.

Jimin was in his early twenties and heard you crying, you were talking to the frogs about how you felt alone.

Climbing swiftly over the fence Jimin grinned when he saw you laying on the small stone bench. “It is I your frog prince” he was in fits of laughter as he saw you flail yourself off the bench.

Kim Taehyung: Chicken

You worked with a food delivery service, and it didn’t matter the food, the price or the amount, whenever you started your shift you would receive the same address, every time. Greeted by a handsome young man around your age. Today was an order for fried chicken but it was a different address. Perhaps you wouldn’t meet the handsome young man, the thought actually disappointed you somewhat.

After all this time had you started enjoying your little moments with the young man? Of course you had he was so soft spoken and shy, you truly loved seeing him, maybe he was sick or hurt or injured.

The unknown was driving you crazy, there was nothing you could do taking the fried chicken to the new address you were escorted inside.

“I have a delivery of fried chicken?”

“Ah!” There he was looking absolutely amazing with his long dark hair in a perm. “I was worried I wouldn’t get to see you today”

“So was I, you're my favorite” placing the food in his hands trying to disregard the feeling of his hand brushing yours.

As you walked away you heard laughter, “he is blushing”

“She said I was her favorite!”

Jeon Jungkook: Dance @munchyn

The school dance was coming up and it was ladies' choice, the moment it was announced you watched your best friend Jungkook greet bombarded by almost every girl in school. And he always apologizes declining politely and saying he was waiting for a certain someone to ask him. It must have been the most popular girl in school, who else would he wait for.

So when lunch came around and the school's most prettiest, smartest and most popular girl sauntered over to your table you placed your lunch down no longer hungry.

“Hey Kookie, I heard you were waiting for a special someone to ask you to the dance?”

“Yes I am” he smiled up at her with his bunny teeth on show.

“Well I am here so you don’t have to wait any longer”

Standing you went to leave unable to witness this any longer, Jungkook caught your hand in the middle of the lunch hall. “Y/n I know it’s a girl's choice but I was wondering if maybe you wanted to ask me to go to the dance with you?”

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alifeincoffeespoons · 4 years

Text

a moony has spawned in the server, chapter six

Tell us about a place or community you call home. How has it shaped your perspective? (250 words)

To me, comfort is long, sleepless nights spent under the covers of my bed, scrolling through Submittable entries in search of the best poetry to publish in the next edition of The Quibbler.

I joined The Quibbler back in ninth grade, when I thought that slant rhymes were the height of poetic genius. They were looking for poetry readers, and despite the fact that the only poetry I had ever really read was Shakespeare and Frost, the editor-in-chief took me on.

As a poetry reader, I was responsible for scrutinizing and editing every piece of poetry that was sent into our Submittable inbox, from haikus to limericks to long-form prose poems. And as I read, I realized what the draw of poetry was. There are things we can say in poetry that we can’t say in any other form. Where else can love be so visceral, so terrifying than in a poem?

In poems, I read about experiences that I’d never had myself. I traveled to Istanbul, Beijing, and Rome; I was an astronaut, a selkie, and god i hate supplements so much when will this bullshit be over

Remus (9:25 AM): lily why are college essays the worst

Lily (9:28 AM): because colleges want to see your “true self” but you can never be too truthful because they only want to hear the good stuff, which is usually something “unique” that only super privileged kids have done anyway

Lily (9:30 AM): oh and the prompts are really dry

Remus (9:31 AM): all very good points

Remus (9:32 AM): btw are you busy right now?

Lily (9:33 AM): nah multi was cancelled today because of some junior-only assembly

Remus (9:33 AM): wanna call

Lily (9:34 AM): yes always

Lily (9:35 AM): i have so much to tell you about

When Remus picks up Lily’s call, the first thing out of her mouth is, “Hi, hope you’re having a good day, and do guys make bets on girls in real life?” Today, she looks strangely frazzled—her hair, usually impeccable, lies in a tangled heap around her shoulders, and there are worryingly dark circles under her eyes.

“What?” Remus scrunches up his nose, confused. “Do you mean like how people bet on dogs and horses?”

“No, I mean like how assholes bet on girls for prom night in movies like She’s All That and How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days,” Lily replies. She huffs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and taps a pen impatiently against her desk.

“I don’t think so? Why?”

“Potter,” Lily grumbles. “He’s up to something, I just know it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ever since school started, he’s been nice and helpful,” Lily says, with the reluctant air of someone admitting that they really, truly enjoyed The Emoji Movie, and would gladly pay money to watch a sequel.

read more on ao3!

#wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #james potter #lily evans #james x lily #peter pettigrew #mwpp #marauders #harry potter #hp #harry potter fanfiction #hp fic #my writing

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libidomechanica · 7 months

Text

Untitled (“If snow be whitest sheets of lilies laid”)

A limerick sequence

Stanza I

Ally, you agree? Shown, and my back. If snow be whitest sheets of lilies laid. With a fading rose, Sighing she spoke against the slow clock within who laid about.

Stanza II

Death will sag toward his western bower. It is a wond’rous thing off the Holy Three to Senegal; teach that have sped, had I then apart, nay, profanation grew.

Stanza III

I hate you all have free adit; we will be well. Lying in exchanged my fears the secret prepossession, thrice happy in the ground beneath a Double Burden.

Stanza IV

If you’re dubbed knight head, now fired an anger and be friend. With dimples in many a smile lord Henry heard a noise overhead. And my heart beat stronger than they.

Stanza V

And hence high tree the boy hath cheekes to me. Especially when persimmons ripen today when we are lov’d, and press his beauty, education, though sweet souls!

Stanza VI

We studied friends, and would be lost. Till the toll gate collecting, one is there beams the hall flowers, and rush on, if thou canst thou shall stop loving mere free as any.

Stanza VII

And now good-morrow to the sea for? ’ Said Ida, thought it less. For while some did bring forth his white, shall look for me I shall weep thought so; but they not be clean, their prose.

Stanza VIII

Than owl-songs or the Wolf’s Accomplished shape. Leaving all-claretless to eternity and seamen, though seen of vapour, or a waking dresse, be briefe in praying.

Stanza IX

Her violets, which bears with his memory of facts, of courses of the hill, so brimmed with slow dilation to make love like a ghost she comes not so much inspired.

Stanza X

And, being made for May: and so these did play: How slow ye move, nor missed the hills are all their hinges creak’d; themselves, nor knew the strange that I know, or don’t have much time.

Stanza XI

Renders vain their endlesse night and deer, his own vision holds a treasure, what woman’s goal. By any means, to light, my dear virtue, every lane; but when you your sleep.

Stanza XII

But I think you, some Orient Pearls unwept: It’s your love. Sage could do, own thoughts are low; when someone you look up, and fight, and her eyes, and left me his Languishment?

Stanza XIII

I earned no more, but from the heavens and, maybe, love. In the West garden- rose that he said to me the eyes that fine fixed point from thy health mayst thou wilt be my ain.

Stanza XIV

And thunders, crept away, like a bell. Mutual blood, an innocence is slight have been their rents. It was evening, friend’s fragility, for it was a notch in May.

Stanza XV

Sleepers startled in all there rises every shock, tis odd, none can die. Purple islands fade that I should be to suit the Amen, ere the wrapt in the maiden shut?

Stanza XVI

Lily of the ills o’er the precious sigh, much profit! Like a ghost, and her for music’s sound, sweeter thy part I cannot speak— and they sang, the bed a ship in sleep.

Stanza XVII

Were yourselves—the woman as she saw them, clicking coals. Upon the heart are at a mortal names, grew side by side; nor sees; rolled at a reflection, you missed the hills?

Stanza XVIII

Now sleeps the clergymen having in their finger in her child! You humble pardon, if in my ear where the world—ah me! Sugar, my wife is never saw you, Mag.

Stanza XIX

They began to look a little church last—a match ’twixt me, bent, without declining weeds. Give me a look, sharp scale up: for springs would brook her gaieties, none can die.

Stanza XX

Round, forgetful of Maud and meaner beauty are in a trembling is. The old, if some Columbus of the length I find how should have not to ask his mortal Bird!

Stanza XXI

Called to, a thousand years. Hee vowes nothing art the cause be of your tongue could not his rage to the Amorous sphere; one of Sisyphus, if once we goe a Maying.

Stanza XXII

The breeze is whispering. Dialogue, by humouring bottle which first explained the gilded girl who held up through the soul abroad Some have done, had hardly leave her?

Stanza XXIII

The poplar made, and runs the world know that his life is to the Sun … I open the why not now? Or Branch: Each Porch, each his thunderbolt, she taught that there went away?

Stanza XXIV

She was absent presence absence to unsay. Such were his grim head to be won, beauteous state reveal’d. And lo, she would be most friend be dear call yet once everywhere.

Stanza XXV

Eve made another. A poet could alike in the rougher voices should surely cease to hack into your past impression— cannot cheat so wild that on the same.

Stanza XXVI

Nick in a knife. Which, done, by mottled fire more sharp as a lynx, and yet on tiptoe seemed as birds are, hawk on bough! You know hunger mouthed, and the sweet to live alone.

Stanza XXVII

And then any things to all men grow! He dances with the red-ribb’d hollows bare went on cutting breezes blown before Aurora throwes on me, nor cares to weepe.

Stanza XXVIII

Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. Why wept it? But now when a fool’s eye light, my love has died today when some female hands and they hurt makes men weep, and sister.

Stanza XXIX

Across that my wings. Why dost not bite so nigh into eternity. You have been lilies laid. Our son, because I feel the enclasping flowery sisterhood.

Stanza XXX

Melts mist-like in each respects for both of that shoulders to enrich thy glass she loathed theme of your feature— auld Nature, laughed at your hand in true love, the human soul!

Stanza XXXI

Lights are lang! Will clear that early youth’s starward love each time, until I heard: though, if I saw her stature made and on the house, the accomplish thou art Queen of farce!

Stanza XXXII

But, ah, soon regained the front gate, pulling fear I find him; by the pure as he: for those circle waited on; sigh’d no surely, now it is esteem. Or on the rest.

Stanza XXXIII

No Angel, but a kiss nor ever. Who was your love heaven that Adam, call’d her home, my Corinna, come; for all turn the penumbra of a tiny earthquake.

Stanza XXXIV

A martial song, and not deem such amber tears fell from that he said: Quick answered the holly! And hasten while Death standing all- claretless the city. Not a Maying.

Stanza XXXV

With what life I had lost you. Her several winters, made green leave they could I have had you out but they heard senators declaiming its spray, they rise or sing it?

Stanza XXXVI

Who order’d, that not have them paused hortensia pleading struck me, madman, over thou feel’st it cold. And never lost, themselves to wile the twangling toward her turn the loved?

Stanza XXXVII

And, into the sun; coral is far more pity of him in my way. White as stone. Or do you meane my tender, or shape, which brought me meikle wae; but rather groand!

Stanza XXXVIII

During North. So he sighed, she would say of it, It is good this lightsome days I spent wi’ thee, close in sorrow to the course, with what pastimes Time and thine eyes they know.

Stanza XXXIX

Ah, what thy Subject bound on either of the bay? Hope, in pity may deserve their crimes; factitious passionate tears speak, nor more sweet Ida: palm to palm she spray.

Stanza XL

What not harms distinction beats lighten into a statue propt against this love to her plans of artless arm; time and trentall sung. Of spanless girth; but work no more.

Stanza XLI

And the vase into a scene, and see how thy Neck beneath, grave thee die! Whither here is in a love for a heron. Nor glance the moon decks herself too much loved, why?

Stanza XLII

Love, called love, that I laughed at your Highness breakfast table mess. And beware lest, when all forget their sweet Access a Salve to warm today when she was the spring?

Stanza XLIII

Flowers, and much more easily because her own to find an echo in another losing. Seems seeing either to the vision holds what the little glitter.

Stanza XLIV

With kisses, how? Yet, as if at merit of your tongue to mind: and yet how far to Shah and Subjects hath to lick a human things but once, she takes the way the seer.

Stanza XLV

A sleep to clear the mind glows; a paper kite which joyes to keep it, and wilt thou think not share it. And a moral man was Werther, and the more I lose expression!

Stanza XLVI

In folds the world, firm, quiet place whereof, with what party is in my extremity of years, those who stand, leaving and therefore, how are out them both in performed!

Stanza XLVII

Then comes back from the knock-kneed broom instead. Of beechen green, maud made monastic vows; that were her worst disgrace, rose Aylmer, all well sayd, still water: then—all good grace?

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #176 texts #limerick sequence

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spysfreenot-verygreatoldfiction · 5 years

Text

The Strange Limerick Girl

Historical Drama

Chapter One behind the cut.

Chapter One: The Strange Cavan Man

Saturday, April 13, 1901

It was raining in Cork County creating a thick grey soupy fog so cold it chilled the flesh and froze the lambs resting against their mother’s thick, woollen sides. And the bleating babes, with their soft curls dampened by the mists, shuttled across the grassy hills and knolls tightly against their flocks, heading for shelter to get dry and warm.

The ground was slickened and the path muddy. Above the lone, struggling figure the sky was black as night and relentless with the freezing rain.

It was the moisture that caused consumption and deathly fever, but the young woman had no place to go for cover and she hadn’t time to tarry, her time was short and it meant the world to her to make it to the wharfs in Cork.

For days, she had travelled non-stop towards the city of Cork. Her only possessions were the bundle that she cradled lovingly in her arms and the steamship ticket in her pocket. It was her last desperate chance, a ticket to Canada, the land of opportunity and liberty, a land of freedom and choices.

Giving the land behind her a fearful glance, she sped up, her legs flying over the damp grass. They would come after her soon, following her. She knew what happened to those overcome by the matrons and she most certainly knew what would become of her precious bundle.

Dragging herself wearily over a stone fence, she landed in the mire of the path and slogged her way through it, finding the grassy bit in the middle more to her liking. As she looked over her shoulder again, her foot landed on the side of the mound of grass and slid off into the puddles of the path.

She slipped into the cold mud, and nearly toppled onto the child in her arms, but she turned at the last moment and managed to land on her hip. The fall had woken the dormant child and it began to wail at the weather.

By now the cruel rain had thoroughly drenched her thick black shawl and dark grey dress, and they hung from her body like a sheet of ice hanging from a line, her hair had fallen from it’s usual prim style and hung in front of her eyes. She was sure she looked a fright. Like some drenched kelpie come to land to wander the countryside.

Her teeth clacked together, and all she could do was sit on the cold path, the child mewing in her arms.

But what more could she do? She hadn’t even eaten herself, how could she nourish a baby? She was utterly exhausted and so cold.

Pulling her weary body over to a stone fence, she propped against it and awaited her death with eyelids that drooped low from exhaustion.

She had lost the time.

When she finally struggled to get her eyes open, she saw that an angel towered over her, sky blue eyes brightening the rain clouds overhead.

“Christ!” The angel exclaimed and knelt down to collect her in his arms.

She didn’t know how long she had been out.

Days, perhaps.

But when she finally opened her eyes, she saw that she was in a barren room, with an elderly woman fussing over her like a mother hen.

On the wall over the head of the bed was a large wooden cross, plain and simple for the plain and simple room. It was one of those Protestant abominations, barren of the Saviour.

The woman’s brown eyes lit up at seeing her awake.

“Roddy! Roddy get in here she’s comin’ to!” The woman called out softly to the other room.

The young woman’s fuzzy brain jolted awake. “Michaela? Where’s Michaela?” She asked with a mouth that felt like it was full of pebbles.

“Your baby child? She’s just grand.” The woman pointed to a pram in the corner. “I’m afraid all we had for her to sleep in was an old pram.”

The young woman relaxed visibly.

An older man with a large white moustache came into the room, his face handsome and birdlike. “What is it Cora?”

“The girl came to.”

Peering down at her, the man smiled warmly. “That she did. What’s your name then?”

“Helen Shaunnessy.” The young woman mumbled.

The woman pushed back into her view. “Hello there, Helen dear, I’m Cora McCormack and this is my husband Roddy. You had quite a night in the lane yonder.”

The man placed a pipe between his teeth, but left it unlit and merely chomped on the end. “Where do you hail from Helen?”

“Limerick.”

Cora slapped her husband’s shoulder. “Roddy! Don’t question the poor dear! She just woke up!”

Helen took this opportunity to swing her legs over the edge of the bed and rise up carefully, her head buzzing with a strange misty feeling. She placed her hand to her temple and closed her eyes. “If you don’t mind I’ll be goin’ now.”

Cora immediately moved to support her. “You’ll do nothin’ of the sort Helen Shaunnessy! Why you still have a fever and could have caught the consumption!” She guided Helen back into bed. “You just rest as long as you need. Roddy, perhaps you should tell Mr. O’Hara that the young lady is up.”

The man hooked his left thumb between his brace and his chest. “I don’t think I need to with you bellowin’ to blue hell. Besides that, she’s a good, strong girl from Limerick; she’s used enough by now to the consumption.”

Cora slapped his stomach sternly. “Don’t get shirty with me!” But there was a teasing laughter in her brown eyes as she glared at her husband.

Helen closed her eyes and fell asleep to the sound of the couple arguing.

When she opened them again the room was dark and silent.

Outside the night sky was speckled with a myriad of tiny lanterns, sparkling and winking among the dark inky clouds that rolled over lazily.

She wanted to close her eyes and fall back into her deep, untroubled slumber, but her urge to check on Michaela was stronger than her urge to rest.

It took all of her strength to open her eyelids and keep them wide and alert as she slipped her legs over the edge of the bed and struggled to sit up.

Her knees felt like they would buckle at any minute and her head throbbed terribly.

As she reached the pram, she peered over the edge and immediately felt sick. There was nothing but blankets and an old doll inside.

“Michaela?” She asked, a tone of desperation in her voice, as she pushed aside the blankets and threw the doll onto the floor with a thud. “Michaela?” On panic strengthened legs she flew from the bedroom. “Michaela!” She screamed and nearly fell over as she came to a dead halt in the kitchen.

There lying calmly in the arms of Cora McCormack was her daughter. Feeling rage and a strong motherly urge to protect her young, she raced forward and snatched her child away from the woman.

Cora gasped as Helen tore her child from her arms and held her to her chest possessively.

“What are you doing to her?” Helen shrieked and scuttled into a corner.

Cora stood up. “I were only feedin’ her child.”

Helen cupped Michaela’s cheek in her hand and wrapped the blanket around her snugly.

A form shifted on the worn old green sofa and a man sat up to stare at the crazed young woman in the corner.

Roddy came out from his bedroom, scratching his white head in confusion to find the lot of them, he looked like they had woken him from a deep sleep. “What’s all the noise about then?” He asked.

“Nothing,” Cora assured her husband, “I only gave the child a fright is all. Sorry dear.”

Helen shifted uneasily in the corner like a caged animal and hugged her infant to her all the tighter.

“Christ she came flying out of there like a banshee.” The man observed with a devilish grin as he gracefully pushed himself off of the sofa and towards the table.

“Scared me half to death,” Cora added with a nervous chuckle, clutching her chest.

The strange man alighted himself at the tiny wooden table beside Cora.

Roddy continued to stand in the doorway of his bedroom, leaning against the frame casually.

Cora held the bottle out to the strange girl from Limerick. “You can feed her before it gets cold. Then come sit here and have some biscuits.”

Helen snatched the bottle and placed it to Michaela’s lips, the infant greedily began to drink making rather loud sucking sounds. It was then that Helen felt all three pairs of eyes on her. She looked up through her eyelashes, watching the soft look Cora was giving her and felt ashamed of her mistreatment of the kindly old couple. After all they hadn’t really done anything to her, but take her in and care and feed her child.

Her undetected gaze swept over to the unknown man who now sat comfortably chewing on an unlit pipe. His sharp blue eyes watched her thoughtfully, returning the gaze as though he saw her eyeing them through lowered eyelashes.

“Where’re you traveling to?” The man asked, breaking the sounds of Michaela’s drinking. His voice was elegant sounding, like one of the men in suits that stood outside of the theatres and spoke of literature.

“Cork.” She answered softly.

Cora patted the empty chair beside her. “Come sit here dear, you look worn right through.”

Helen hesitated, but her knees continued their threat to fail her, so she cautiously made her way over and settled on the chair lightly, ready to bolt at any minute.

“Roddy, you want this chair then?” The man barked out, still eyeing Helen.

The older man seemed to get offended. “My hair may be white, but I’m still fitter than a boy of eighteen.”

At this the man grinned.

“Why are you going to Cork dear?” Cora inquired.

Helen looked up. “I’m boarding a ship there.”

“Where to?” It was Roddy’s turn to interrogate her.

“Canada.” She replied, then thinking they would want to know why she added. “My husband is waiting for me on the prairies. He owns a farm there.”

“You’re traveling the great ocean voyage on your own, with a baby?” Roddy demanded gently.

“Yes.” She said.

“That’s not a safe journey for a man to make alone, never mind a woman and child.” Cora stated and stood up to grab a plate of cold biscuits from the counter. She set them before Helen and offered to take the empty bottle.

Helen gave her the bottle and gently patted Michaela’s back. “I can make it.”

“You barely survived the journey to Cork.” The man pointed out.

Who was this man to doubt her ability to take care of herself? She glared at him.

This only seemed to amuse him greatly as he leaned back in his seat, eyes sparkling with delight and lips pulled into a crooked grin.

Cora looked up at her husband. “Roddy? Could I have a word with you?”

He furrowed his brow. “No.”

“Roddy.”

He gave in with a sigh and turned back into his bedroom.

Cora stood up to follow him. “Don’t worry dear, we’ll be right back. Mr. O’Hara, please excuse us for a moment.”

The man nodded.

As soon as the door closed behind Cora, Helen turned her attention back to looking at Mr. O’Hara -as he apparently was known- through lowered eyelashes. He was neither handsome, nor ugly, but had high cheekbones and a pole straight, fine boned nose that ended in a sharp looking point. His jaw line was sharp and clean-shaven and his chin pointed. His lips were thin and his eyebrows arched with a graceful flourish. In fact he was so plain that he seemed unholy and Helen decided that she could easily consider him handsome.

She looked at his deep black hair cropped short and slicked back with a few strands out of order lying in his eyes like a young boy’s. His hair immediately reminded her of a raven’s plumage, the colour so deep it seemed to have a blue tint in the light.

What an odd looking man, she thought to herself. Hauntingly beautiful, but plain in all its simple forms, would have been the best description.

The fingers that held his pipe were long and tapered, with knuckles that were slightly knobby as though he had been in far too many fights. Whenever his hand moved the sinews on the back rippled like the ebbing of the tide.

Her moment of examining Mr. O’Hara was broken by Michaela belching loudly. Wrapping the baby up again, Helen placed Michaela in her lap and chanced to look up directly at Mr. O’Hara.

He seemed like a wax figure that came to life as her eyes touched him and he nudged the plate of biscuits closer to her. “You should eat something.”

He really didn’t have to tell her twice, she scooped up a biscuit and began to gnaw at it.

“Do you ever light that then?” She inquired between mouthfuls, watching him clamp his teeth down on the mouthpiece of his pipe.

“I used to. Seems there was a time when frivolities like this were many and easy to come by.”

She frowned and stole another biscuit.

The door to the bedroom opened and Cora came scurrying out followed by her agitated looking husband. He looked like a man who had foolishly fought with his wife and lost, for his hands were shoved deep into his pockets and his mouth was drawn in a strict line.

“Mr. O’Hara?” Cora asked as she came to the table.

“Aye." His gaze finally left Helen and turned to the elderly woman.

“You were going to Cork yourself, right?”

“Aye.” He looked like a man who had fought with his wife and lost.

It was raining in Cork County.

Not that it made any difference as Helen was strictly forbidden to do anything interesting until her strength was regained.

Since Cora McCormack -damned her meddling soul- decided that Mr. O’Hara would be the perfect escort to deliver Helen and Michaela to Cork’s docks, Helen was placed under a glass dome and force fed until there was a distinct rosy hue on her cheeks. Michaela was the luckier of the two; she complained loudly when she was done her meal in a bottle and got to interest herself with taking rather long naps.

It turned out that Mr. O’Hara was a travelling fiddler, and played better than the devil. He could take a simple tune and turn it into a lacy concerto. He wasn’t a terrible singer either; his voice was soft enough that it crooned in a very gentle and haunting way.

Thankfully Mr. O’Hara found it in his heart to play and sing for them, entertaining all in the slow evenings that befell the tiny cottage somewhere on the road to Cork. Helen had immediately taken a liking to his voice; it was the way he sang, with so much emotion and heart. Trembling in a fine tenor when the songs turned sorrowful, and then rising high and proud when the songs were playful. On nights when he sang, she would manage to get the seat closest to him just to hear the song better. She stopped doing that when he had found another way to tease her by poking her with his bow whenever he hit his low notes.

To eliminate the boredom, Cora had taken it upon herself to teach young Helen how to read passages from the bible. But Helen didn’t seem to care much for the good book, and she already knew how to read a bit. So she made her own entertainment by slipping in the odd dirty word where it could be easily mistaken causing Cora to smile serenely and correct her. For really, what else could she do? She was a woman of a calm patience.

During the day Helen and Cora would do simple housework for a simple cottage, and Roddy and Mr. O’Hara would disappear into the village to return in the evenings.

Helen wanted to ask where they went, for they didn’t smell of the drink, so it couldn’t have been the tavern and they didn’t seem to work anywhere. But they would come in smiling and joking with each other, stomping the mud from their boots and making a ruckus loud enough for the Russians to hear in cold Siberia.

Roddy would go to his worn old wing chair to rest and Mr. O’Hara would clamp his teeth down on his unlit pipe and say to Helen ‘there’s a good Irish girl, making a meal for the men’.

Helen would glare at him with pure malevolence.

And Mr. O’Hara would simply get that devilish look in his eyes and offer to help her saying ‘ah well, since you asked so politely I guess I could lend you a hand or two’. And he would set about making the biscuits.

Once Roddy piped up saying ‘You’re meddlin’ with a spitfire Jack, You’ll get burnt’, but Mr. O’Hara just got that roguish look about him and smiled his crooked smile.

The night before they had to leave for Cork, Mr. O’Hara and Roddy came in laughing and joking as always.

Roddy went to his chair and settled down comfortably for a small nap before supper.

Mr. O’Hara stood beside the table as he always did with his unlit pipe in his hand. He never even got a word out when Helen turned to him and slammed the kitchen knife down on the table between them.

“Do it yourself then!” She exclaimed and stormed off into her room.

Roddy and Cora looked at Mr. O’Hara waiting for a reply.

He merely clamped his teeth down on his pipe and grinned.

Later she was coaxed from her room by the wonderful scent of beef stew and reluctantly journeyed into the kitchen.

There standing over the pot was Mr. O’Hara. He said nothing to her, but smirked as she meekly offered to help Cora make the biscuits.

Cora pulled Helen into a tight embrace and cooed in her ear. “You travel safe, child, and have good weather on the seas.”

Helen nodded. “Right.”

The older woman was near tears. “And you take care of yourself over there, ‘tis wild country and you never know what sort lives there.”

“Thank you, Cora.” Helen said and received another crushing hug.

Roddy stood solemnly, speaking to Mr. O’Hara in a quiet tone and nodding his head; he saw Helen looking at him and motioned her over.

Helen shifted Michaela in her arms and walked over to Roddy as Mr. O’Hara passed her to thank Cora for the hospitality.

“Listen, child, I’ve been told tales of Canada. You make damned sure that your husband has a strong back and is willing to work up a few calluses.” His eyes softened slightly from their usual hardness.

Helen nodded. “Right.”

He slipped an envelope into her free hand. “You’ll need this.”

“Right, sir. Thank you.”

Mr. O’Hara came to stand beside them. “Well, Mrs. Shaunnessy, we best be going now.”

She nodded only slightly reluctantly. “Aye.” Somehow, staying with the McCormack’s seemed like something she could do willingly. But no, she couldn’t take advantage of their hospitality.

But God, how she wanted to.

She wanted to stay on, living in that simple cottage, with the simple Protestant crosses and listen to Mr. O’Hara play his fiddle at night.

It could have been her own personal heaven after she’d been through hell.

Instead, she bravely tightened her gentle hold on her daughter and started off, trailing Mr. O’Hara.

She knew she would never be back, but years afterwards, in times of trouble and worry, she would always dream of that warm cottage in the county of Cork.

The road to Cork was long.

Mr. O’Hara carried his fiddle case in one hand, a carpet bag filled with a few of his own belongings in the other and a small valise filled with old clothes that Cora had given to Helen tucked under his right arm.

Helen herself carried Michaela and was beginning to feel the deep throb in her aching feet.

There were no words passed between them until Mr. O’Hara glanced over at her. “Now, why would your husband want to be living in Canada?” He asked suddenly.

Helen was shocked at first by his abrupt inquiry. “It’s the land of opportunity.” She said, and then elaborated. “A man can buy one hundred and sixty acres of government land for ten dollars. There are jobs there for the poor man and room enough to breathe.”

“Suppose a man like myself went to Canada with nothing but a fiddle?”

She looked over at him and had to look up a bit as he was a full head taller than her. “You’d be a rich man in a month.”

“Sounds too good to be true.” He said sceptically.

Helen’s eyes widened. “Oh, but there are so many opportunities there, Mr. O’Hara! You could start yourself a farm, or fruit orchard, or even work in a mine. I hear there’s gold in Canada.”

He furrowed his brow in thought.

They were silent for quite a ways, when Helen felt the need to rest.

“Mr. O’Hara, sir?”

“Aye?” He asked, still clearly in deep thought.

“Could we stop a bit? My feet are hurting something terrible.”

He nodded and motioned towards a stone fence on the side of the path.

Helen settled down on top of it. “Are you from Cork, Mr. O’Hara?” She smoothed her dress about her knees primly. “It’s hard to tell with that rich man’s accent of yours.”

Smiling crookedly, he shook his head and leaned against the wall beside her. “No.”

She arranged the blanket around Michaela to keep her warmer. “Where are you from?”

“Ballyjamesduff.” He replied. “Is that true about Canada? The opportunity?”

“Aye.”

He nodded slowly, returning to his pensive silence.

“Is that in county Cavan?” Helen inquired, returning to their previous conversation.

“Aye.”

They were silent once more.

The tavern was busy, full to the brim and noisy enough for three factories. Mr. O’Hara motioned to a back table, and they both slumped down with sighs of relief.

A delicate red headed barmaid glided over with a graceful sashay and smiled brightly at them. “What can I get you then?”

“What do you suggest?” He inquired, returning the smile.

She looked him over appreciatively. “In this pub? The stew is fairly downable.”

Mr. O’Hara nodded, his eyes twinkling. “Right then, stew it is.” He glanced over at Helen and found her staring intently at the table, clearly not ordering. Taking in her state he pursed his lips. “Make it two bowls of stew for us, a glass of water for the girl and a pint for me.”

Helen looked up with intense eyes.

“Right.” The barmaid swayed off through the smoky crowd.

“I’m quite capable of ordering for myself.” Helen stated firmly, her mouth scrunched into a sour scowl.

Mr. O’Hara pulled out his pipe and leaning back on the chair, clamped it between his teeth. “You didn’t look as if you were going to.”

“I weren’t.” She said.

“Now what kind of low lying man would I be, if I sent a girl and her baby on a ship to Canada with empty bellies?” He leaned his chair back on two legs, resting against the wall behind him. “God knows you aren’t going to eat much over there. They’re lean and hungry fellows over in Rupert’s Land.”

She continued to glare at the people around them. “I cana pay you.”

“Where I come from this called an act of generosity.”

She smirked wickedly. “You’re from Cavan, Mr. O’Hara; people there are cheap and cruel.”

He barked out a short laugh. “Well, I’m not sure about that, Mrs. Shaunnessy.”

They were silent for a moment, listening to the noise around them with attentive ears.

“Why are you here in Cork, Mr. O’Hara?” Helen asked, trying to make peace.

He pulled his pipe from his mouth. “I’m here for a job.”

“Doing what?”

His left eyebrow raised in an amused gesture. “Whatever I can.” He glanced over at the barmaid who stood near the bar smiling at him. After a long while of watching her, he turned back to Helen. “What does your husband do?”

“He’s a farmer.” She replied slowly.

Mr. O’Hara nodded. “Of what?”

“Do you really care? Or is this just a filling of empty silence?” She really hated small talk.

His ever-smirking face faltered. “I was only trying to be nice.”

She bit her bottom lip. “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Hara. I’m a lil’ nervous about the voyage.”

They were silent for a moment, observing the activity around them with jaded interest.

“Helen.” He stated suddenly. “That’s a curious name.”

“It’s from that Greek story. Helen was the most beautiful woman in all of Greece.” Michaela mewed and Helen stroked the top of her head to calm her. “Men went to war over her. My brother told me that.”

At this Mr. O’Hara beamed. “It seems men will do anything for a pretty face.”

She didn’t mean to giggle, but it escaped her lips and she immediately sobered.

He caught it though and looked rather smug. “Ah, so she does smile.”

Helen looked at him reproachfully. “Everyone smiles, Mr. O’Hara, some more than others.”

At that he chuckled softly. “That they do, child.”

“What do you do, Mr. O’Hara?” She inquired, giving her baby a quick kiss on the top of her head. “I mean other than play your fiddle.”

He watched the mother and child with eyes of a tender nature. “I was a Professor of English at a private school for the privileged. The school closed and I found myself looking for a job. So I worked manual labour in a few places, a dairy farm, a carpentry shop, playing my fiddle in a dance hall, but they were merely temporary jobs.”

“Should I call you Professor O’Hara then?”

He chuckled again. “Ah no, child, I don’t want people to think I outclass them with a mere title.”

“But you earned your title; you should at least wear it with pride.” She argued.

He was about to reply, when their food was shoved under their noses. He chose, instead, to thank the barmaid politely and dig in.

Helen wasn’t finished though; she spoke in a voice that was hushed, but loud enough for him to hear. “I’m gonna call you Professor, even if I never get the chance to again.”

And that was the end of their conversation.

#The Strange Limerick Girl #Chapter One #wrote this one when i was about 22ish?

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