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southeastasianists · 4 years

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Last September, I drove for four hours from Jakarta to a small town in western Java, staying one night in a Javanese-styled hotel at the foot of Mt. Ciremai, a 3,000-meter volcano on Java. When I got to Cisantana, I journeyed down a stone path, looking for the Mother Mary shrine. It was a welcome surprise to see this Catholic shrine, equipped with a tropical version of the Via Dolorosa—the route believed to have been taken by Jesus through Jerusalem to Calvary—and supported by electricity coming from a nearby Islamic boarding school.

The presence of such a shrine was all the more surprising in West Java, one of Indonesia’s most conservative Muslim provinces, where attacks against Christians, Ahmadis, and other religious minorities frequently make headlines in local news. Attacks against women’s rights, private gay parties, and transgender crowds are not uncommon.

I continued walking past avocado farms, a banana plantation, and cornfields and finally came upon an open space where a handful of Sundanese women and men were working to construct a tomb.

They were very pleasant. “It’s a quiet day today,” an elderly man said to me. They were taking a break and welcomed me to sit in their bamboo hut with a fire stove.

A woman showed me phone videos of the work they did with more than 100 volunteers, who used wooden poles and bamboo to bring several huge stones from a nearby river to this spot, which is inaccessible by road. They called the tomb “Batu Satangtung” or the “Human Stone,” intended for their elderly religious leader and his wife.

I imagined the makers of Stonehenge might have used similar methods two or three millennia ago in England.

The Sundanese people are from West Java, a province of about 40 million. They are the second largest ethnic group in Indonesia, after the neighbouring Javanese. The volunteers I met are not only Sundanese but of the ethnic-religious group Sunda Wiwitan. The name literally means “early Sunda” or “real Sunda.” Its practitioners assert that Sunda Wiwitan has been part of the Sundanese way of life since before the arrival of Hinduism and Islam.

Why were they building the tomb here? Ela Romlah, the woman with the videos, told me that in 1937 and 1938, when Mt. Ciremai was expected to erupt, Pangeran Madrais—then the leader of this group—and his followers climbed the mountain, carrying a set of gamelan instruments. He and hundreds of his musicians played the gamelan on the mountain for months. They believed their music and prayer stopped the eruption. “They then set up a camp at the foot of the mountain. It was here in Curug Goong.”

Madrais was an inspirational cleric, interpreting old Sundanese and Javanese beliefs. He helped establish the community in 1925.

The Dutch colonial officials in charge at the time were not amused to see this kind of independent behaviour. They tried to prevent hundreds of Sundanese people from staying at Curug Goong. But they said nothing when Mt. Ciremai calmed down.

In August 1945, at the end of World War II, Indonesia’s independence leaders adopted a constitution that vowed to protect all Indonesian citizens equally. But they also reached a political compromise with conservative Muslims, including Wahid Hasjim, the chairman of the Nahdlatul Ulama. The agreement, designed to avoid setting up an Islamic state, established the Ministry of Religious Affairs to be “the bridge” between Muslims and the state. The compromise was called Pancasila.

In Garut, about four hours’ drive from Curug Goong, Islamist militants were not satisfied with this and declared the Darul Islam (Islamic State) movement in August 1949, vowing to implement their version of Sharia in Indonesia. From 1950 to 1958, Darul Islam conducted a failed guerrilla campaign in West Java that nonetheless attracted some popular support. They attacked not only the Indonesian military but also religious minorities.

In response, Wahid Hasjim, the minister of religious affairs, adopted a 1952 decree to differentiate between “kepercayaan” (faith) and “agama” (religion). In Indonesian vocabulary, “aliran kepercayaan” is officially used to cover multiple minor religions and spiritual movements. Hasjim decreed that “aliran kepercayaan” are “dogmatic ideas, intertwined with the living customs of various ethnic groups, especially among those who are still underdeveloped, whose main beliefs are the customs of their ancestors throughout the ages.”

Meanwhile, “agama” was defined according to monotheistic understandings. If a community is to be recognised as “religious,” it must adhere to “an internationally recognised monotheistic creed; taught by a prophet through the scriptures.” In this way the decree discriminates against non-monotheistic religions including Hinduism, Buddhism, Confucianism, Bahaism, Zoroastrianism and hundreds of local religions and spiritual movements in Indonesia.

In West Java, the Sunda Wiwitan people faced two serious challenges: the Darul Islam militants, who repeatedly intimidated and attacked them, and the Ministry of Religious Affairs, which actively tried to align “underdeveloped religions” such as theirs with Christianity or Islam.

In 1954, Darul Islam militants attacked the Sunda Wiwitan base in Kuningan. “They managed to burn our paseban (communal spaces) including the kitchen and the garages but fortunately not the main hall,” she said. “They forced our members to convert to Islam,” said Dewi Kanti, a great granddaughter of Madrais.

Similar intimidation and violence took place in neighbouring regencies Tasikmalaya, Banjar, and Garut. Dewi’s grandfather, Pangeran Tedja Buwana, who succeeded Madrais, fled Kuningan to Bandung.

Darul Islam also sent militants into Jakarta. On November 30, 1957, President Sukarno attended a school function at which a Darul Islam militant threw a grenade. Sukarno was unharmed, but six schoolchildren died.

Even after Darul Islam had been militarily defeated, eight Darul Islam militants mingled with a Muslim congregation during a prayer service inside the State Palace on May 14, 1962. They fired shots at Sukarno but missed, hitting one of his bodyguards and a Muslim scholar instead.

Muslim conservatives continued their opposition to smaller religions and spiritual movements. To placate hardliners, Sukarno banned the Indonesian Freemasons (Vrijmetselaren-Loge) along with six so-called “affiliates,” without providing evidence of any illegal links: the Bahai Indonesia organisation, the Divine Life Society, the Moral Rearmament Movement, the Ancient Mystical Order Rosae Crucis, the Rotary Club and the Democracy League, a non-religious organisation considered to be critical of Sukarno. The Rotary Club was accused of being a Zionist group; this was essentially a conspiracy theory intended to connect the Freemasons to the six organisations.

In June 1964, the Kuningan authorities declared Sunda Wiwitan marriages illegal. The Kuningan prosecutor’s office later detained nine believers—a priest and eight young grooms who married in Sundanese Wiwitan rituals—for several months.

Anticipating increased hostilities, Tedja Buwana, who had returned from Bandung, left the Sunda Wiwitan faith, joined the Catholic church and used their paseban as a church. His move prompted 5,000 Sunda Wiwitan believers to convert to Catholicism, according to a researcher, Cornelius Iman Sukmana, himself a Catholic in Kuningan, who wrote a book about the Sunda Wiwitan and the Catholic church.

“It was an important decision. My grandfather saved thousands of our members from accusations of atheism,” said Dewi Kanti, referring to massacres of the communists between 1965 and 1969. “We can’t imagine what would have happened if he didn’t do it.”

Decades later, when the situation finally calmed down, many of these Sunda Wiwitan people, including Dewi Kanti, openly, but not offficially, re-converted to Sunda Wiwitan. Many who converted away from Christianity still go to Sunday mass and wear a cross around their necks. But inside their pockets, they also have Sunda Wiwitan pendants (a mountain, an eagle and two snakes).

“It is common in Kuningan to meet a single family with several religions,” said a vendor near the shrine.

As I walked down from the tomb, I wondered if these conversions and re-conversions prove that religious identity is not a zero-sum game. Identity is somehow imagined like a container with a fixed volume; if you have more of one identity, you have less of another. The Sunda Wiwitan people showed me that they could expand the container and have multiple identities. Thinking of it from this perspective, it is no surprise that I found a tropical Via Dolorosa and an Islamic boarding school near the tomb construction.

The 1965 Blasphemy Law

In downtown Kuningan, I drove to the paseban area, looking at the beautiful wooden hall and sipping a smooth ginger-lemon tea while chatting with Okky Satrio Djati, a Catholic Javanese, who had married the Sunda Wiwitan leader Dewi Kanti almost two decades earlier.

Djati and I used to work together in a newsroom during the Suharto era, publishing online samizdat and managing a mobile internet server. He went to Kuningan in 1998 when President Suharto was facing the mass protests at the height of the Asian economic crisis and helped hide political activists fleeing trouble.

Djati is now a Sunda Wiwitan member, speaking Sundanese, burning incense and sometimes performing midnight prayers in a nearby mountain. “He seems to be more Sundanese than me,” said Kanti, with a giggle.

Djati helps his wife deal with the discrimination that many Sunda Wiwitan members face. “My husband chose Catholicism as his official religion,” Kanti said. “But he practices Kejawen faith. If we insisted on marrying with our own (real) religions, we wouldn’t have birth certificates for our children, or at least, not with my husband’s name on them.”

Under Indonesia’s legal system, an ethnic believer cannot put their kepercayaan on the agama column of their national ID cards and thus cannot legally marry unless they change their kepercayaan to a recognised religion. In these cases, they leave a blank space in the religion column of the card and the civil registration office does not recognise paternity because the couples are not officially married.

Problems for religious minorities escalated in January 1965 when President Sukarno issued a decree that prohibited people from being hostile toward religions or committing blasphemy, which is defined as “abuse” and “desecration” of a religion. Sukarno decreed that the government would steer “mystical sects … toward a healthy way of thinking and believing in the One and Only God.” The decree, which gave official approval only to Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism and Confucianism, was immediately incorporated into the Criminal Code as article 156(a), with a maximum penalty of five years in prison. This has had disastrous effects until the present.

After deposing Sukarno, Suharto and his regime enforced the 1952 decree, which also requires a religion to have a holy book, leading to many bizarre stories of “religious alignment.” In Kalimantan, Dayak tribal leaders created the Panaturan –a collection of Dayak ancestral wisdom compiled into a single “holy book.” This required the creation of a clergy, so Dayak priests were trained. Religious rituals once held in fields and homes were moved into new worship halls called Balai Basarah. But most importantly, Kaharingan religious leaders had to choose a permitted religion to align with. They chose Hinduism, and thus became “Kaharingan Hindu.” But do not ask them about Ganesh or karma!

President Suharto’s wrote about his own Javanese Kejawen faith and Islam in his 1989 authorised biography. He described the syncretism common among the Javanese, conducting his Islamic prayers and celebrating Islamic holidays while also meditating in the sacred places of the Javanese traditions when he wanted to make major decision.

On September 7, 1974, three months before the East Timor invasion, Australian Prime Minister Gough Whitlam met Suharto in a villa in Mt. Dieng, Java Island, where Suharto was meditating in the Semar Cave, which is named after a mythical Javanese character with whom Suharto identified. That cave is still regarded as sacred. When I visited in 2019 it was locked—the villa is now a museum where photos of the Suharto-Whitlam meeting are displayed. Showing a more open mind towards religious minorities, in 1978, Suharto created a directorate within the Ministry of Education and Culture to service these local religions, telling the Indonesian parliament, “These kepercayaan are part of our national tradition, and need not to be opposed to agama.”

Yet even under a strongman, the Ministry of Religious Affairs, technically in charge of religions, resisted and maintained its opposition to local religions. They have refused to include kepercayaan within their domain and have promoted the inclusion of these believers into monotheistic realms. One reason Muslim groups refuse to recognise kepercayaan is their concern that the percentage of Muslims (88 percent) in Indonesia may decline, threatening their majority status.

In Kuningan, the new atmosphere under Suharto prompted the Sunda Wiwitan to re-convert to their native faith. Some of them legally left the Catholic church. Some maintain the practice of two religions, living with multiple identities. In 1982, the faith registered with the Ministry of Education and Culture’s directorate, seeking government services along with President Suharto’s accommodation of ethnic believers.

During the weekend I spent talking with Kanti, Djati and other Sunda Wiwitan believers, young and old, women and men, I witnessed the pain of the discrimination they faced and the cost of religious intolerance to people full of tolerance themselves.

It is fascinating to see a small religion resisting the power of the state. While Suharto took some important steps to protect religious freedom, it would have been better still if he had shown the moral courage to rescind the blasphemy law and the idiosyncratic and dangerous definition of religion from the Sukarno era. Sadly, Suharto’s successors have also failed to find the necessary political will.

Post-Suharto Discrimination

Jarwan is the only Sundanese man who stays overnight to guard the Sunda Wiwitan tomb in Curug Goong. He is a well-built man, keeping a motorcycle and several guard dogs in the bamboo hut.

“Someone has to stay here,” he said. “I am the youngest of the elders.”

In July 2020, the Kuningan government sealed off the tomb, declaring that the Sunda Wiwitan group had no permit to build “a monument.” Dozens of Sunni Muslim militants accompanied government officials to seal the tomb, saying that “the monument” is idolatrous.

Sunda Wiwitan members argue that the construction is not a “monument” but rather a “tomb” prepared for two of their elders, Dewi Kanti’s parents, Pangeran Djati Kusumah, and Emalia Wigarningsih. “It’s built on their own land. There is no regulation here to ban anyone to have cemeteries on our own land,” Djati said.

This is not an unfamiliar scene in many Muslim-majority provinces in Indonesia. Rights monitors have recorded hundreds of incidents like this involving Sunni militant groups, whose thuggish harassment and assaults on houses of worship and members of religious minorities have become increasingly aggressive. Those targeted include Ahmadis, Christians, and Shia Muslims. To give just one grisly example, on May 13-14, 2018, Islamist suicide bombers detonated explosives at three Christian churches in Surabaya. The bombings killed at least 12 and wounded at least 50 people. Thirteen suicide bombers also died.

In 2006 the government introduced regulations for building permits for houses of worship, prompting Muslim protesters to demand the closure of “illegal churches.” Hundreds of churches were closed. Some Christian congregations won lawsuits allowing them to build, but local governments simply ignored court rulings. GKI Yasmin Protestant Church in Bogor was shut down in 2008. The congregation won the case at the Supreme Court in 2010 and then-President Yudhoyono asked the local government to reopen the church, but the city government defied the orders, without consequence.

By contrast, in 2010 the Religious Affairs Ministry listed 243,199 mosques throughout Indonesia, around 78 percent of all houses of worship. Recently an ongoing government census using drones and photography has registered at least 554,152 mosques, suggesting that the number of mosques has more than doubled in a decade.

The hardline Islamist preacher, Rizieq Shihab, has just returned to Indonesia from self-imposed exile in Saudi Arabia. He then called on his supporters “to behead blasphemers;” on November 27 an Islamist group attacked a village in Sigi, Sulawesi island, beheading a Salvation Army elder and three of his relatives. The attackers also burned a Salvation Army church and six other Christian-owned houses. No action has been taken against Rizieq for inciting violence, although police arrested him for breaking coronavirus restrictions.

Threats and speeches that incite violence are facilitated by Indonesia’s discriminatory laws and regulations. They give local majority religious populations significant leverage over religious minority communities. Compounding this, institutions including the Ministry of Religious Affairs, the Coordinating Board for Monitoring Mystical Beliefs in Society (Bakor Pakem) under the Attorney General’s Office, the Religious Harmony Forum, and the semi-official Indonesian Ulema Council have issued decrees and fatwas (religious rulings) against members of religious minorities, and frequently press for the prosecution of “blasphemers.”

Recent targets of the blasphemy law include three former leaders of the Gafatar religious community, prosecuted following the violent, forced eviction in 2016 of more than 7,000 members of the group from their farms on Kalimantan. A more prominent target was former Jakarta Governor Basuki “Ahok” Purnama, sentenced to a two-year prison term for blasphemy in a politically motivated case in May 2017. His longtime friend and ally, President Joko Widodo, simply stood by, afraid of the wrath of radical conservatives.

Violence against religious minorities and government failures to take decisive action negate guarantees of religious freedom in the Indonesian constitution and international law, including core international human rights conventions ratified by Indonesia. The International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, which Indonesia acceded to in 2005, provides that “persons belonging to…minorities shall not be denied the right, in community with the other members of their group, to enjoy their own culture, to profess and practice their own religion.”

Throughout there have been occasional and modest examples of progress. The Rotary Club began operating again in 1970 after Sukarno died. In 2000, President Abdurrahman Wahid, the eldest son of Hasjim Wahid, cancelled President Sukarno’s 1962 decree banning the Freemasons and alleged associate organisations. After more than a dozen members were detained under the law during the New Order, the Bahai community has since been able to revive their network; however, they have been denied permission to build a temple so they continue to worship in private homes.

A major reform took place in 2006 when President Yudhoyono signed the Population Administrative Law, which no longer requires kepercayaan believers to convert to official religions to be listed on ID cards. But many civil servants are still not aware of or ignore the law, so religious minorities face problems if they refuse to choose one of the six religions that these officials recognise. “They simply say you’re a godless woman if you want to keep the [religion] column blank,” said Kanti, whose ID card has a blank space after the word agama.

In Kuningan, Indonesia’s Ombudsman finally helped mediate the dispute between the Sunda Wiwitan community and the local government, prompting the local authorities to lift the seal on the site and permitting the group to continue constructing the tomb.

The Ombudsman’s Office also helped the Dayak Kaharingan, pressuring several local governments to drop decades of discrimination. Ombudsman Ahmad Suaedy said in a webinar: “The key issue is that they [local religious groups] should get public service. The religious minorities should take courage to report their difficulties.”

In 2017, four Indonesian citizens petitioned the Constitutional Court, demanding the right to have their religions listed on their ID cards. They represented four Indigenous religions including the Marapu (Sumba ), the Sapto Darmo (Java ), and the Parmalim and the Ugamo Bangsa Batak (Sumatra). On November 7, 2017, the court ruled in their favour.

But the Ulama Council objected to the decision. The Ministry of Home Affairs, which issues and manages ID cards, has since failed to implement the court decision. The Ulama Council argued that the ruling “hurts the feeling of the Islamic ummah,” but it is not clear on what legal grounds the ministry refuses to do its duty.

Separately, the Constitutional Court rejected three petitions to revoke the blasphemy law between 2009 and 2018, declaring that religious freedom was subject to certain limitations to preserve public order (former President Abdurrahman Wahid joined the lawsuit in 2009). Those limitations, the court stated in its 2010 decision, were to be defined by “religious scholars,” thereby outsourcing the rights of minorities to unelected members of the majority religion.

There are more than 180 ethnic-religious communities spanning from Sumatra to the smaller islands in eastern Indonesia. They are estimated to encompass around 10 to 12 million people, although the 2010 census recorded only 299,617 people or 0.13 percent of Indonesians claiming to be exclusively ethnic believers. It is still hard and even dangerous to publicly declare one’s religion in Indonesia.

Indeed, it is gruelling work to battle against both government officials and the Sunni ulama. Spineless politicians, feckless government bureaucrats, and narrow-minded ulama officials hamper the development of democracy and human rights in Indonesia.

Jarwan in Curug Goong knows very well that he cannot rely on the government or anyone else to protect the tomb he stands guard over. “We have seen this mistreatment and intimidation for decades. We must guard our sacred places ourselves.

#Southeast Asia #Indonesia #Religion

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snowdice · 4 years

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Road Trips and Missing Persons (Part 17)

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Patton & Virgil, Virgil & Deceit, Logan & Patton, Emile & Remy, Roman & Remus & Janus

Characters: Patton, Virgil, Deceit, Remus, Roman, Logan, Emile, Remy

Summary: Patton was just getting groceries. The next thing he knew, there was a knife at his throat and he was an unwilling uber driver. Virgil’s on the run after the murder of his dad, and it’s not just his paranoia that’s telling him he’s being chased down. He has to get somewhere safe, somewhere he can trust, and all he has is a couple of stories from his dad and a name: “Green Bellow Foods and Dispensary.”

Notes: Secret Agents AU, knives, carjacking, kidnapping, murder mentioned, guns mentioned, pepper spray, blood mentioned, drugs mentioned, explosions, car crashes (more to be added)

This is a fic I’ve been writing on study breaks that you have probably all already seen at this point. I’ve affectionately named it the Goblin Brain Fic because it’s helping my brain actually get motivated for studying. I’ve slightly edited it for wording and grammar, but not for content from my previous posts. Feel free to send in asks to direct it because I’m not 100% sure where this is going and you can help decide if you feel so inclined! You can see the process I went through to build this at this link.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 My Master Post

“Aw, come on kiddo,” Patton beseeched doing his absolutely best not to laugh at the adorable discontent expression on Anxiety’s face.

“You murdered all of my cows,” the boy grumbled. “All of them!”

Patton did giggle then. “That’s the game.”

“You knew!” Anxiety insisted. “You knew the cemetery was there, didn’t you? You’re familiar with this highway. That’s why you let me take the 150 cows you cheater.”

Patton didn’t bother to deny it. “All’s fair,” he said instead.

“You’re the worst,” Anxiety shot back. “Why don’t we play a game I can win.”

“Like what?” Patton asked, curious.

“Like…” he said. “Like, let’s play a game where whoever’s youngest wins.”

Patton chuckled. “Well I guess you’ve got me beat there.”

“Or a contest to see who has the straightest hair.”

“Sounds like a fun game, but we’d have to wash both of our hair just to make sure neither of us are cheating and have product in.”

There was a pause and Patton glanced over at him.

“Aw!” he cooed. “Do you secretly have curly hair too?”

Anxiety groaned.

“That’s adorable!”

“Is not,” he grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. “It ruins my aesthetic.”

“Aw, stop being so grumpy, kiddo.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be if you hadn’t murdered all of my cows.”

“I sure did kill the moo-d, huh?”

Anxiety groaned. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“…Carjac-”

“I know, I know,” Anxiety huffed. Patton smiled over at him and reached over to ruffle his hair. “Ugh, stop! No!”

“I want to see the curls!” Patton teased as Anxiety batted him away.

“You’re lucky I don’t have the god damned knife.”

“Excuse me, was that a bad word Mister?”

“Ugh,” Anxiety groaned.

“I will turn this car around,” Patton threatened.

“Oh, yeah,” Anxiety said. “That’s what would make you stop driving. Silly me. I’ll try not to use the grown-up words.”

“See that you don’t.” Anxiety just shook his head and turned the radio up a bit to ignore him.

“The cows have been cleared up,” Anxiety noted.

Patton hummed. “Do you want to get on the interstate again?” he asked. “It would be about 10 minutes faster and I’m sure if anyone was tracking us, we lost them in all of that.”

“Sure,” he agreed. “I don’t see why not.” Patton nodded and took the next turn back onto the familiar interstate.

“So,” Patton hedged once they were back on the main road. “We’ll be there soon. What are your plans once we get there? Nothing in particular,” he rushed to say when he saw the kid frowning. He was a secretive little thing. “Just, what do you want me to do?”

“Oh, um,” he said, playing with the edges of his hoodie sleeve. “I don’t know.” He paused. “You can leave if you want.”

A smile flickered across Patton’s face. Not likely kid. “Well, I’m not going to leave at least until I make sure you’re with someone.”

“Thanks,” Anxiety said softly.

“I’m with you all the way Anxiety.”

“I still don’t understand you at all.” Patton just shrugged and smiled. “Also, you can call me Vee.”

“Ooo a partial name,” Patton said. “I’m moving up in your esteem.”

“I didn’t say that,” Vee snapped back. “My name might be Bob for all you know.”

“Right,” Patton agreed. “Of course. Bob. My bad.”

That caused Vee to smile though he seemed to be fighting it. After a few moments, the smile faded, and he started playing with the strings on his hoodie. “You’ve got to get back to your family though, eventually,” he said.

Patton shrugged, not mentioning the fact that they were literally driving towards his brother this very second. “They’re all adults who can more than handle themselves. My brother’s older than me and the twins have him. You need me a bit more right now.”

Vee thought for a moment, still rubbing his fingers over the frayed edge of the hoodie string. “I have an older brother,” he offered.

“Oh?” Patton asked.

“I tried to call him earlier after my uncle,” Vee said. “He didn’t pick up.”

“Well, I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation for that, just like with your uncle.”

Vee bit his lip. “I don’t know if…” he said, “if he’d be on my side in this or not.”

“What do you mean?”

Vee looked away out the window. “Our mom’s the one who killed my dad,” he said quietly.

“Oh, honey,” Patton said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“So, I don’t know if my brother would side with her or not. I don’t want to think he’d hand me over to her if I went to him, but…”

Poor kiddo, Patton thought. He wished he could say with certainty that his brother wouldn’t do something like that, but Patton didn’t know enough about him to know for certain. He hoped not. “I’ll help you figure it all out,” Patton promised. “I’ll make sure you don’t have to go with your mom.”

Vee snorted. “I don’t know what you can do, but thanks for the sentiment.”

“Oh,” Patton said. “I think I could do a thing or two.”

“Sorry,” Vee said dryly, “but your reaction to a carjacking was to get me ice cream.”

Patton laughed lightly. “Good point.

“I really don’t want to go with my mom, but I don’t think the cops would listen to me,” Vee said. “She’s technically my mom even though I’ve never even spent the night at her house. Does this make her my legal guardian now?”

“If she’s the one who killed your father, I doubt people would let you go with her.”

“You don’t know mom,” Vee mumbled. “I’m sure no one would even think to try to arrest her for that, let alone convict her. Would they let my uncle be my guardian even if she isn’t arrested?”

“They’d be willing to do that I’m sure. Especially since you’re already 15, anyone would listen to your opinion on where you live.” Vee look at least a bit relieved at that. “So, you like your uncle then?” Patton asked.

“He’s great,” Vee said. “He lived with us when I was really little. He always made me eat my vegetables and helps me out when I’m anxious. He’s a psychiatrist so he knows his stuff.”

“I have a friend whose brother is a psychiatrist,” Patton said. “I’ve never met him, but Logan sends people to him when they need mental health care. It’s a big help for a lot of them.”

“Yeah,” Vee agreed. “It wouldn’t be too bad living with him, I guess.”

“Well I’ll make sure you end up with him and not your mom, okay?”

“Sure,” Vee replied.

Patton shot him a half smile and they continued driving for a few minutes before he exited the interstate. “We’re almost there” he told Vee.

Vee bit his lip. “I hope this wasn’t a stupid idea…” he said.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s fine,” Patton said. He flipped a switch on near his steering wheel that would open the gate for them a few seconds before said gate came into view. He drove up the driveway and chose to park in front of the ‘factory’ instead of trying to park in the underground parking garage which would certainly freak Vee out.

“Just looks like a creepy abandoned factory,” Vee commented, eyeing the old concrete building with its boarded over windows. “It’s almost too perfectly abandoned,” he said, eyes narrowed. Smart boy.

“Ready?” Patton asked.

Vee still looked nervous, but he nodded determinedly after a moment and exited the car. Patton followed him. He let Vee lead the way up the gravel path to the entrance of the building. He studied the door for a couple of minutes and then pushed it slowly open. Patton was sure at this point that someone downstairs had probably noticed them and would come up to greet them soon.

Vee was looking around himself with suspicious eyes. “Okay,” he said. “What do we do now?”

“Probably just wait to see if anyone comes to meet us,” Patton said.

Vee started poking around a bit. “It’s pretty clean for an abandoned factory,” he said.

“Mmhmm,” Patton replied.

He considered a couple of panels near the door and Patton observed him, curious about what he’d do. He made a startled noise when one of the panels came off. “Oops,” he said. He peered into the hole he’d just made. “Well… that’s not good. Whoever put that camera there is probably not going to be happy with me.”

Patton had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. The person who put that camera there would not.

Vee set the broken panel back against the wall. It hung off of it awkwardly. “At least we know there really is someone here and it’s not just an abandoned factory.”

“That is good,” Patton agreed. Just then there was a soft ding which Patton identified as the hidden elevator the room over.

Vee’s head shot up to look in the direction of the sound, and the boy shuffled closer to Patton.

Logan himself rounded the corner after a moment and looked over at them with his lips pursed and looking especially cross. “How is it,” he asked, “that you always do exactly what I need you to do in the most irritating and inconvenient way possible?”

Want to read more? Click below!

Part 18

#sanders sides #patton sanders #virgil sanders #platonic moxiety #logan sanders #adriana writes #janus sanders #remus sanders #road trips and missing persons #roman sanders #road trips and everything in between #creativitwins #emile picani #remy sanders #kidnapping #murder mentioned #guns #car crash

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heydisneyhiremeplease · 4 years

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“You Really Can Sing!”

Word Count: 2,627

Warnings: None

Timeline: Takes place after Age of Ultron.

Imagine Key:

“y/f/c” = your favorite color

You checked your speed as you drove through the small local town, not wanting to get a ticket in Tony Stark’s car. Since you didn’t own a car yourself, you talked Tony into letting you borrow his to go out and get groceries for everyone periodically. He had agreed pretty easily, knowing how cautious you generally were, but had still given you one of his trademark “don’t break my toy” looks. You were surprised he didn’t have you sign a formal written agreement. You followed a pretty crazy list of everyone’s orders at the store, which included Poptarts for the Tower’s resident Asgardian. You also bought vegetables and fruit, thinking maybe you could somehow convince some of the others to eat them. Most of them wouldn’t be a problem, certainly not Steve, but with Tony and Thor you’d either have to force-feed them the veggies or sneak the healthy food into a dessert.

On your way back, you began singing along to the radio as the station played a current hit. It was your favorite song at the moment, and since no one was around you sang as loudly as you wanted. Your phone went off while you were stopped at a red light, and you reached over into the passenger seat to silence the ringing. It was Tony, probably just curious about your ETA. You were almost home, so you didn’t worry about picking up.

In truth, you loved singing and listening to music, but with the Facility so crowded with people who would probably just laugh at you for your song choices, you never did. You felt free, and as you pulled into the Avenger Facility’s massive garage, you were sad that it had to end so soon. Turning the radio back down, you shut off the car and carried the groceries inside. As you unpacked the food and put it away, you were startled by sudden loud clapping coming from behind you. You jumped a foot in the air and spun around to see the whole team applauding you. You put a hand over your racing heart and tried to catch your breath, saying, “All I did was pick up some groceries, guys. Didn’t even spend my own money, Tony paid for everything.”

“That is not what we are clapping for.” Thor clarified. “You are a wonderful songstress, Lady (Y/N)!” Your face immediately burned as red as the apples you’d just purchased. How did they know you liked to sing? You hadn’t so much as hummed quietly to yourself since you joined the team. Guessing your confusion, Tony stepped forward. “I didn’t spend as much as I did on that car for you not to connect your phone to it via Bluetooth.” he said in his usual snarky voice. The puzzle pieces clicked into place in your mind, the great mystery suddenly solved. You had never bothered to sync your phone to Tony’s car because you only ever took it out for trips to the store. When he called you, you must have accidentally accepted the call instead of declining it. You didn’t notice because the radio continued playing. If your phone had been connected, the music would have shut off while you took the call. The next part you assumed: Tony didn’t hang up when he realized you weren’t aware he was talking to you, but instead took his phone to show the others.

You dropped your head into your hands, wanting to hide somehow or disappear altogether. “Oh no,” you whispered. They knew. They all knew. Now they would tease you relentlessly for it. “Why are you so embarrassed?” you heard Wanda question, walking over and lightly tugging your hands away from your face to make you look up. “You’re a beautiful singer. You should let me play music for you to sing to.” You knew she referenced her guitar, for which she had little use other than to strum quietly every now and again to check if the strings were in tune. “Oh, that would be lovely!” Vision said, in his gentle yet sincere voice. You knew the comment was mainly for Wanda, whose knowledge of music he found fascinating.

“Okay,” you said nervously. Maybe you’d do it, maybe not, but in that moment all you wanted was for the conversation to end so you could head back to your room and hide. They took it as a sincere agreement, a promise to entertain them later, and clapped once more. You were very upset by that point, and nodded uncomfortably before turning around to finish putting the cold items in the fridge. You would get out of it somehow. But to your chagrin, a couple hours later, Wanda knocked on your bedroom door to ask if you wanted to run through the song they’d caught you singing earlier before performing it. She had learned how to play it and was excited to show everyone. “Umm…” you stalled. Wanda could read minds, why had she not seen that you were lying before? “I know you’re nervous and that it bothers you that we know, but we enjoy your singing so much. We honestly want to hear it.” she promised, coming over to sit on your bed with you and wrap an arm around your shoulder. “I don’t think I can do it.” you confided, wide-eyed fear and panic present on your face.

“It is up to you in the end, (Y/N), but I would not lie to you. And Vision would not either. He still isn’t sure what the point of lying is.” Wanda giggled. You were all still working on teaching Vision about living among humanity. “Wanda,” you started, “Vision just wants to hear you play. He likes you. He doesn’t care what I do.” Wanda rolled her eyes. You had been persistently telling her about Vision’s crush, but she liked to laugh it off. You knew that was because, deep down, she was falling for him and was too scared to become fully attached to someone she might lose. “Well, I would like to hear you again. Please, just run through it with me once and we can discuss the others another day. I spent time learning this song for you, after all.” Wanda reasoned. You knew she was right, so you sat still as she rolled through the song’s introductory chords before coming in on the first verse. You finished the song a couple minutes later, and felt happy like you had accomplished something big. “See? That was not so bad!” Wanda exclaimed, nudging you in the shoulder. You rolled your eyes, blushing. “Maybe you will have some more confidence now.” she commented. You doubted it, but didn’t fight her.

You both decided it was a good time to venture out to the kitchen to grab a couple of the apples you had bought, and when you opened your door, you saw the whole team standing outside of it. The closest members nearly fell over on you as their support was pulled away. Your joyousness faded to pure horror. “How long have you guys been here?” you asked. You knew the answer. “Oh, you know, maybe three or four minutes.” Tony said. You pushed past them, not wanting a repeat of the scene in the kitchen from a couple hours prior. As you washed an apple, you felt tears prick at your eyes. You felt betrayed, especially since Wanda had probably been able to tell that they were there. Maybe she had even planned it. “(Y/N), please don’t be mad at us.” Nat said softly from behind you. “Too late for that.” you answered, a certain dejectedness cutting in your voice. Nat sighed. “Well, it was pretty. You really are a good singer.” You heard her retreating footsteps, and relaxed just a little. You didn‘t want any of them coming up to you. However, in one way or another, each member of the team offered you encouragement or an apology one by one over the course of the evening.

First, you returned to your room to find a note taped to your door in Bruce’s handwriting: “I’m sorry we snuck up on you. I know I hate it when people do that to me. At least you turn red and not green.” As angry as you were, you couldn’t help but smile just a little at Bruce’s joke. Next, Steve stopped you in the hall before dinner, and put a hand on your back as he walked with you down the hall. “Sometimes people can be bullies. Even the ones you least expect. I’m sorry, (Y/N).” You nodded in appreciation of his complete sincerity, but also in annoyance. You just wanted the whole thing to go away, like it never happened. But that would have been too easy, so the apologies and compliments continued until only Thor and Tony were left.

Thor caught you in the living room, where you were sitting on the couch checking your phone. “Good evening, Lady (Y/N).” he started. He was so amicable sometimes, with that twinkle in his eye, that it made you want to vomit. You supposed that it came from being raised as a prince and having to impress and placate people all the time. Not that Thor was always princely; he could certainly be barbaric as well. But right at that moment, he wanted to get back on your good side, and he was turning on the charm. “Hello, Thor.” you answered him, polite in word only. Your tone was poisonous. “I come bearing a peace offering, in hopes that you will grant me your forgiveness for my regrettable past behaviors.” he orated. At this, you looked up, curious as to what he might have brought you. It was a large (y/f/c) diamond. Your eyes widened. “Thor…is that…a real diamond?” you asked, knowing that anything was possible when it came to Thor’s shenanigans. He seemed terribly confused. “Well of course! Are there fake diamonds on Midgard?”

You were stunned into silence for a moment. Then, “Thor, where did you get that?” He answered confidently and matter-of-factly. “I returned to Asgard and retrieved it from Odin’s vault. He will not miss it, there must be a thousand there exactly like it.” He paused for a moment. “Would you like more than one? I might be able to slip in and out a second time to procure you another. Or a dozen more! Whatever you like.” He smiled his princely smile, and you sat there with your eyebrows creased together. That was the thing about Thor: his intentions were always good, but his actions were always over-the-top.

Because you knew he was completely serious, you answered, “No, no, just the one is more than enough.” You stopped then, before finally realizing he expected you to confirm your forgiveness of his crime. “I forgive you now.” you added. If it was possible, his smile grew. “Oh, that is most wonderful news, my friend. I could not have lived another moment knowing I had offended you. Shall I leave your gift in your quarters? I fear it will be too heavy for your mortal hands to carry.” he said. “Yes, that would be great. Thank you, Thor.” you answered, and watched him finally walk out of the room, seemingly with a new spring in his step. You rolled your eyes and laid an arm over your forehead, feeling a headache coming on.

You were getting a glass of water before going to shower when Tony crept up on you. He scared you, and you had a brief coughing fit as some water went down the wrong way. “Sorry about that. Well, anyway, it’s too bad about the whole trying-to-get-you-to-sing-for-us thing. I mean, most people would want that, usually the really bad singers, but hey, we’re all weird here. Are we good?” he finished, holding his hand out for you to shake. You looked at it, then up at him in minor disbelief. It wasn’t a real apology. You shook your head and turned around. As usual, Tony didn’t get it. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he called after you. You debated whether or not to actually tell him. When you heard his footsteps following you, you decided you’d had enough of being chased down for one day, and you exploded. “What’s wrong?” you imitated. “It was an accident that I answered your call in the car, Tony! And when you realized it was, you didn’t just hang up like a polite person, you took the phone around and showed everyone. I didn’t give you permission to do that! I never sing here, why did you think that I would be fine with this?” You had tears in your eyes, and you knew all the hurt that had been building up inside of you since the incident was written on your face.

Tony looked completely shocked. “I…I…” was all he got out. You locked eyes with him, allowing him to see your shame and embarrassment, which he had caused. Suddenly, he spoke: “I’m sorry, (Y/N). I really didn’t think it would be a big deal. You’re a great singer, I knew everyone would be proud of you and want to hear it, I just went with my first thought. I should’ve known. I’m sorry.” You were taken aback. A real apology, from Tony Stark. Maybe it was the surprise, maybe it was the fact that he meant it, but your response was immediate forgiveness. “Okay. Thank you.” you said. “Really? J-Just like that?” Tony asked. Now he was the one who was surprised. “Yeah. You apologized, so has everyone else more or less. I’m fine. What happened, happened. And the more I think about it, some of it’s my fault. I should’ve been paying a lot more attention to what was going on. I might’ve noticed your voice coming from my phone if the radio wasn’t so loud. So, I’m kind of sorry, too.”

Out of nowhere, Wanda appeared and wrapped you in a hug, followed by the rest of the team. There was a great chorus of “I’m sorry!” and “You really can sing!” before you were finally released from the center of the pile. “So, will you sing for us now?” Wanda asked, just as hopeful as before. She was holding her guitar by its neck, and you wondered how it had avoided being crushed in the hug. The rest of the team had puppy dog eyes, and the excitement on Tony’s face was what led you to finally concede. “Okay! But just this once.” you said, equal parts exasperation and joy. Yes, you would sing for them. If it would finally get them off your back, you would sing for them.

But it wasn’t just once. It was many times, because after that night, when you denied them a second song, the team got crafty. They started playing music in the Facility all the time, knowing that if they left it going you would begin to absentmindedly sing along. They let you pick your favorite Disney movie on movie night, which they had previously always vetoed, hoping you would join in with the musical numbers. Tony bought you tickets to a concert by your favorite artist, figuring that the songs would be stuck in your head for a couple days and you’d sing them without thinking. Wanda would strum your favorite songs on the guitar, and Nat would gently hum them, betting that once a tune was started you would finish it. In these ways, they listened to you sing all the time. It took you a month to figure out what they were doing, but once you did, you were never more grateful for the day that Tony Stark betrayed your biggest secret.

Note: This one has existed for a pretty good while, but I felt like it wasn’t ready to go yet. Went over it again today and after some changes, I think it’s halfway decent. Hope you thought it was cute.

Masterlist!

#marvel imagine #marvel imagines #marvel #marvel mcu #captain america #Scarlet Witch #Black Widow #Iron Man #Steve Rogers #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #tony stark

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penny4yourthot · 6 years

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Never Have I Ever

Request from @answer-the-sirens : Any chance for a Happy X Reader, where you're new to the shop and everyone assumes your sweet and timid but you go to a clubhouse party, and get involved with a drinking game, dirty version of "never have I ever" and nearly every round you and happy drink and everyone's like da fuq, maybe at the end he comes over to you all impressed and... I love your blog! Phenomenal writer!

This will be two parts. The second part will be all smut! hope you like it and thanks for the request!

It had been a completely normal day for you. Get up at 7 am to get ready for work, get dressed, make your coffee, and head out the door. It wasn't until you went to start your car that things quickly went to hell. Your car wouldn't start. You were screwed. Your boss was such a jackass and told you that you couldn't miss any more work. You had gone through some health issues a month after you started this job and had to miss quite a few days for various doctor appointments. You had moved to Charming a few months ago and had no family around that could come to pick you up.

Grabbing your phone you called the nearest mechanic. Teller-Morrow was the first one on the list. Had your mind not been going a hundred miles an hour, you probably would have thought to call a different one. You were well aware that this is where the local motorcycle club called home.

Of course, you had heard of the Sons of Anarchy and had seen them riding around but you were sure to keep your distance. Hearing all the horror stories of what the club was involved in from your neighbors you tried to stay away, although you knew that your neighbors were very dramatic so you couldn't believe everything they said.

It only took ten minutes for the tow truck to arrive at your house. It wasn't until the bald man, covered in tattoos, stepped out of the truck that you realized you had called the mechanic shop where the Sons worked.

“Car won't start?” the man asked you were shocked when you heard how low and raspy his voice was. You had seen him around town before but never have spoken to him or any of the Sons before.

“Uh, um, yeah,” your voice came out hardly loud enough for the man to hear.

“I’ll get it on the rig, can I give you a ride somewhere?” He looked at you when he spoke and he immediately saw the fear in your eyes.

“No, that's okay. Thank you,” your voice barely above a whisper.

“Are you sure? You look like your headed somewhere important,” he said as he pointed at your clothes. You were currently wearing a pencil skirt and a long sleeve blouse. Your office job required you to dress up professionally, which you hated.

Shit, what other option did you have? You would get fired for sure if you didn't show up to work and there was no way you were walking five miles in these heels.

“Well, I'm just headed to work. I guess I could use the ride,” you quietly spoke as you watched him get your car hooked up to the tow truck. You could feel his eyes on you when you looked away towards your house.

“Okay it’s all set, ready?” he questioned as he hopped in the driver's seat. You walked up to the passenger side door and opened it before climbing in. You put your coffee in the cup holder while holding your purse in your lap.

“I can pick you up too, your car should be done by then. What time do you get off?”

“Um, I get off at 6.” So far this man seemed nice enough to offer you a ride home, so why not? Your co-workers were a bunch of assholes who wouldn't give you a ride so you were grateful for the offer. After telling the man, whose name you had learned to be Happy, where you worked, he headed down the street knowing exactly where to go. This town was small enough to know where everything is.

Quickly arriving at your job, you thanked Happy for the ride and then walked into work somehow only being ten minutes late.

The day went by so slowly. Your boss got on you for being late and constantly gave you the hardest clients to deal with all day. You couldn't be happier when the clock hit six and you got to leave. You saw Happy sitting in the tow truck in the parking lot of your job and you got in and sighed heavily as you sat down.

“Rough day?” He looked over at you as he started the car

“Just my boss being a jerk, nothing new.” You buckled your seatbelt in as Happy drove off.

“Fuck bosses, they suck. Want me to kill him for you?” Happy laughed. You couldn't tell if he was joking or not so you just laughed in response.

“We're having a party tonight if you wanna join, lots of booze so you can forget your shitty boss,” he said as he looked over at you. He saw the look that washed over your face, one of uncertainty, almost fear.

“Look, I'm not sure what you have heard about us but-”

“I know your part of the motorcycle gang.”

“Club, Motorcycle club,” he corrected, “and whatever you heard is a load of bullshit. People are just afraid of us because we ride motorcycles, wear leather and carry guns. They know the truth though, we keep this town safe.” His raspy voice held confidence in it.

“Alright fine, I'll come to the party but just cause I had a shit day,” you laughed and noted that you were felling a hell of a lot more daring than usual today. “And because its Friday and I'm off tomorrow,” you added with a smile.

It had been so long since you hung out with anyone. Too busy with your job to make any friends. You were desperate to get out of the house for a few hours. You didn't even care about the rumors you had heard about the Sons anymore.

Pulling into the Teller-Morrow lot, you looked around seeing all the motorcycles parked in a neat line. You suddenly felt a bit nervous. There were a few men in the garage looking like they were putting things away to close up.

Happy parked the truck and got out. You followed him into the larger building opposite from the garage and as soon as the door open you were hit with the scent of weed mixed with booze.

“I didn't expect the party to be started so early,” you told Happy as he held the door open for you.

“We take Fridays very seriously,” he laughed, “some of them have been drinking since they got out of bed”

“I can see that,” you chuckled as you looked around and saw various stages of drunk men.

Happy lead you to the bar and you both started to drink.

Two hours passed quicker than ever. You had four beers and four shots and were currently up dancing around to the music with a few of the other girls that were there. You had kicked your heels off earlier in the night, no way in hell were you going to be dancing with them on.

“Heyyy let's play never have I ever! We used to play that in college alllllll the time!” You yelled to the other girls who all agreed.

“Guysss, come on, let's play!” One of the crow eaters yelled at the group of men who were standing around playing pool. Most of the men were so drunk they would agree to anything. One of the girls turned the music down as you all sat around on the couches and some of the guys on the floor.

“Okaaayy, so this is how you play. You say never have I ever and then say something you have never done! And if anyone else has done that thing they take a sip of their drink!” one of the crows said loudly enough for everyone to hear.

“Okay, I'll start,” another one of the girls said. “Never have I ever done it with someone twice my age,” she drunkenly said with a laugh.

“So I guess we are playing the dirty version of this game,” you laughed as you took a sip of your drink. Looking around most the other women took a drink as well.

“Okay, okay. I'm going next. Never have I ever done it in public,” one of the crow eaters said, which shocked the hell out of you considering not ten minutes ago she was dancing almost naked on the pole. You sipped your drink and looked around the room and caught Happy’s eyes as he looked at you with wide eyes clearly shocked that you have had sex in public. Earlier today you were almost too afraid to talk to him he thought you were really shy and so did the rest of the guys.

“Dammmn you’ve had sex in public? You seem so damn shy, you hardly talked to any of us tonight,” Jax yelled drunkenly at you. This caused a deep blush to run up your face as you nodded yes.

“Okay, Jax your turn!” the blonde crow eater who just went said.

“Okay fine, ummm never have I ever had sex with one of my teachers” he laughed as he lit a cigarette and took a sip of his beer.

You looked straight at Happy when you took a large gulp of your beer. He about spit his sip out when he saw that. He gave you a look, one that you have never seen on him. Almost like a look of want and need. You winked at him which caused him to growl lowly in response.

“Okay, I’ll go! Never have I ever been chocked out during sex,” the red-headed Crow eater that you were dancing with before said. And once again you had to take a sip. Half the men were watching you at each turn. They were shocked that someone who seemed as innocent as you had done all this stuff. It could also be because you were new around here and no one had taken a claim on you yet.

“Never have I ever had sex over texting before,” Chibs said with a laugh.

“That's because your too damn old to know how to text old man!” Opie joked as he and the rest of the ‘young’ people, including you took a sip of beer.

“Okay, your turn,” Happy said looking over at you eager to hear what you haven't done.

“You first,” you quirked back at him.

“Fine. Never have I ever had sex with a dead body.” Everyone laughed as they looked over at Tig who was the only one in the room to take a sip.

“What? It's not as bad as you think,” he said as he drunkenly downed the rest of his beer.

“Your turn.” Happy looked back over at you waiting for you to go.

“Never have I ever been tied up during sex before, unfortunately,” you were shocked by your quickness to reply and even more shocked that you held eye contact with Happy the entire time you spoke.

He got up from his spot on the couch across from you and sat down right next to you, putting his hand on your thigh.

“We can change that,” he whispered in your ear and then proceeded to take yet another sip out of his beer. You felt the heat rise in your face as you debated on whether or not to take him up on that offer.

Never Have I Ever Part 2

Tag List: @gemini0410 , @utterlyhopeful , @rebelwriter95 , @genius2050

Happy tag list: @redwoody-incorporated

#happy lowman x reader #Happy Lowman #Soa #soa imagine #Sons of anarchy #Sons of anarchy imagine

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restekova · 6 years

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my short story recommendations masterlist (with links to read!!)

last updated 4/26/18

@farmerbf @yugiohlesbian @mariannevibritannia @11thprince & everyone who said they’d be interested & everyone looking for something to read—

hello, my name is Amelia Kester and this is a list of some of my very very favorite short stories. the title of each one links to wherever you can read it online legally for free! because so many short stories are available to read online legally for free, through the digital archives of the magazines they were published in, the personal website of the author, or so on, i decided to theme this recommendation post to only include such accessible stories, so that even if you’re flat broke or just don’t regularly have money to spend on books, you can still read some great literature! also, the stories are largely contemporary. with the exception of the borges stories which i included because i just had to, almost all all of these written from at least 1990 onward, many published just last year or the year before, because i wanted to introduce contemporary stories rather than just old classics that everyone in a mainstream audience already knows about.

this list is a very personal list and is limited to stories that are personal favorites of mine, and especially ones that i consider to have personally influenced my writing or the way i see the world a lot. so it’s a very personal list of recs, as in, these are just my favorites. but i believe most of these are pretty damn good stories overall no matter what, so if you’re looking for something to read and see something interesting, give it a shot!

i included trigger warnings to the best of my ability. also, it’s really hard to write summaries of these stories and do them justice, so in place of a traditional summary of each one, i just copy an excerpt from the first few sentences of each story to serve as a summary. if one makes you want to keep reading, click on it!

Victory Lap (George Saunders) personal rating: ★★★★★ (this may be my single favorite short story of all time) tw: attempted kidnapping, attempted rape

Say the staircase was marble. Say she descended and all heads turned. Where was {special one}? Approaching now, bowing slightly, he exclaimed, How can so much grace be contained in one small package? Oops. Had he said small package? And just stood there? Broad princelike face totally bland of expression? Poor thing! Sorry, no way, down he went, he was definitely not {special one}.

Tenth of December (George Saunders) personal rating: ★★★★★ tw: cancer, attempted suicide

Today’s assignation: walk to pond, ascertain beaver dam. Likely he would be detained. By that species that lived amongst the old rock wall. They were small but, upon emerging, assumed certain proportions. And gave chase. This was just their methodology. His aplomb threw them loops. He knew that. And revelled it. He would turn, level the pellet gun, intone: Are you aware of the usage of this human implement?

Blam!

70 SENTENCES THAT DUOLINGO.COM BELIEVES I WILL NEED TO KNOW IN SPANISH (Caitlin Horrocks) personal rating: ★★★★★

I am going to tell you everything: I have a house in every country. I have a dog in each one of my houses. The houses do not have roofs. What are they, exactly?

Hog For Sorrow (Leopoldine Core) personal rating: ★★★★★ tw: sex work, prostitution

Lucy and Kit sat waiting side by side on a black leather couch, before a long glass window that looked out over Tribeca, the winter sun in their laps. Kit stole sideward glances at Lucy, who hummed, twisting her hair around her fingers in a compulsive fashion. Her hair was long and lionlike with a slight wave to it, gold with yellowy shades around her face. Kit couldn’t look at her for very long. She cringed and recoiled, as if faced with a bright light. Lucy was too radiant.

Caiman (Bret Antony Johnston) personal rating: ★★★★★

Your mother wouldn’t let me bring the ice chest into the house, so I left it in the garage. Earlier, I’d knifed four holes into the styrofoam lid. One of them looked like half a star, which I remember liking. This was years ago, a windswept Sunday. This was Texas.

Jealous Husband Returns in Form of Parrot (Robert Olen Butler) personal rating: ★★★★

I never can quite say as much as I know. I look at other parrots and I wonder if it's the same for them, if somebody is trapped in each of them paying some kind of price for living their life in a certain way. For instance, "Hello," I say, and I'm sitting on a perch in a pet store in Houston and what I'm really thinking is Holy shit. It's you. And what's happened is I'm looking at my wife.

Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius (Jorge Luis Borges) perosnal rating: ★★★★

I owe the discovery of Uqbar to the conjunction of a mirror and an encyclopedia. The mirror troubled the depths of a corridor in a country house on Gaona Street in Ramos Mejia; the encyclopedia is fallaciously called The Anglo-American Cyclopaedia (New York, 1917) and is a literal but delinquent reprint of the Encyclopedia Britannica of 1902. The event took place some five years ago. Bioy Casares had had dinner with me that evening and we became lengthily engaged in a vast polemic concerning the composition of a novel in the first person, whose narrator would omit or disfigure the facts and indulge in various contradictions which would permit a few readers - very few readers - to perceive an atrocious or banal reality.

Funes the Memorious (Jorge Luis Borges) personal rating: ★★★★★ (this story literally changed the way i think about the world, particularly the fallibility of memory, and helped me when i was really struggling)

I remember him (I scarcely have the right to use this ghostly verb; only one man on earth deserved the right, and he is dead), I remember him with a dark passionflower in his hand, looking at it as no one has ever looked at such a flower, though they might look from the twilight of day until the twilight of night, for a whole life long.

Brokeback Mountain (Annie Proulx) personal rating: ★★★★★

They were raised on small, poor ranches in opposite corners of the state, Jack Twist in Lightning Flat, up on the Montana border, Ennis del Mar from around Sage, near the Utah line, both high-school drop-out country boys with no prospects, brought up to hard work and privation, both rough-mannered, rough-spoken, inured to the stoic life. Ennis, reared by his older brother and sister after their parents drove off the only curve on Dead Horse Road, leaving them twenty-four dollars in cash and a two-mortgage ranch, applied at age fourteen for a hardship license that let him make the hour-long trip from the ranch to the high school.

#READING RECS #this post is rather short right now and there are a lot left out but it's going to be a continual work in progress!! so many short stories #are so good i hope you enjoy!!#ok to rb // if you were wondering whhehehe #MOBILE USERS IM SO SORRY OH MY GOD #ps if yoiu need a jolt to restore your faith in humanity and you wanna cry but in the happy overwhel #med way #read those saunders stories #theyre really really heavy though so just as a a fair warning

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eryiss · 6 years

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Gambler’s Luck : Chapter Eight

Summary: A drunken night at a bar; that’s how it always starts. A few shots, some self loathing and a decision you would never make when sober. But for Laxus Dreyar, the morning after doesn’t include regret, copious amounts of aspirin and a stranger in his bed. For he only made one drunken decision, becoming the personal driver for professional gambler - Freed Justine. [Fraxus Multi-Chap]

You can read it on FanFiction, Archive of Our Own or under the cut. You can also see the chapter list here. Hope you enjoy ^.^

Chapter Eight – The Gym

"I should be in there for an hour or so." Freed said, leaning on the passenger side door of his car. "If it ends up taking longer than that, I'll text you."

Laxus nodded as he looked towards his boss, still sitting in the car. The trip from Freed's garage to the parking lot of his client's building had been uneventful, the traffic was relatively clear and the route easy to memorise. It had, however, been a little quiet. Laxus was trying, and failing, to keep his mind off the earlier revelation about his new boss, and Freed didn't seem to mind the lack of conversation; Laxus had to wonder if he had realised the slight, and hopefully subtle, change in Laxus' mood as they drove.

"I should go. As I mentioned, my client is incredibly insistent on punctuality." Freed continued. "I hope the time isn't too tedious. I believe there's a Starbucks nearby, if you get bored or need something to eat or drink."

"Thanks. Might check it out." Laxus gave another nod. "Good luck with your client."

"Thank you. I'll see you in a little while then."

"See ya."

After Laxus spoke, Freed closed the door and walked towards the building. Laxus watched as his boss walked through inside and was greeted by the doorman, deflating slightly and leaning against the back of his seat. He hadn't noticed the tension that had formed in his shoulders, but as his boss walked away he felt is dissipate. His eyes closed and he reached for the volume controls of the car, allowing himself to relax in the quietness of the vehicle as he ran a hand through his slicked back hair. He had no intentions of leaving the car while he waited, so decided that he might as well get comfortable and adjust the seat, reclining it slightly.

His reasons for not wanting to leave the car was irrational. Simply put, it was the first time he had been left in charge of Freed's car and, with his luck, the moment it was out of sight it would get scratched or vandalised in some way. If he had taken a moment to think about it, he would have realised people didn't vandalise cars parked in a nearly empty parking-lot with CCTV at every entrance. But, at that moment, rationality was the last thing on his mind.

The possibility of him having seen Freed before what he had assumed was their first meeting at Mira's bar – and that he had found him attractive no less – had certainly thrown him through a loop. And the more he thought about it, the worse the implications of this fact were.

"Fucking hell." He whispered to himself. "Things are always complicated with you, huh Dreyar?"

As he adjusted the air vents in the car, so that they were pointed at his face, he sighed loudly and let his mind wonder. So what if there was a chance that he had found a guy who might have been Freed attractive a couple years ago? That didn't mean anything, and it certainly didn't mean he found Freed attractive now. The fact he wasn't sure if the guy was Freed or not backed that up; so if it turned out the guy at the gym was Freed, he looked different enough for the confusion to occur.

Even if the reasoning was relatively strong, he still had doubts.

Hypothetically, if he did end up finding Freed attractive again, that wasn't exactly illegal. He wasn't some bratty teenager who couldn't control himself, he was an adult who knew better than to act out of impulse. Yes, it might be a little awkward at the start, but he could deal with that.

Still, it had probably just a lust thing. At that time, he was a little younger, his sex drive was the same as every other arrogant twenty-year-old and that coupled with the then recent revelation of his attraction to both genders, meant that he was just, well, interested in everything and everyone. His actual opinions of the guy at the gym might have just been a casual interest, perhaps a fleeting glance where he thought the guy was pretty good looking, just like the thought process of practically everyone that age. He'd probably thought the same thing every time he'd passed a good-looking person in the street or at a mall or something, this one simply had stuck out because of the circumstances.

He was still doubting himself.

First of all, the gym guy wasn't just some random passer by who had caught his eye. Laxus had seen him a couple of times and always thought he was attractive. Secondly, the association with Freed being the guy in the gym, being the guy who had interested him years prior, was instant. There had been no doubt they might be the same person, nor slow realisation. And as for it being a simple lust thing, he was simply just lying to himself.

As he thought back to the occasional encounters with the gym guy, he remembered a time he had nearly talked to him. The moment that thought crossed his mind, Laxus groaned. He was now sure it was Freed, for one simple fact.

Freed was a friend of Mirajane's, so probably knew her brother as well. The same brother that used to spot for Laxus when they were at the gym together. The same brother who Laxus had seen working out with the gym guy when he and the guy were there together. The same brother who had offered Laxus the gym guy's number. Elfman Strauss.

Laxus sighed, running a hand over his face as he thought back to that very moment.

Muscles straining under a shirt specifically worn for a workout, Laxus made a conscious effort to control his breathing. His torso rocked back and forward as he pumped both of his arms, sweat covering his face at the shockingly intensive workout. The rowing machine was rarely empty – Laxus assumed because people saw it was a challenge and wanted to prove themselves capable – so the blond was obviously going to jump at the chance when its availability coincided with the day he set aside for building up the muscles in his arms.

The twenty-one-year old barely ever got to work out in the middle of the day after getting his new job, and he missed it. The only reason he could do it then was because his work-union was on strike, ironically about unfair work hours. Laxus wasn't going to join the pointless protest at Magnolia city hall, instead he decided to enjoy his day off and get an extra intense workout that he hardly had time to do.

It had been the correct choice, by all accounts. Not only did he get full access to the rowing machine on his arm-day, but half way though his workout two people had entered the gym and set up directly opposite him. The first man was someone Laxus knew very well, a teenage bodybuilder whose usual workout happened to occur at the same time as Laxus' had; Elfman Strauss. When Laxus had started out at the gym, being a fairly weedy teenager, Elfman had helped him out more than he cared to admit. The two had happened to be working out beside each other and, when Elfman had seen Laxus using the machine he was on incorrectly, he had offered his assistance. Not only had he spotted for him, allowing him to push himself with the weightlifting more than if he were alone, he had helped out with advice on his diet and how to maintain a strong physique. Laxus wasn't as large as Elfman, and had no plans of being so, but there was no doubt Elfman was responsible for the muscular physique the blonde was sporting.

The other man was also somewhat familiar to Laxus. A younger guy with shoulder length hair a weirdly brown and green shade. Laxus had only seen him on the rare occurrences he could go to the gym in the middle of the day, and he'd always caught his eye. Laxus couldn't exactly pinpoint what it was, but he found the guy to be pretty good looking. So, whenever they worked out at the same time, Laxus had to stop himself form glancing towards him.

Despite recognizing them both, he had never seen them together. He suspected Elfman was doing what he did for Laxus with the other guy. Laxus hoped he wasn't going to make the guy a bodybuilder, the blonde didn't know if it would suit him. Although, from the occasional glances he got at the guys biceps, he wasn't exactly slender, so maybe he could pull it off. Not that it was any of Laxus' actual concern, given that the guy was someone he barely saw, and he could get as buff as he wanted.

The two men had walked to a weightlifting area, the bench almost completely opposite the rowing machine. Laxus tried not to stare as the guy lied with his back and Elfman slid weights onto a bar suspended on its holders; he didn't want to weird the guy out.

For a considerable while, he had managed to avoid looking like a total creep. He had turned his music up and slid the rowing machine to a higher level of resistance, meaning he could focus both on the music beating through his earphones and the strenuous exercise that he was forcing himself through. The damn rowing machine really had earned its infamy, the blonde's arms felt like they were burning. But, eventually, his plan failed when he glanced up and saw the other guy mid workout.

"Damn." He mumbled to himself. "Definitely not skinny."

Going against his own good sense, he looked up and got a better view of the man as his impressive looking muscles flexed. His barbell seemed to have some pretty heavy weights on it, but the guy was dealing with them with ease. Well, with as much ease as you could get when lifting with Elfman; the bodybuilder never gave Laxus a break. From where he sat, the blonde could see the mans biceps strain and flex as his arms stretched out as high as they could go, before slowly curling back as he lowered the bar to his chest.

He looked down to his own lap again, trying to focus on his workout. He couldn't help but glance back, this time taking in the man's full appearance rather than just his arms. He was good looking, which confused Laxus a little. People rarely actually looked good when they worked out – sweat, red faces and aching bodies weren't attractive, at all – and yet the guy was still sort of handsome. It was his mannerisms perhaps; other than his arms, his body was rigidly still. And the movements of his arms were fluid, elegant even. The guy almost managed to look like he was going through a real-life version of the fake workouts that were forced into crappy rom-coms to make sexual tension. Only he actually looked like he was doing exercise, instead of just having been squirted with water and placed on a treadmill.

As he wondered if those kinds of thoughts were inappropriate, the music on his phone came to an abrupt stop and was replaced by a loud bleeping. It took him a few moments to realise that it was the alarm telling him his workout was over. When he did realise it, he removed his headphones, climbed out from the rowing machine and began to walk to the locker room.

"Elf." He greeted with a nod as he walked past, the larger man looking up.

"Hey man." Elfman nodded back, before looking back to the guy who continued to bench-press. "Sorry I can't talk out now. He won't need me for much longer. I'll catch up with you in the locker room, okay?

"Sure. See you in there then."

With a split-second glance at the other guy, Laxus began to walk away. He wiped his face with the towel resting around his shoulders, pushing open the door and entering the locker room that was thankfully empty. He was used to it being filled with a load of annoying city guys who had just got off work and were taking a workout before they went home. He didn't exactly care about the privacy issues, but hearing them make stupid jokes and laugh obnoxiously loud about them grated on his nerves, so he certainly didn't miss them.

He walked to his locker and sat at the bench before it, leaning his back against the cool metal and enjoying the feeling. He reached for his bottle of water and gulped some down, closing his eyes as he began to wind himself down from the workout.

Eyes closed, he was aware of the door opening and someone walking into the locker room. True to his word, Elfman really hadn't needed to stay with the guy much longer, as Laxus must have only been in there five minutes or so before Elfman had joined him. The blonde looked towards him as Elfman walked in, going to his own locker a little further down the room.

Laxus stood up and opened his locker, placing his phone and water bottle in it. He looked towards Elfman, removing his shirt and stuffing it into the lower shelf of the locker, on top of the sealed gym bag that contained his casual clothes.

"Your friend not with ya?" He said as he sifted through his bag to find another, cleaner towel.

"He's in the pool. Doing a warm down kinda thing, uses the other locker room 'cause it's closer." Elfman explained as he opened his own locker, squirting cold water over his face. "You're not usually here in the middle of the day. You been holding out on me man?"

"Day off. Union shit; thought I might as well make the most of it." Laxus removed his undershirt, the sweat making it stick to him slightly. "And you're one to talk about coming here more than you say. Guess it makes sense that you come here more often than me, must be a bitch keeping your body up."

Elfman laughed heartily at that, shrugging as he also sat at the bench and leant against the wall of lockers to cool himself down. Laxus decided to do the same with his now bare back. He was going to have a quick shower before he left, but he didn't want to leave Elfman mid conversation so decided to stop preparing for it now; sitting in a towel or his boxers while talking would be weird. It might have also made 'straight-as-an-arrow' Elfman uncomfortable, he had only recently found out that Laxus was bi.

Did he have to start thinking about making guys uncomfortable now he was out? It wasn't like Elfman was a homophobe, or some asshole who would assume Laxus would be into him just because he liked guys. Honestly, Elfman probably wouldn't even notice if Laxus sat with his balls hanging loose, he was a good guy like that, but that didn't change anything. Laxus still wasn't going to remove any more of his clothes as they talked, if only because his arms were still aching like hell and he would welcome any break that was presented to him.

"So, who's the guy? I've seen him here a couple times, didn't know you knew him?" Laxus continued.

"A friend from school, kinda. He graduated last year with Mira, she was closer to him really." Elfman explained, Laxus glad to know he had graduated. He hadn't been creeping over an underaged guy, at least. "Didn't know he worked out here until a couple weeks ago, he's always here at this time and I can only work out after school hours most of the time, so I never saw him."

"Sure." Laxus nodded. "Nice of you to help him out. Looks like he doesn't need it as much as I did."

Elfman chuckled a little. Laxus could only assume the man was thinking back to their first meeting, Laxus still being a skinny and awkward teenager at that time. He certainly must have been a piece of work for Elfman, he hardly knew how to use any of the machines other than the treadmill and the standing bike. Looking back, Laxus had to cringe a little. He needed help from a fifteen-year-old and acted like a little child when the workout got a little too intense for him. The results of Elfman's persistence was worth it, however.

Laxus rested his head on the lockers, feeling his arms relax slightly. He watched as Elfman picked out a towel and removed his shirt. The white haired guy didn't seem at all bothered by Laxus looking at him, which made Laxus relax a little. So Elfman definitely wasn't going to treat him differently because he was bi, just like he expected.

"He's doing me a favour really." Elfman said as he rubbed his torso with a towel. "I'm graduating pretty soon and I ain't getting going to college, can't deal with the debt. So, I need to get a job and I wanna work here as a trainer. Talked to the manager about how to do it and he said I need a little experience, so I asked if I could get a kind of trial thing set up where I train a friend and have that as my experience."

"So when you found out your friend worked out here, you asked him if he could help?" Laxus finished, Elfman nodding.

"Yeah. He's a good man. I only get to work with him at weekends until I graduate, though." Elfman said as he moved his hair from his eyes, it stuck to his sweating forehead. "Why the interest?"

At the question, Laxus looked forward and into the empty shower cubicle at the other side of the locker room. He suspected that, even though Elfman was evidently fine with Laxus' sexuality, he doubted he would appreciate the knowledge that the blonde had been checking his friend out every time they'd been in the same room. Phrasing it like that made it sound so much worse that it actually was.

He had given a passive response, something sarcastic about how friends not being able to make casual conversation with other friends any more. The blonde had decided that it was better to brush off the topic than to address it, he wasn't in the mood to lie. And he wasn't great at it, either.

As he was looking so intently at the shower cubicle, he missed the expression of amusement on the other man's face, who pretty much knew exactly why Laxus was interested in his friend. The small glance as Laxus had left the gym combined with pretty obvious avoidance of the topic left the conclusion obvious. Elfman decided to let it linger for a few moments, removing his workout shorts and placing them with his shirt in his locker. After a while, he spoke again.

"You want his number, man?"

Laxus' pupils dilated slightly as he looked towards Elfman. In response, he feigned innocence. "Why would I want his number?"

"You think he's hot." Elfman replied without any tact. "He's a good guy, Laxus, he wont mind. You'd probably be pretty good together as well. I don't know if he likes guys or not, but there's no point in moping around and letting it stop you from asking him out."

"I don't find him hot." Laxus replied, completely pointlessly. With a look from Elfman, he sighed. "Thanks, but no. If I'm gonna date someone, I ain't starting it with a crappy text or whatever."

To his credit, Elfman didn't push the issue further and allowed Laxus to think. The blonde leant against the locker again, knowing it was the right decision not to take the number. Not only did he not want to start a romance over the phone, what could he say: 'Hey. I've been looking at you when you work out and think you're hot. I've got your number off a friend who I happen to know. Lets date.' It was just the worse possible way to approach the situation. He was appreciative of the offer, though.

Besides, he hardly knew the guy. They'd never spoken to each other; the guy probably didn't know he existed. All Laxus knew of his personality was that Elfman and Mirajane liked him and that he was pretty polite to servers; he'd seen that when he had been to the juice bar beside the Leg-Press Laxus was on. Granted, that was nothing bad and the Strauss family were picky with who they liked, but it wasn't enough to start a relationship on.

And, even though he wouldn't broadcast the fact, Laxus was a big believer in fate. Not just fate; he also believed in karma, luck and destiny. Not in a religious way, nor in a way that lead him to read horoscopes or buy gemstones because of their 'energies'. Simply put, he thought people got what they deserved in the end. And, if for some weird and coincidental reason, fate dictated he was meant to end up with the random guy from the gym then it would happen eventually. He just needed to wait for that time to happen.

"I appreciate it, though." Laxus continued, standing up. "I'm gonna hit the showers, can't sit here all day."

Elfman nodded. Laxus stood up and began to remove his shorts and the thermal tights he wore under them. He rolled his eyes as he caught Elfman spraying himself with deodorant; the larger man refused to shower in the gym, he claimed that the pressure was too weak and the water was never warm enough. They were fair enough complaints and Laxus agreed with them, but to hear them come from a guy who always talked about manliness, it amused the blonde.

Once Laxus had removed all his clothes and tied a towel around his waist, he routed through his bag and picked out a small tub of shower-soap and shampoo. He walked to the cubicle and opened the door, going to walk in and close it before Elfman spoke up.

"I'll probably be gone by the time you're out. It was nice talking to you without a weight between us." Elfman said as he put his shirt on. "You'll be here Monday evening, right? Want me to spot for you again?"

"Yeah. Thanks, appreciate it." Laxus nodded as he turned the water on and closed the door. "See ya, Elf."

Leaning back against the cars seat with the air conditioning aimed directly at his face, he groaned loudly. He had hoped thinking back to the near-acquisition of the guy's number would help calm the situation, but it just made it more complicated.

The guy was defiantly Freed, that was impossible to deny. He looked like Freed, both in the description Freed had given him about how he looked when he was younger and in his face; he'd managed to maintain some pretty good cheekbones. And the fact he was a friend of the Strauss' but closer to Mirajane attributed to the idea it was Freed, they were about the same age and Mirajane had said that they were friends from school.

So, given Laxus was now sure the guy was Freed, that meant that Laxus had at least at one point found him attractive. More than that, he'd considered dating him or getting his number off Elfman. He hadn't just had a fleeting glance and found him good looking, he'd considered dating him.

"Shit." He groaned.

But that didn't mean he was into the guy now. Five years had passed since then and he was much more mature than before; at that point he would probably date anyone who smiled at him. And anyway, even when he was younger he'd concluded he didn't know enough about the guy to have an actual relationship with him. He'd gotten a stupid crush on a guy because he was polite to someone at a juice bar that managed to look relatively handsome as he worked out.

The same guy he was now working for, who shared a similar taste of music with him, who he'd eaten with twice and enjoyed the company both times. Hell, he had even complimented the man on keeping his damn cheekbones a moment ago.

It wasn't just his cheekbones that Laxus remembered from Freed, he'd also maintained the sense of elegance he had. Unintentionally, Laxus had been watching Freed as he moved and had concluded that he did everything with a sense of purpose. There was no waste of energy in the slightest inconsequential movement, just like when he was bench pressing. He was still polite to people as well, which was even more impressive now that Freed was wealthy enough to get away with being rude if he wanted. But, just like he had been polite to the guy at the juice bar, Freed had nodded to the doorman as he walked into the building.

"For fucks sake." He groaned to himself. "You spend like eight years in a job you hate. Finally get a good one and now you wanna get with the boss?"

Did he though? Just because his boss was good looking, and he had traits Laxus liked, it didn't mean he wanted to date the guy. Freed could just be a guy he worked with who was hot. Most of his friends were hot, in some way or another, and he wouldn't have been friends with them if they didn't have qualities he liked. Freed was just another person he knew that happened to be good looking, that was it.

It was hard to just to accept that, though. Freed wasn't the same as everyone else. Laxus had never had such a confusing internal disagreement about the feelings for his other friends. He'd never thought about fate bringing him and a friend back together again.

Which, with another groan, made him realise fate had indeed brought them together again.

Eventually, he decided he needed to stop worrying about it. With the amount of internalised debate, it was clear that he knew nothing about his real feelings towards the situation. He knew nothing about his feelings of Freed. So, like he had five years prior, he decided that he wouldn't let that bother him and he would instead leave what he didn't know up to fate.

He did know one thing, though. When his shift ended, he needed a massive fucking drink.

Hi. Still managing to get things done in two weeks, and I've already got the next chapter drafted out, so I should be able to keep to schedule. But I do have some exams coming up, so excuse me if I slip up. I'll try not to, but you never know what'll happen. I'm also trying to participate in the Raijinshuu Week this year, which might take up some time.

As always, thank you so much for any comments and kudos you leave. They mean so much.

Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading. ^.^

#fraxus #freed justine #Laxus Dreyar #Ft: Gamblers Luck #freed x laxus #fanfic #fairy tail

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thekillerblogofkillers · 7 years

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Richard Ramirez (1960-2013)

Richard Ramirez, also known as the Night Stalker, was an American serial killer, rapist and burglar whose highly publicised crime spree terrorised the residents of the greater LA area, and later the residents of the San Francisco area. Ramirez was known to use a variety of weapons, including handguns, knives, a machete, a tire iron and a hammer. Ramirez never showed any remorse for the murders.

Richard Leyva Munoz Ramirez was born in El Paso Texas on February 29, 1960. He was the youngest of Julian and Mercedes Ramirez’s 5 children. Julian Ramirez (a Mexican national and former Juarez policeman) was a hard-working man with a bad temper that often led to physical abuse towards his children. When Ramirez was 2 years old a dresser fell on top of him, causing a forehead laceration that needed 30 stitches. When he was 5 years old he was knocked unconscious by a swing at the park, which later caused epileptic seizures that carried on as Ramirez was a teenager. When Ramirez was around 12 he began to be strongly involved with his older cousin Miguel “Mike” Ramirez. Mike was a U.S. Army Green Beret who boasted of his exploits in the Vietnam War. He would show Richard Polaroid photos of his victims, including Vietnamese women had had sexually assaulted. In some photos Mike posed with the severed head of a woman he had abused. Ramirez, who had been smoking marijuana since the age of 10, formed a strong bond with Mike over joints and war stories. Mike taught Richard some of his military skills, such as killing with stealth. It was around this time that Richard began sleeping in a local cemetery to avoid his abusive father. “Richie”, as he was known to his family, was at Mike’s home on May 4, 1973, when Mike shot his wife Jessie in the face with a .38 revolver during an argument. After the murder Richie became moody and distant from his family and friends. A few months later Ramirez moved in with his sister Ruth and her husband Roberto, a “peeping Tom” who took Richie along on some of his “adventures.” Ramirez also began to use LSD and had a growing interest in Satanism. Mike Ramirez was tried for Jessie’s murder and found not guilty by reason of insanity, with his combat record as a mitigating factor. He was released in 1977 after 4 years at the Texas State Mental Hospital, and his influence over his cousin continued. The teenage Richard began merging his sexual fantasies with violence, part of which include rape and bondage. While he was in school, he began working at a local Holiday Inn. He used his passkey to rob sleeping guests. He was fired after a guest returned to his room to find Ramirez trying to rape his wife. The husband badly beat Ramirez at the scene but the charges were dropped when the couple, who lived in a different state, wouldn’t return to testify against him. Ramirez dropped out of high school in the ninth grade and at the age of 22 he moved to California, settling there permanently.

On April 10, 1984, Mei Leung, 9, was found dead in a hotel basement where Ramirez had been living in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco. Leung had been beaten, raped and stabbed to death, her body left hanging from a pipe. This was Ramirez’s first known murder but was not initially considered connected to the crime spree. In 2009, Richard Ramirez’s DNA was matched to DNA obtained at the Leung crime scene. In 2016 officials released information about a possible 2nd suspect also identified through DNA found at the scene, who was believed to have been a juvenile at the time of Leung’s murder. The suspect’s age at the time has prevented officials from naming them and, due to lack of sufficient evidence, no charges have been brought against them.

On June 28, 1984, Jennie Vincow, 79, was found murdered in her Glassell Park apartment. She had been stabbed multiple times while asleep in bed, her throat slashed so badly that she was almost decapitated. Ramirez’s fingerprint was found on a mesh screen he had removed to get in through a window. On March 17, 1985, Ramirez attacked 22-year-old Maria Hernandez outside her home. He shot her in the face with a .22 caliber gun after she drove into her garage. She survived because the bullet ricocheted off they keys she was holding in the hand she had raised to protect herself. Her roommate, 34-year-old Dayle Okazaki, 34, heard the gunshot and ducked behind the kitchen counter when Ramirez entered. She raised her head to look and he shot her in the forehead, killing her. Within an hour of this murder Ramirez dragged 30-year-old Tsai-Lian “Veronica” Yu out of her car in Monterey Park, shot her twice and fled. She was pronounced DOA at the hospital. The 2 murders and 3rd attempt in 1 day attracted massive media coverage, with the press dubbing the attacker (who had been described as having curly hair, bulging eyes and wide-spaced, rotting teeth) the “Walk-In Killer” and the “Valley Intruder”.

On March 27, 1985, Ramirez returned to a house in Whittier he had robbed a year earlier and at around 2am killed sleeping 64-year-old Vincent Zazzara with a headshot. Zazzara’s wife, Maxine, 44, was woken by her husband’s murder and Ramirez beat her and tied her hands, demanding to know where the couple’s valuables were. As he was ransacking the bedroom, Maxine managed to escape her bonds and retrieve an unloaded shotgun from beneath the bed. An enraged Ramirez shot her 3 times and went to fetch a carving knife from the kitchen. Mrs. Zazzara’s body was mutilated with multiple stab wounds, her eyes gouged out and left in a jewellery box that Ramirez took with him. The autopsy showed that the mutilations were done post-mortem. Ramirez left footprints at the crime scene, in the flowerbeds, that were from a pair of Avia sneakers. The police photographed and cast these. This was pretty much the only evidence that the police had at the time. Bullets at the scene matched those at prior attacks and the police realised they had a serial killer on their hands.

On May 14, 1985, Ramirez went back to Monterey Park (where he had killed Tsai-Lian Yu) to find another victim, and broke into the home of Bill Doi, 66, and his disabled wife Lillian, 56. Ramirez surprised Doi in his bedroom and shot him in the face with a .22 semi-automatic pistol as Doi was reaching for his own gun. After beating the dying man unconscious, Ramirez went into Lillian’s bedroom, bound her with thumbcuffs and then raped her after ransacking the home for valuables. Bill Doi died of his injuries in the hospital. 2 weeks later, Ramirez drove a stolen Mercedes to Monrovia and stopped at a house belonging to 83-year-old Mabel “Ma” Bell, 83, and her sister Florence “Nettie” Lang, 81. He found a hammer in the kitchen, binding and bludgeoning the disabled Lang in her bedroom before doing the same to her sister. He used an electrical cord to shock Bell. After raping Lang, Ramirez used Bell’s lipstick to draw a pentagram on her thigh as well as on the walls of both bedrooms. The women were discovered 2 days later, alive but comatose. Bell later died of her injuries. The next day, Ramirez drove the same car to Burbank and snuck into the home of 42-year-old Carol Kyle. He bound Kyle and her 11-year-old son at gunpoint before ransacking the house. He released Kyle so she could show him where the valuables were and then repeatedly sodomised her. He repeatedly ordered her not to look at him, telling her he would “cut her eyes out”. He fled from the scene after binding Kyle and her son together with handcuffs.

On July 2, 1985, Ramirez drove a stolen Toyota to Arcadia and randomly selected a house. It belonged to Mary Louise Cannon, 75. He quietly entered the widowed grandmother’s home, finding her asleep in her bedroom. He bludgeoned the woman into unconsciousness with a lamp and repeatedly stabbed her using a 10-inch butcher knife from her own kitchen. She was found dead at the scene. 3 days later, Ramirez broke into a home in Sierra Madre and bludgeoned Whitney Bennett, 16, with a tire iron as she slept in her bedroom. After looking for a knife in the kitchen but not finding one, Ramirez tried to strangle the girl with a telephone cord. He was startled when he saw sparks coming from the cord, and when his victim began to breathe, he fled the house under the belief that Jesus Christ had intervened and saved her. She survive the beating, which required nearly 500 stitches to close the lacerations to the scalp. 2 days after this incident, Ramirez robbed the home of Lucille Nelson, 61, in Monterey Park. He found her asleep on her living room couch and beat her to death with his fists and feet. A shoe print from an Avia sneaker was left imprinted on her face. After cruising 2 other neighbourhoods, Ramirez returned to Monterey Park and chose the home of 63-year-old Sophie Dickerman. He assaulted and handcuffed her at gunpoint, attempted to rape her, and stole her jewellery. When Dickerman swore that Ramirez had taken everything of value, he told her to “swear on Satan”.

On July 20, 1985, Ramirez bought a machete before driving a stolen Toyota to Glendale. He chose a home belonging to Lela Kneiding, 66, and her 68-year-old husband Maxon, 68. He burst into the couple’s bedroom while they slept and hacked at them with the machete, killing them with shots to the head from a .22 caliber handgun. He then mutilated their corpses with the machete before robbing them of their valuables. After fencing the items he stole from the Kneiding house as quickly as he could, Ramirez drove to Sun Valley. At around 4:15am he broke into the home of the Knovananth family. He murdered Chainarong Knovananth by shooting him in the head with a .25 caliber handgun – he died instantly. He then raped Somkid Knovananth, beating and sodomising her before binding the couple’s terrified 8-year-old boy and dragging Somkid around the house to show him where they kept any valuables he could steal. During the assault he demanded that Somkid “swear to Satan” that she wasn’t hiding any money from him.

On August 6, 1985, Ramirez drove to Northride and broke into the home of Virginia and Chris Peterson. Ramirez crept into their bedroom, starting Virginia, 27, and shot her in the face with a .25 caliber semi-automatic handgun. He shot Chris Peterson in the side of his head and tried to flee, but Peterson fought back and dodged 2 more bullets during the struggle before Ramirez escaped. The couple both survived their injuries. 2 days later, Ramirez drove a stolen car to Diamond Bar and chose the home of Sakina Abowath, 27, and her 31-year-old husband Elyas. Around 2:30am he entered their home and went into the bedroom. He killed the sleeping Elyas instantly with a headshot. He then handcuffed and beat Sakina while forcing her to tell him where the valuables were before brutally raping and sodomising her. He repeatedly demanded she “swear to Satan” that she wouldn’t scream during the assaults. When the couple’s 3-year-old son came into the bedroom Ramirez tied him up and continued to rape Sakina in front of him. After Ramirez left, Sakina managed to untie her son before sending him to get help from a neighbour.

Ramirez had been following the media coverage of his crimes and left the LA area, heading to San Francisco Bay area. On August 18, 1985, Ramirez broke into the home of Peter, 66, and Barbara Pan, 62. Peter was killed in his sleep with a gunshot to the temple from a .25 caliber handgun. Barbara was beaten and sexually violated before being shot in the head and left to die. At the crime scene, Ramirez used lipstick to draw a pentagram and the phrase “Jack the Knife” on the bedroom wall. When the results that the ballistic and shoeprint evidence from the Night Stalker crimes matched the Pan crime scene, then-mayor of San Francisco Dianne Feinstein released the information in a televised press conference. This leak of information annoyed the detectives working on the case because they knew the killer would be following the press coverage and would now have an opportunity to destroy any forensic evidence. Ramirez, who actually had been watching the footage, dropped his Avia sneakers over the side of the Golden Gate Bridge that same night. He only stayed in the area for a few more days before returning to LA.

On August 24, 1985, Ramirez travelled to Mission Viejo in stolen orange Toyota, where he arrived at the house of James Romero Jr., who had just come back from a family vacation to Mexico. Romero’s son James Romero III, 13, was awake and heard Ramirez’s footsteps outside. Thinking there might be a prowler, James went to wake up his parents and Ramirez ran away. James ran outside and got the colour, make, model and style of the car as well as a partial licence plate number. Romero contacted the police and gave them this information, believing that his son had just chased away a thief. Following this incident, Ramirez broke into the home of Bill Carnes, 30, and his fiancée Inez Erickson, 29. Ramirez entered through the back door and went to the bedroom of the sleeping couple. He woke Carnes up by cocking his .25 caliber handgun before shooting him 3 times in the head. He then turned his attention to Erickson. Ramirez told the woman, who was terrified, that he was the “Night Stalker” and made her swear she loved Satan as he punched her repeatedly and tied her up with neckties he found in the closet. After stealing whatever he could, Ramirez made Erickson “swear on Satan” that there was nothing else. Before leaving, he said to Erickson, “Tell them the Night Stalker was here.” Erickson managed to untie herself and went to a neighbour’s home to get help for her badly injured fiancé. Surgeons removed 2 bullets from Carnes’s head and he survived. Erickson managed to give a detailed description to investigators, and police made a cast from a footprint found at the Romero home. The stolen car was located on August 28 in Wilshire Center, LA and police found a single fingerprint on the rearview mirror, despite the fact that Ramirez was very careful to wipe the car down. The print was positively identified as belonging to Richard Munoz Ramirez, a 25-year-old Texan drifter with a long rap sheet that included arrests for traffic and drug violations. Law enforcement officials decided to release a prior mugshot of Ramirez to the media from a December 12, 1984 arrest and the “Night Stalker” finally had a face. At the press conference held by police it was announced: “We know who you are now, and soon everyone else will. There will be no place you can hide.”

On August 30, 1985, Ramirez got on a bus to Tucson, Arizona to visit his brother. He was unaware that he had become the lead story in every major newspaper and television news program across the entire state of California. He didn’t meet his brother, so returned to LA in the early morning hours of August 31. He walked past police officers that were staking out the bus terminal in the hopes of catching the killer in case he attempted to flee on an outbound bus, so were not watching inbound buses. Ramirez went to a convenience store in East Los Angeles. After he saw a group of elderly Mexican women who called him “El Matador” (or “The Killer”), Ramirez noticed his face on the front cover of a newspaper and fled from the store, panicked. After running across the Santa Fe Freeway, Ramirez tried to carjack a woman but he was chased away by witnesses, who kept pursuing him. Having hopped several fences and attempted 2 more carjackings, he was eventually caught and subdued by a group of residents, one of whom hit him in the head with a metal bar. The group held him down, beating him until police arrived and took Ramirez into custody.

Jury selection for Ramirez’s trial began on July 22, 1988. At Ramirez’s first court appearance he raised a hand with a pentagram drawn on it and yelled “Hail Satan”. On August 3, the LA Times reported that some jail employees overheard Ramirez plotting to shoot the prosecutor with a gun Ramirez intended to have smuggled into the courtroom. As a result of this, a metal detector was installed outside the courtroom and searches were conducted on anyone entering. On August 14, the trial was halted because Phyllis Singletary, one of the jurors, did not turn up at the courthouse. She was found shot to death in her apartment later the same day. The jury was terrified and thought Ramirez had somehow ordered this kill from inside his prison cell, and that they might be in danger too. It was later discovered that Singletary was killed by her boyfriend, who later committed suicide with the same weapon. The alternate juror who replaced Singletary was too scared to return home. On September 20, 1989, Richard Ramirez was convicted of all charges – 13 counts of murder, 5 attempted murders, 11 sexual assaults and 14 burglaries. During the penalty phase of the trial he was sentenced to death in California’s gas chamber. He told reporters after the sentencing: “Big deal. Death always went with the territory. See you in Disneyland.”

By the time of the trial, Ramirez had gained “fans” who were writing him letters and visiting him. Starting in 1985 Doreen Lioy wrote him nearly 75 letters during his incarceration. In 1988 Ramirez proposed to her and on October 3, 1996, they got married in California’s San Quentin State Prison. For many years prior to Ramirez’s death, Lioy said that she would commit suicide when Ramirez was executed. Lioy and Ramirez eventually separated. Due to the lengthy appeals process, it was estimated that Ramirez would have been in his 70s before the execution was carried out. On August 7, 2006, his first round of state appeals was unsuccessful when the California Supreme Court upheld his convictions and death sentence. On September 7, 2006, the California Supreme Court denied his request for a rehearing. Ramirez had appeals pending at the time of his death. He died of complications secondary to B-cell lymphoma at Marin General Hospital in Greenbrae, California on June 7, 2013. He had also been affected with “chronic substance abuse and chronic hepatitis C viral infection”. At 53 years old, Ramirez had been on death row for over 23 years.

#richard #ramirez #night stalker #walk-in killer #valley intruder #california #mexico #rape #bludgeon #murder #serial killer #robber #gas chamber #san quentin #execution

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comrade-jiang · 7 years

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Tactics of Liberalism (Intro, #1)

This is a new series I'm starting to tackle the most nefarious tactics used by modern-day liberals in defense of authoritarianism, whether knowingly or unknowingly. Unknowingly serving as a pawn for authoritarianism serves the same function as doing so on purpose, and the responsibility and consequences for such an action must be present in both cases.

Without further ado, let's get into Tactics of Liberalism #1: Meatshields for Fascists.

Make no mistake- liberalism has invaded our society and pushed out outside politics, decrying them as "extreme", "radical", "violent", and "terrorist". By doing this, liberals further the state's own monopoly of violence, for the government and police they often defend fit the definitions of the words they use for their opponents.

Most liberals ignore or justify the killings by the states they hold near and dear, with some even saying mass casualties are acceptable "because they get the job done". In reality, mass casualties are acceptable to them because they're happening to people they don't know and can't see.

Talking to the average liberal about defending oneself from fascism usually results in a dismissal from the liberal. Their answer, if they bother to give one, usually goes something like this.

"Neo-Nazis are nonviolent, and if you stoop down to their level, you become just as bad as them. They have a right to free speech and you can't assault them because you disagree with them."

We'll pick this apart piece by piece. Use this as a resource when dealing with your own liberals.

"Neo-Nazis are nonviolent."

Easily disproven by a simple Google search, liberals continue to say this lie as a means of protecting fascists from the consequences of their actions. Within the last 20 years, neo-Nazis and white supremacists have killed at least 60 people. High profile cases like the Charleston Church shooting and the murder of Heather Heyer are included.

Other neo-Nazis applaud these murders and call for more. Their end goal nowadays is to ignite a race war, where they belive their whiteness will assure them victory. To ignore this is to allow it to happen again, and again, and again, until we live in a society of fear, moreso than we already do.

Well-known, high-profile murders by white supremacists include the following. The Charleston Church shooting was a mass shooting, that took place at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in downtown Charleston, South Carolina, United States, on the evening of June 17, 2015. During a prayer service, nine people were killed by domestic terrorist Dylann Roof, a 21-year-old white supremacist. Three other victims survived. The morning after the attack, police arrested Roof in Shelby, North Carolina. Roof confessed to committing the shooting in hopes of igniting a race war.

The Portland train attack occurred on May 26, 2017, when a man fatally stabbed two people and injured a third, after he was confronted for shouting what were described as racist and anti-Muslim slurs at two teenage girls on a MAX Light Rail train in Portland, Oregon. Jeremy Joseph Christian had previously been convicted in 2002 of kidnapping and robbery of a convenience store, and was sentenced to 90 months in prison for that offense. He was also arrested in 2010 on charges of being a felon in possession of a firearm and theft, but those charges were later dropped. He held extremist views, posting neo-Nazi, antisemitic, and far-right material on social media, as well as material indicating an affinity for political violence. Christian had been participating in various "alt-right" rallies in Portland. One month prior to the stabbing, Christian spoke at a right-wing "March for Free Speech" in Portland's Montavilla Park, where he wore a Revolutionary War-era flag of the United States and carried a baseball bat, which was confiscated by police. He gave Nazi salutes, and used a racial slur at least once.

At the "Unite the Right" white supremacist rally, a man drove his car into a crowd of counterprotestors, hitting several and slamming into a stopped sedan, which hit a stopped minivan that was in front of it. The impact of the crash pushed the sedan and the minivan further into the crowd. One person was killed and 19 others were injured in what police have called a deliberate attack. The man then reversed the car through the crowd and fled the scene. James Alex Fields Jr., a 20-year-old from Ohio who reportedly had expressed sympathy for Nazi Germany during his time as a student at Cooper High School in Union, Kentucky, was arrested. Fields had been photographed taking part in the rally, holding a shield emblazoned with the logo of Vanguard America, a white supremacist organization.

Also, at the same rally earlier in the day: Harvard professor Cornel West, who organized some of the counter-demonstrators, said that a group of "20 of us who were standing, many of them clergy, we would have been crushed like cockroaches if it were not for the anarchists and the anti-fascists who approached, over 300, 350 anti-fascists." West stated, "The neofascists had their own ammunition. And this is very important to keep in mind, because the police, for the most part, pulled back." DeAndre Harris, a black teacher's aide from Charlottesville, was brutally beaten by white supremacists in a parking garage close to Police Headquarters; the assault was captured by photographs and video footage. The footage showed a group of six men beating Harris with poles, metal pipe, and wood slabs, as Harris struggled to pick himself off the ground. Harris suffered a broken wrist and serious head injury.

Fox News and the Daily Caller had instigated running over leftist protesters for years now, but puleld their articles when someone was finally murdered that way, as to avoid responsibility.

As you can see from a few relatively recent cases, neo-Nazis are not nonviolent. Their ideals are not nonviolent. To stand in real, tangible opposition to the ideology whose end goal is total extermination of all unlike them is not violent- it is self-defense.

"If you stoop down to their level, you become just as bad as them."

This one is fairly straightforward. If a liberal's only problem with Nazism is that it's too rowdy, then they are purposely ignoring what the Nazis have done, what they want to do, and what they will do if allowed to.

The only way anyone could "stoop down" to the level of a neo-Nazi is to harbor all their ideals. There are many things wrongs with neo-Nazis besides their propensity for violence, including but in no way limited to their anti-Semitism, anti-blackness, ideals of racial purity, and desire to initiate a global race war and Fourth Reich.

"They have a right to free speech."

In the United States, at least, they actually don't. Inciting genocide, no matter how likely, falls under inciting imminent lawless behavior, as per the Supreme Court's decision in Brandenburg v. Ohio, as does anything that presents a clear and present danger. It falls under a type of death threat, and is on the same level, legally, as making bomb threats. However, due to law enforcement and judiciary officials either not understanding this decision or not caring, this is rarely, if ever, prosecuted. Being technically legal due to incompetence or corruption is still illegal.

On top of this, the neo-Nazis' victims have a right to live, and that right is quite a bit more important than their right to repeatedly incite violence until one of them steps up and kills someone.

"You can't assault them because you disagree with them."

This ties into my second point. If a liberal can boil the desire for extermination of an entire race into an "opinion" that you can simply disagree with, then the liberal is, in essence, shifting blame away from the ones who are calling for extermination and onto the ones who wish to stop them.

It is in these manners that liberals are often called "Nazi sympathizers" or the like- by defending aspects of Nazism from criticism or reprisals, the liberal is presenting themselves as little more than a meatshield for fascists, who will gleefully thank them for the help until it's time to round liberals up too.

I must reiterate that liberals are not the enemy, despite their position as ideological opponents. Liberals, unless actively fighting for fascists, should be coached into common sense by those who understand the ramifications of a second Nazi incursion.

#anarchism #liberalism #militant resistance #socialism #antifascism

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soaimagines · 7 years

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Third Love

Request: Imagine dating Jax for a while, Tara comes back and you and Jax fight.

PART TWO COMING 😘

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“It’s been said that we really only fall in love with three people in our lifetime. Yet, it’s said that we need each of these loves for a different reason. Often our first is when we are young, high school even. It’s the idealistic love; the one that seems like the fairytales we are all read as children. It’s a love that looks right. The second is supposed to be our hard love; the one that teaches us lessons about who we are and how we often want or need to be loved. Sometimes it’s unhealthy, unbalanced or narcissistic even. It’s the love that we wished was right. And the third is the love we never see coming. The one that usually comes dressed as all wrong for us and that destroys any lingering ideals we clung to about what love is supposed to be. It’s the love that just feels right. Maybe we don’t all experience these loves in this lifetime; but perhaps that’s just because we aren’t ready to. Possibly maybe we need a whole lifetime to learn or maybe if we’re lucky it only takes a few years. And there may be those people who fall in love once and find it passionately lasts until their last breath. Someone once told me they are the lucky ones; and perhaps they are. But I kinda think that those who make it to their third love are really the lucky ones. They are the ones who are tired of having to try and whose broken hearts lay beating in front of them wondering if there is just something inherently wrong with how they love. But there’s not; it’s just a matter of if someone loves in the same way that they do or not. And maybe there’s something special about our first love, and something heartbreakingly unique about our second…but there’s also just something about our third. The one we never see coming. The one that actually lasts. The one that shows us why it never worked out before. And it’s that possibility that makes trying again always worthwhile, because the truth is you never know when you’ll stumble into love. ”

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You pulled into the Teller-Morrow lot and parked in your usual spot before sliding out of your seat and closing the car door behind you. The night was warm and the air was crisp, the sun slowly beginning to set and you walked across the lot, thinking to yourself how thankful you were to live in a place like this. Your footsteps echoed through the quiet lot, almost silent except the faint music coming from inside. The row of bikes was a welcome sight and you headed straight for the clubhouse doors. There was nothing quite like the smell of the Sons of Anarchy clubhouse and it welcomed you every time you opened those doors; a mix of cheap perfume, leather and cigarettes. And for the last two years, this place had become your home. Dating Jackson Teller wasn’t easy, but to be honest you didn’t want easy. Nothing worthwhile ever came easy and for you, Jax was worth the world. You saw him almost instantly, sitting casually at one of the tables, a beer in one hand and a cigarette pressed between his lips, his blonde hair slicked back from his face. A smile spread on your lips as you neared him and when he saw you approaching his face lit up. “Hey darlin,” Jax greeted you and gave his leg a pat, gesturing for you to sit. You obliged and sat in his lap, wrapping an arm around his shoulder before kissing his lips gently. “Hey yourself.” Chibs and Tig were sat at the table also and they both greeted you warmly. “How was your day?” You asked, absentmindedly playing with the folds of leather on his kutte. “Busy.” Jax smiled at you. He knew you weren’t digging for information on the club, you were just generally interested in how his days went and he admired you for not pressing him for details. You began to chat about your day, Jax asking you questions about work and neither of you noticed Chibs and Tig leave the table. Conversation always flowed easily between the two of you and even when you weren’t speaking the silence was comfortable. “You ready to head home?” You asked, stifling a yawn. Jax took a swig of his beer before speaking. “I’ve gotta wrap up some Club stuff,” He told you, shifting uneasily in his seat. “I might be late tonight babe.” You nodded and smiled. “Well I’d say I’d wait up but I doubt il be able to.” You said as another yawn came over you. Jax smirked and kissed you deeply. “I love you, (y/n).” He told you, his voice serious. You thought nothing of it and smiled back at him. “I love you too.”

The singing of the birds outside your window woke you before your alarm did, and you were thankful. The sounds of nature were a much more pleasant awakening then the nagging beeps of your alarm clock. You stretched your arms out and instantly noticed the empty spot beside you. You frowned slightly. It was unlike Jax to not come home. Even when he stayed late at the clubhouse he always made his way home, knowing that you worried when he wasn’t beside you. You checked your phone but saw no messages or calls from him. ‘He probably crashed at the clubhouse. It was a busy day after all.’ You told yourself and headed for the shower. After showering you pulled on your ripped black jeans and a grey tshirt and tied your hair loosely on top of your head before heading to the kitchen for breakfast. It wasn’t your day off, but you only had two meetings today so you didn’t need to head into the office til around lunchtime. You threw some bread in the toaster and made up a pot of coffee. It wouldn’t hurt to pop in to the clubhouse, you thought. Jax might have already headed out for the day but there was still a chance he’d be there and you wanted to ease your mind before heading into work. You quickly had your breakfast and tidied up the kitchen before grabbing your keys off the counter and heading for the door. Your house wasn’t far from TM and the drive there passed quickly. The lot was coming alive for the day, some of the guys around the picnic table, some in the garage working on bikes and you could see Gemma in her office. You parked in your spot and got out of the car.

“Mornin’ lass,” Chibs called from the table. “Morning!” You smiled back. You’d always gotten on well with him and he always made you feel welcome. “Jax inside?” “Aye, he’s in his dorm.” You thanked him and kissed his cheek before heading inside.

Jax was exactly where Chibs said; sitting at the desk in his dorm, cigarette between his lips, writing in that notebook he always clutched so tight. You leant against the door, unwilling to disturb him. You liked watching him write, he always looked so focused, like he was writing the secrets of the world. You never asked what he was writing, never wished to read his words; you didn’t need to. He had always been open with you and you’d never had secrets between you. However something didn’t feel quite were. You let him write in piece for another minute before you rapped on the door lightly. Jax lifted his head and smiled before blowing out his smoke and putting out the cigarette in an ash tray. “Mornin’,” Jax saidnas he stood and walked towards you. “Long time no see, Teller.” You smirked. You were pissed he hadn’t come home and hadn’t bothered to text you, but damn with a face like that you could never stay mad at him for long. Jax smirked and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry babe.” You raised an eyebrow and laid your hands on his shoulders. His hands held your waist gently. “That’s all I get?” “I’ll make it up to you?” He offered, a playful hint in his eyes. You laughed lightly. “You sound so sincere.” Jax smirked at the sarcasm in your voice and kissed you softly. “I’m sorry babe.” He told you again. This time you nodded and smiled. “Just come home tonight.” You told him. Jax nodded and you kissed him once more before turning away. “See you at home. For dinner.” You called over your shoulder “I’ll be there.” Jax watched you leave, a content smile on his lips as he watched you walk.

The house was so silent that you swore you actually heard the clock tick over. 9 O'clock. And he still wasn’t home. Your fingers rapped at the table impatiently. Fuck it. You thought. You hadn’t heard from him since you had left the clubhouse earlier this morning and after not coming home last night you were pissed. He could have at least had the decency to call. Now, dinner had gone cold and you didn’t really care; you always lost your appetite when you were angry. You glanced at the clock once more before grabbing your keys, pulled on your boots and marched to the door. You drove fast, barely stopping at the red lights and stop signs on the way and the tyres screeched when you pulled into the lot. Tig and Happy were sat outside and they eyed you curiously as you slammed the car door. “Everything okay doll?” Tig asked as you stormed across the lot. “Just fucking peachy.” You said. Tig nodded slowly and backed away, arms raised and you sat back at the table with Hap. You glanced past the dozen men scattered around the clubhouse, searching only for one. Juice was walking towards you, pulling a pack of smokes out of his pocket as he walked. You spotted Jax, sitting on one of the sofas, a pretty brunette beside him. She wasn’t a crow eater, that was obvious but you still felt a pang of jealousy when you saw Jax smile at her. “Juice, who’s that?” You asked as he neared you. He glanced around the room, following your gaze and stopped awkwardly when he saw who you were meaning. “Uhh I’m not sure (y/n).” Juice said and rubbed his neck. You crossed your arms and glared at him. He sighed. “It’s um. Tara.” He told you and flashed you a sad smile before squeezing your arm and walked past you. You nodded slowly. So this is why Jax had been acting strange; Tara was back. Goddamit. You knew about her, he had told you, Gemma had told you, hell half the fucking club had told you. She was his first love, the first girl to break his heart. It had been years since she’d left town and you hadn’t ever imagined she’d come back. You’d had a hard enough time adjusting to Wendy being around, but you’d come to realise there was nothing left between her and Jax. They had been toxic for each other, and they only kept in touch for the sake of Abel. She wasn’t a threat and you’d actually grown to like her. Tara was different. You’d never met her, you’d only moved to town two years after she’d left but you knew how much she had meant to him. And the fact that he had practically ignored you didn’t sit right. A part of you wanted to storm across the room, slap the bitch right across her cheek, and rip Jax into shreds. But you didn’t. You turned around slowly and walked back to your car.

It was 2.37am when Jax pulled into the drive way. He parked his bike and swung his leg over before resting his helmet on his handle bars and heading towards the front door. The kitchen light was still on inside and he walked slowly, his head hung low. His footsteps were light as he walked up the steps and he opened the door slowly and closed it before him. His shoes thumped against the carpet as he licked them off and he pulled the leather off his shoulders and laid it over the back of a chair before heading into the kitchen. He stopped in his tracks when he saw you sitting at the table, a half bottle of whiskey and an empty glass in front of you. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You’re still up.” “Couldn’t sleep.” He nodded slowly and fumbled with his rings before pulling out a chair and taking a seat opposite you. “I’m sorry I’m late babe, things with the club have been.. busy.” You nodded and lifted the bottle of whiskey and poured some into your glass. Jax sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. “It won’t be like this all the time darlin, things have just been busy. It’ll die down soon and I’ll be-” “I came to the clubhouse.” You interrupted. Jax stopped, his blue eyes fixed on you but you didn’t meet his gaze. You twirled the glass in your hand, letting the whiskey swirl around before taking a sip. “How longs she been back, Jax?” He was silent for a moment before he spoke. “A few days.” He told you. You nodded slowly, your face cold. “Do you love me?” You asked. Jax reached across the table to grab your hands but you pulled them away. “I do, (y/n). I love you.” “Do you love her?” You took another swig. Jax sighed. “Look it’s not that simple, I-” “Yes or no.” You interrupted. His gaze lingered in you but you only stared at the glass in your hands. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, (y/n).” You scoffed. “Then what the fuck does it mean, Jax?! You blow me off cause your ex is back in town?” “I needed time to think.” Jax said, his voice calm. “To think?!” You yelled. “To think about what, Jax?! She left you! It’s been ten fucking years! But you need to think about it?” “I didn’t think I’d see her again, it threw me.” You scoffed and downed the rest of your glass. “I was gonna tell you, I just needed to figure thins out. Me and Tara, we got a lot of history.” “What did you need to figure out Jax? You’ve moved on! You’ve moved on with me! Or have the last two years meant nothing to you?!” “Of course they meant something!” Jax yelled back. “I love you!” “Bullshit!” You threw the bottle of whiskey at the wall behind him, barely missing his head and the glass shattered to the floor. “If you loved me you wouldn’t have blown me off to see her! You would have told me straight away! You wouldn’t have lied to me!” You screamed, your fists shaking with rage. “I am no ones second choice, Jackson.” You grabbed your keys and pushed past him, heading for the door. Anger was seething through you and although you could hear Jax yelling after you you couldn’t make out his words. The rage was blinding, and you didn’t notice your knuckles whitening as you gripped the steering wheel. You didn’t notice the row of flowers you crushed beneath the tyres. You didn’t notice the tears streaming down your face. You didn’t notice the red light beaming in the street. You didn’t notice the truck. No, you didn’t notice it. Not til it hit the side of your car, and everything went black.

#jax soa #sons of anarchy jax #Jackson Teller #Jax Teller #jax #sons of anarchy #sons of anarchy opie #sons of anarchy happy #sons of anarchy kozik #sons of anarchy chibs #sons of anarchy imagine #sons of anarchy imagines #happy imagine #imagine #soa happy #juice soa #happy soa #soa one shot #one shot

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the-revisionist · 7 years

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the tristan chord: chapter 18

xviii. long day’s journey into freak-out

one sunday morning

It is not daylight that awakens Gillian but awareness of time pressing in on her—a merciless internal alarm clock suffering a severe malfunction today because under normal circumstances she’d be on her feet for hours by now. The last step in surrendering to the conscious world is the most painful one: she opens her eyes to a blindingly bright bedroom. After so many days of pissing, sodding rain Mother Nature got cheeky and lo, here’s a sunny warm day worthy of a tropical beach confirmed with a blue-sky striptease courtesy of the fluttering curtain.

Flat on her back, she squints at the ceiling’s white glare, wriggles a bit, and there it is: the delicious awareness of Caroline pressed against her. The day expands exponentially. She raises her head for confirmation and sees blonde hair and a lightly freckled arm draped over her waist, feels heavy hot breathing—miraculously, not snoring—against her upper arm.

Everything would be perfect save for the mobile on the nightstand that starts ringing. While she patiently waits for it to go to voice mail, the reaction from Caroline is akin to poking a hibernating bear: She rumbles loudly and lunges wildly over Gillian—who, as a result, gets unceremoniously smacked in the face with a tit—seizes the offending phone, squints at it, stabs a button, and attempts plastering it onto Gillian’s face. As the phone slides off her cheek Gillian hears a tinny male voice chattering away who is, in all likelihood, Raff, while Caroline rolls away from her and with a lovely snorty growl falls back asleep.

So much for the afterglow. Gillian bobbles the phone. Even with it closer to her ear she can’t hear Raff very well, and wonders if the old mobile is finally dying on her. The mere thought of its demise is actually quite liberating. Maybe she’ll decide not to get a new one. Maybe she will become the only farmer in Yorkshire not to own a mobile. Even Pete, who owns the farm closest to her and is so old that he calls Alan “lad,” has one. Then she realizes she’s holding the phone the wrong way around, with the hearing bit pointed past her chin.

Righting the phone, she plops right into a ranting, raving run-on sentence: “—and I’ve called Nev already and of course since it’s Sunday no one’s working but him and he can’t get out right away and on top o’ that everybody’s stuck in mud or broken down somewhere and I’m sorry, that’s the best I can do, so go on, have your bloody fit already, it’s all over but the shouting as they say, go on, go on.”

“What?” Gillian is still in blink-at-the-ceiling-oh-God-that-was-wonderful-last-night mode.

“Did you not hear what I just said? I drove the Land Rover into a ditch.”

She winces. Such furious enunciation, such painful shouting. She continues blinking at the ceiling. Several long seconds disperse into the summer air as she tries to muster the appropriate amount of outrage but at the moment all she can think is, how did she make me come three times in a row?

“Oh,” she finally says.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Are you drunk?”

This time she manages to keep a grip on the mobile while yanking it away from her ear to avoid the worst of the shouting, although she does catch the bit about being drunk. “Knackered, is all,” she says. In a futile effort at waking up, she vigorously rubs her face. “You all right?”

The unexpected maternal concern waylays Raff’s fit. “I—yeah, I’m fine. And the Landy’s all right, really, not wrecked, just stuck in mud.”

“What happened?”

“Oh.” Raff drags the syllable through an elongated groan of frustration.

Gillian knows the sound well—this sad abbreviation of oh, I’ve done something stupid—it’s a family speciality, both the sound and the stupidity. Now she knows exactly what happened and sighs. “Took the shortcut to Harry’s, didn’t you?”

More shouting on his part, more wincing on hers: “Yes, I took the bloody short cut!”

Even in the best of weather, this infamous short cut to Harry’s house is a trial: a narrow, winding dirt road lined on one side with a fence older than Methuselah and on the other side with a wicked slope to a bog of indeterminate depth. Why no one thought to erect fencing on the bog side of the road is anyone’s guess and Gillian knows better than to put such a simple question begging logic to any denizens of the dale because she’d probably get in return some epic horseshit tale involving nubile shepherdesses, infidelity, murder, ghosts, curses, and whiskey.

“That bog is all mud now, and I couldn’t get her out. Needs towing, like I said.” Raff groans. “And don’t say I told you so, I know you did. Happy now?”

She turns toward Caroline, whose back rises and falls in slow, sleeping rhythm, and rediscovers the freckled map of the stars that she saw only in her mind’s eye the night before. The vault of heaven has cracked open and spilled these burnished stars along Caroline’s skin and her hands and mouth are desperate to navigate once more by these beloved stars. Her fingers hover just above skin, swooning over the coordinates of Cassiopeia again and again, the repetitive motion as necessary as a heartbeat.

“Yeah,” she says, smiling because no one can see. “I am happy.”

“Now you’re taking the piss,” Raff says angrily.

“I’m not, honest.”

“Seriously, I feel shitty about it, I don’t need you messing me about on top of everything—”

“Raff. Hey.”

He groans again.

“It’s all right. Okay?”

This time a sigh.

“It’ll get sorted. So you called Nev?” Nevin was the knobhead who ran the nearest garage. He was also the first idiot Gillian slept with after Eddie died, begetting a long line of abysmal, regrettable sexual partners. He has since lost hair and gained a beer belly, so now she conveniently forgets whatever she saw in him other than desperate affirmation that she was still reasonably desirable to anyone.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Then just sit tight till you hear from him. Don’t call him again, you start nagging him he’ll never show up. Call me once he’s got it out. Okay?”

“Yeah, all right.” He sighs again. “I am really sorry.”

“Shit happens.” Another stellar moment of maternal comfort, Gillian thinks.

As if commenting on this universal truth, Caroline unleashes a completely unexpected and utterly savage peal of snoring.

“Sink clogged again?” Raff asks.

No, I’m in bed with my stepsister and we’ve spent the better part of last night shagging each other’s brains out. “Um, yeah. Just a bit. So I should—”

“Right. I’ll let you go.”

“Yeah. Oh, one more thing—”

“What?”

“Once it all sinks in I will probably string you up by the bollocks.”

“Aw, bless.” He chuckles sardonically. “Now there’s the mother I know and love.”

She rings off, tosses the phone in the general direction of the nightstand, and misses. It clatters to the floor. Caroline’s head lifts off the pillow as she mutters “Jesus” in a voice whiskey-sweet with sleep. In response Gillian places her lips against Cassiopeia and the sky shifts under her mouth, the stars dust her tongue. Caroline pushes against her and grabs her arm, pulling it across her waist as if it were a safety belt. As she clears her throat, her chest rumbles and Gillian tastes the raw vibrato of the body at work, a guttural song for an audience of one.

“Everything all right?” Caroline manages to ask. Her cheek, partially obscured with hair, is mottled pink and cream from sleep in Gillian’s rough, cheap bedsheets and she is still here, she has spent the night in this unholy bed in this cursed bedroom and this alone is so utterly unbelievable to Gillian that she is perched on the edge between great happiness and great ruin and it is no wonder that for want of anything she does not want to get up ever.

She kisses Caroline’s flushed cheek and sets out on a tour of the constellations along the shoulder and arm; the Big Dipper and Orion come easily to mind, touch, and tongue but as for others, well, she cannot recall them and so maps new constellations. My name on your skin and no one else will know, not even you.

“Perfect,” she says, over and over as she marks every kiss and freckle, an incantation that leads them both back to sleep.

An hour later she wakes up alone, the room brighter and warmer and the disorientation she feels suggests that last night and earlier this morning was some sort of prolonged, feverish erotic dream. But no—she sits up and sees a pile of Caroline’s clothes on the chair in the corner. She assumes that Caroline is in the shower, but does not hear the water pipes or any other sound of activity from the bathroom. Naturally this leads to a rather paramount concern: There is, potentially, a naked woman roaming her farm. Perhaps the ever-rational, science-loving headmistress has finally lost her mind. No one’s ever gone barmy from having sex with me before, Gillian thinks, but there’s a first time for everything.

Common sense prevails: Or maybe, just maybe, she’s put the kettle on. While naked. Which could be dangerous. Thinking that she may need to supervise this activity, Gillian gets up, throws on a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. She looks out the window—sunny and breezy with a chance of naked women in the forecast—and gnaws her lip while staring at a barnyard booby-trapped with sticky mud and dank puddles that cannot dry fast enough. What has happened here is new but not new, and she has no idea what to do or what to say. Well, she knows what not to do: Don’t say I love you, don’t pledge eternal fidelity or devotion because you know she won’t believe it because you’re just bloody old slapper anyway.

In her head Gillian’s more censorious lectures of self-recrimination and restraint are usually cast in her father’s voice so it’s slightly disturbing, to say the least, to sort-of hear him going on about how best to conduct a half-assed lesbian affair with her stepsister—half-assed because Caroline already has a girlfriend and she’s not sure how to handle that. Hell, Caroline doesn’t seem to know how to handle that. Maybe she needs to call what’s-her-face from Hebden Bridge to help her sort through this lesbian horseshit. There’s got to be a Dyke Handbook. There’s got to be a morning after. She rubs her brow. No, no thinking of melodramatic shit 1970s songs right now.

By this time she’s biting her fingernails again and automatically berates herself for it; this time the voice in her head sounds like Robbie, because her nail-biting was one of his pet peeves. As was her drinking, her cooking, the way she dressed—come to think of it, her very existence was his pet peeve.

This time, when she condemns herself for the hundredth time for marrying a man she did not love, it is in her own voice.

Then the creak of the bedroom door and Caroline is there—in a dressing gown nicked from the bathroom and holding a plate of fluffy golden scrambled eggs. Gillian wonders if she is dead. Or dreaming. The dressing gown is a tartan plaid of green and blue that Gillian had initially bought as a birthday gift for her father a few years ago until a series of ill-advised laundering attempts on his part shrank it; in her more paranoid moments she thinks he did this on purpose because maybe he didn’t like it but at any rate, this resulted in Gillian taking default possession of the gown. Even in its shrunken state it is still big on her, but she likes that. She likes it even more so on Caroline—it fits her well and reveals a pleasing bit of calf.

This unbelievable image of domesticity breathes life into a story she has told herself many times late at night when she was too tired to go on and too drunk to care: We live together. Our children are always underfoot. We work too much. When it gets hard we can barely manage to be civil. But at night you are home and tired and after dinner you pour yourself a glass of wine, you push back my hair and lay your hand on the back of my neck like you do and that means everything is all right. We’ll sit around and watch telly and you’ll bitch about your day and on Sunday mornings we’ll make love because Sunday is sacred and quiet and it feels like the end of the world and we can take our time, and I’ll fall asleep after and you’ll let me sleep in while you get up and make me coffee.

Then Caroline says, “It’s weird.”

The storybook closes and Gillian resists the urge to gnaw her fingernails again as she goes into a tailspin: Of course it’s weird, it shouldn’t have happened, you have someone new, someone better, you could not possibly feel anything real for me despite all your fine words and big ideas last night. She attempts leaning against the windowsill with the casual, worldly confidence befitting a woman of her age and experience but instead gets momentarily entangled with the curtain. “W-what’s weird?” she mutters, while furiously batting away the curtain.

“You’d think by now I’d know how you like your eggs,” Caroline says. “We’ve known each other long enough—well.” She shrugs apologetically, half-heartedly raises the plate. “Anyway, thought you might be hungry—”

“Oh,” Gillian says.

United in postcoital awkwardness, they stare at the plate.

Then Gillian grins stupidly and hugs herself, as if Caroline is offering her an engagement ring or an epic love poem she wrote with the blood of angels on the smoothest of antique vellum or, best yet, a purebred ewe. And it’s not as if Caroline hasn’t fed her God knows how many times before, but these incremental kindnesses fray the edges of so many incontrovertible memories that she can imagine an eventual softening, a dissolution of the rough fabric binding her to the past and blinding her to possibility.

Caroline, however, interprets the smile as commentary upon a dish that does not live up to her Le Cordon Bleu standards. “It’s not my best effort—” she says apologetically.

“No, no—I didn’t mean—thanks. It looks grand and I am hungry, really hungry. Thank you.” Gillian seizes the plate.

She is about to spear a yellow cloud of egg with a fork when Caroline asks, “So for the record, how do you like your eggs?”

In response it seems quite natural, more than natural, to reel Caroline closer by pulling at the knotted belt of the dressing gown so that she is close enough for blonde hair to brush Gillian’s cheek and that it is absolutely impossible not to kiss her. Repeatedly. “I like them scrambled,” she says between kisses. “Served to me in my bedroom.” One more. “By a beautiful, snotty bitch.”

“Well.” Caroline’s hands skim her hips and find anchor in the waistband of the pajamas, and she presses her face into Gillian’s neck. “Got it right on the first try, then.” There’s no response to this because no mere moan or gasp can completely convey the sweet shivery pleasure of a neck well nuzzled. “I made coffee,” Caroline murmurs in her ear. “Forgot you had the Chemex that Gary got you.”

“Y-you actually used that thing?”

“Yeah. Gave it a thorough washing first—it smelled suspiciously of Jagermeister.” She gives Gillian a wry look and a kiss on the cheek before darting out of the room.

Still convinced that a dream or an altered state of consciousness or being is responsible for all this, Gillian stands alone in the bedroom, blinking slowly. Then she shrugs and decides to just go with it, to enjoy both the food and this quasi-honeymoon bit of bliss for as long as it will play out. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she digs into the eggs—which are real and, of course, so perfect in taste and appearance that Gordon Ramsey would weep with joy. But when Caroline returns with only two mugs of coffee and no more food, she panics that she has made some sort of romantic faux pas: “Oh, shit.” She raises the plate. “We supposed to be sharing this?”

“Nope. All for you.”

“Did you eat anything?”

“Toast.”

“Toast?” Gillian scoffs.

“Yeah, I—oh, do you want toast?”

“No. God’s sake, sit down. Feel ridiculous, having you wait on me hand and foot in my own home.”

“Don’t be silly,” Caroline says. She settles in beside Gillian, reclining against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankle, and drinks her coffee. Strong sunlight catches the gold glint of fine, sparse stubble along her pale legs. After a moment she rests a hand on Gillian’s knee. There are a million things that need saying but for the moment this concert of silence reminds Gillian that there is no one else in the world with whom she can fully share her solitude.

Several satisfying minutes pass by, enough so that she welcomes casual conversation once again: “What was that phone call this morning?” Caroline asks.

Gillian takes a deep, calming breath. “My idiot son drove my Land Rover into a muddy bog.” She looks at Caroline, whose jaw drops with mute horror. “Now that’s something, when it leaves you speechless.”

“You’re being very calm. Did you sneak out, track him down, and kick his arse already without my knowing it?”

Gillian points at her with the fork. “I’ve always loved the way you think.”

“Where’d this happen?”

“Shit road out near Harry’s. First time I ever drove your mum out that way, she called it ‘the road leading to the end of civilization.’ Anyway, Raff says she’s just stuck in bog so we’re waiting get towed. Thanks to this fucking flood everyone is stuck somewhere, needing fixed, needing towed. And it’s Sunday to boot. So God knows when I’ll get her back.” Done with the eggs, she deposits the empty plate on the floor beside the bed.

“There anything I can do?”

Gillian straddles her and begins to undo the thick knot of the dressing gown, lays bare one shoulder. “Give you one guess.”

“Naked prayer circle?”

Her lips touch Caroline’s collarbone. “Aye, you’ll be hollering for Jesus when I’m done with you.” Then she gets distracted and discovers freckles heretofore uncharted. This constellation is shaped a bit like Andromeda. Lightly she traces them.

Head tilted back on the headboard, Caroline observes her lazily. “It’s like you’ve never slept with anyone who’s had freckles before.”

Christ. She noticed. Like a child about to touch a hot stove, Gillian pulls her hand away. “Oh. Sorry.”

Caroline gently seizes her hand, kisses her knuckles. “It doesn’t bother me, really. ” She smiles, almost shyly. “Just not used to it. No one’s ever made a fuss over them before.”

She wants to say, it’s like gold dust all over you but doesn’t because she thinks it sounds too twatty. Instead she parts the dressing gown further and lays bare the smooth plain leading from Caroline’s throat to her chest, her belly, to a hint of pubic hair. “Almost a shame to take this off, though. Looks damn good on you.”

“It smells like you.” These words, whispered against Gillian’s ear, bring on another shivery bout of pleasure enhanced by the sharp nip of her ear and the gentle violence of this is almost too much, the frightening line between pleasure and pain blurs. Of all the borderlines crisscrossing and dissecting her mind into fearful, feral fiefdoms, this one is the most dangerous and as such access is routinely denied, and has been for a long time.

But now? She pins Caroline’s wrist against the headboard and kisses her rough, a way that they’ve both responded to well in the past—and she remembers the last time they were in this bedroom, which seemed very long ago but wasn’t. It was only the second or third time they’d fucked and right before Caroline had been very solemn and lovely and said, quite serious, something that no lover before or since has said to her: don’t ever let me do anything to you that you don’t like, that you don’t want. Despite that caution, Gillian could not override that innate need to provide pleasure at any length and satisfaction at any cost; fortunately Caroline was and remains an attentive and observant lover, knowing when to push the boundaries and when not to. Gillian attributes this to her scientific background—imagining that, as a chemist, she’s used to dealing with volatile, toxic substances.

Like me, Gillian thinks—a thought quickly banished as Caroline continues nibbling on her ear and murmurs, “Take off your shirt for me.”

She releases Caroline’s wrists and, too eager to make a show of it, quickly discards the shirt. “Anything else you want?”

Caroline admires her, clasps her waist, pulls her closer. Still smiling, but with that imperious glint in her eyes. “Anything I want?”

The familiar border crumbles. Gillian hesitates, then: “Yes.”

“Well, then. I’ll tell you what I want. What I really, really want—” She pauses, kisses Gillian’s neck gently, gently, then bites and sucks with enough intensity that they both know a mark will be left.

Gillian sputters out a laugh. “Spice Girls reunion?”

“Shit, that was not intentional,” Caroline groans. “That bloody song, it’s like one of those intestinal parasites you can never get rid of—”

“Focus, Caz. Parasites are not sexy.”

“Ah, right, right. Hang on.” She resumes with the neck-kissing while slowly, cautiously touching Gillian’s ribs, then the underside of her breast. “Better?”

“Y-yeah.” That Gillian manages to say anything seems miraculous. She takes a deep breath. “Tell me—what you want.”

“I don’t know. It’s not sexy enough.”

“Come on now.”

“Was just a random thought.”

“Tell me.”

“You should move your books into the house. It’s damp in the barn and not good for them.”

In a fit of laughter Gillian collapses, rolling off her and thus losing her topping advantage.

Giggling, Caroline crows “ah-ha!” and drapes a log leg over her torso, pinning her down.

“All right, you win. That was not sexy.”

“Au contraire, winning is always an aphrodisiac for me.”

“Bloody figures.”

“But books are sexy too.” She continues feasting on Gillian’s neck with the sybaritic intensity of a vampire toying with her food. “Almost as sexy as you.” She pulls back and studies Gillian’s body with eyes and touch, plucking at the waistband of her pajamas. “It would be nice to have them close by, wouldn’t it? In case you ever want to read in bed. Or, er, read in bed to me.”

Confounded—and suspicious—Gillian blinks at her. “Why’d you want a stammering old pillock like me reading to you?”

“Because I like the sound of your voice,” Caroline replies, as if it’s glaringly obvious.

“I’ll repeat the question, then.”

“Oh come on, you only stammer when you’re angry or worked up about something—well okay, that is like ninety percent of the time but still, you could stammer your way through the entirety of Shakespeare and I’d love every second of it.”

Gillian stares up at her and despite all evidence to the contrary remains fundamentally unconvinced that anyone with half a mind would find anything remotely attractive about her, let alone a cursed, much-loathed defect of speech. “All right. I’ll—I’ll build bookshelves, then. In the fall. Good project for when things slow down.”

As usual Caroline is mystified by thrift. “You could just buy a bookcase.”

She rolls her eyes. “No.” Scrambling, she frees herself from Caroline’s leg and regains her status on top. She regards Caroline carefully, plotting her next move—where to begin, where to begin?—while Caroline plots of how to lure her further into the trap of capitalism.

“I could buy you one,” Caroline offers.

Gillian traces her torso, fingers strumming the soft, ridged plateau of her ribs. “No.”

“For your birthday.”

God, Gillian thinks, the one time I want her to shut up. “No.” Determined, she lurches upward and kisses Caroline soundly.

It doesn’t work. “Christmas,” Caroline exhales after the kiss.

“No.” Time for serious diversionary tactics: the breasts.

Ardently she kisses, sucks, teases, and then with her face pressed in the smooth plateau between caresses both breasts—and is both irritated and impressed when Caroline squeaks out, “Arbor Day.”

Gillian continues on her merry way downward, confirming between kisses: “No.”

Caroline pulls at her hair and writhes wildly underneath her. “Morrissey’s birthday,” she gasps.

“Was in June,” Gillian points out. “Already past.”

Her hands remain tangled with Gillian’s hair. “Stubborn bitch.”

“Isn’t he, though?”

Caroline’s laugh is truncated by a sharp moan as Gillian’s mouth arrives at a particular erogenous zone: the crease between torso and thigh, the femoral artery running wild beneath her kiss. “Oh fuck—that feels good.”

Her fingertips graze pubic hair, the back of her hand drags along the interior of Caroline’s thigh. “Give up?”

“If I say yes, will you keep going?”

“Say yes, say no, say uncle.” She grins.

“You win, my lovely girl,” Caroline says.

She basks in the beauty of the moment, the woman before her. The curtain twists in the breeze as if a flag marking the moment of surrender, the distant sound of a lapwing calling peewit lazily winds through the warm thicket of summer air, and the rich boundless contours of Caroline’s body are reminiscent of odalisques seen in museums when she was a teen—the kind of paintings that brought about a revelatory unease in her—and she thinks she has never seen Caroline look so relaxed when naked, and beautiful, so beautiful.

She dives in. The patience she cannot be bothered to extend to people or situations because they’re all too bloody complicated she finds instead in reading, working, fixing things, and making love. She remembers well how Caroline likes it—slow and easy, the teases, the feints, penetration at the right moment—it is a gift to be inside her, to taste her, to be penitent and powerful all at once.

Caroline’s fingers are flexing rhythmically as they push through her hair and press into her scalp. Her urgent touch falls away and her palms press against Gillian’s shoulders before her nails bite into Gillian’s skin. “Jesus,” she moans, then “oh God,” and Gillian half-expects to hear invocation of the Holy Ghost next but when she hears her own name in a reverential susurrus, she decides she’s beyond pleased to be included in this sacredly profane trifecta.

apres-midi du farmer

After so much pleasure in so short a span of time, Caroline’s sense of duty has percolated with such fury that it spills into her subconscious and the list of things she has to prepare for in the coming week drops into her wakening mind with the fierce magnificence of an unexpected Beyonce song released on the internet.

She would sit up dramatically save for the fact that she is tangled up with Gillian, who is draped over her, dead asleep, and drooling on her breast. Her frantic efforts to grab Gillian’s mobile from the nightstand in order to check the time wake up her slumbering companion, however briefly: She makes a mewling noise and rolls off Caroline and onto a pillow. Finally Caroline snags the mobile, hits a button, and is informed by the greasy cracked screen that it is nearly 2:30 in the afternoon, 2:24 to be precise; this discovery leads her to utter an oath reserved for only the direst of emotional circumstances and crises:

“Jesus Fucking Christ on a Cadbury Egg Hunt!”

Again Gillian makes a kittenish noise.

Caroline nudges her. “It’s 2:30!”

This time Gillian makes an oh really? kind of hum.

Sadly, Caroline realizes it is time for deployment of the always-effective headmistress roar: “Gillian!”

Wide-eyed, Gillian bolts up with the ferocity of a reanimated zombie. “Shit,” she groans, then blinks at the mobile in Caroline’s hand. “Did Raff call about—”

“—no, he didn’t call about your fucking Landy!” Caroline says, even though (1) she has no idea if this is true, and (2) she understands on a profound, Bee Gees how-deep-is-your-love level the pure, unconditional devotion of a woman for her automobile. Nonetheless she leaps out of bed and pulls on the plaid dressing gown, which somehow ended up on the floor during the morning’s sexual shenanigans—oh yes, hastily shoved aside when she had pressed Gillian against the headboard and started fucking her and she can’t imagine how many scratches are on her back now as a result—no, she begs herself, don’t start thinking about that. “It’s two-thirty in the bloody sodding afternoon and I have things to do, I have a proposal to write, a budget to look at, teachers to interview for the fall, playdates and meetings, it’s a whole long list in my head, and, and—don’t you have things to do?” she marvels.

“Well,” Gillian says. “It’s all relative, really.” She rakes hair out of her face and smiles.

Philosophical naked women are a particular weakness for Caroline and she wants nothing more than to crawl back into that bed with that woman. Then she wants to slap herself straight into sense but instead reverts to what she does best, which is ranting: “Oh God, my mother has probably left a hundred messages on my mobile, Lawrence is stranded in Sheffield with Angus but who knows, maybe they’ve finally consummated their relationship, and it’s probably a miracle your father isn’t here or Raff or the goddamned Land Trust—I need to shower—”

“Oh. Yeah.” Gillian makes a move to get out of bed.

“No, Halifax succubus!” She thrusts an accusing finger at Gillian. “We are not showering together, I cannot risk shower sex with you.”

“‘Halifax succubus?’” Gillian muses aloud. Then, as Caroline stomps down the hallway and into the bathroom, shouts after her: “Should be able to shower when I want in my own house, y’know!”

“Wash up in the sink!” Caroline yells just before she leaps into the shower and confronts the unpredictable water pressure, grimacing as bitterly cold water spikes her skin.

Which, about five minutes later, Gillian does. “My own bloody house,” she grumbles good-naturedly whilst at the sink.

“You’re using up the hot water.”

Gillian cackles maniacally. “Damn right I am.”

“I’m sorry, but you are a perpetual temptation and I am but a weak, mortal woman.”

“Don’t talk fancy at me. I get it, you’ve a list of things you want to do. Me, I’ve just a got a list of things I want to do to you in a shower.”

Caroline’s resolve dwindles rapidly, going down the drain like the suds from the Jack Black True Volume Shampoo that she’s using and assumes is some sort of leftover from either Raff or Robbie’s testosterone toilette, but it appears to be the only shampoo in the stall.

“Or a bath,” Gillian continues. “That’d be fun too.”

“Next time, then.” A silence, as Caroline realizes she has committed to this happening again. While on some level that seemed obvious, this casual promise gives the last twenty-four hours or so substance, makes it all real. Despite the stinging shampoo in her eyes, she arches on the balls of her feet in happy anticipation of Gillian’s response.

“Yeah,” Gillian replies softly. “All right.” Something clatters. “Oh, I um, have a toothbrush for you here. Gonna get dressed and put the kettle on.”

Out of the shower Caroline attempts multitasking: While wrapped in a towel she waves Gillian’s ancient hairdryer at her wet hair while trying to brush her teeth with the never-used toothbrush. Then she gets seriously distracted by the thought of Gillian just randomly having a new toothbrush available for her use. Does she have a stockpile of toothbrushes available for sexual conquests? With the toothbrush lodged in her foaming mouth and the hairdryer spewing hot air at her head, she noses around the bathroom looking for a secret toothbrush supply, but the medicine cabinet only holds an alarming amount of plasters, gauze bandages and surgical tape, antiseptic creams, and antibacterial sprays all necessary to the life of a woman constantly surrounded by sharp and dangerous objects. Guiltily Caroline stares at herself in the mirror. She has toothpaste in her hair.

About twenty minutes later she is mostly dressed and plowing through a second attempt at multitasking: trying to pull on socks while hopping down the hallway. Obviously Gillian has heard this irregular thumping from downstairs because when Caroline is on the steps—socks on, not hopping—she finds Gillian waiting at the bottom of the stairs, rocking back and forth as she does sometimes when nervous, holding a cup of tea and gazing up at Caroline as if she is some sort of adoring concierge.

“Your mobile rang,” Gillian says.

Gratefully Caroline takes the tea. “Why didn’t you answer it?” She wants to kick herself. She’s not your bloody personal assistant. She’s not Beverly. “No. Um. Sorry. I meant, you could have answered it—if you wanted too.”

This prompts a derisive snort. “You kidding? It was probably your mum.”

“Probably.” She sips the tea and realizes she is as nervous as Gillian is. She is about to awkwardly go in for a kiss when Gillian darts away and mumbles that her mobile is in the kitchen.

In the kitchen, she peruses her messages. Of course there are about eight voice mails from her mother, all variations upon the classic theme of where the eff are you? and what the hell is going on? She girds her loins and calls.

“What the eff are you doing out there?” is the first thing Celia says. “What the hell is going on?”

“Why Mum, I’d have never guessed it was you.”

“We thought you’d be back by now. Is Gillian actually making you work?” Celia pauses before tendering the delicate inquiry in a shrill tone: “Are you handling sheep?”

“No, everything’s fine, we’re all intact, and I have not laid a hand on a single sheep.”

“Did she tell you what Raff did to the Land Rover?”

“Yes.”

“Has she murdered him yet?”

Caroline winces at the regrettable hyperbole. “No. How’s Flora?”

“Oh, lovely as usual. She and Greg are in the garden right now looking at worms.”

“Worms,” Caroline says flatly.

“Yes, apparently after the rains she found a few while playing and she is quite fascinated with them. Earlier today they discovered ladybugs and slugs. She’s putting them all in your Oxford travel mug. She’s been asking after you. We told her you were off saving the sheep from the flood.” Celia laughs.

When Lawrence and William were younger, she had thought nothing of the occasional weekend trip that would take her away from them—the conferences, the supposedly romantic long weekends and adult-only vacations with her husband that, with time, usually ended up with them both drunk and arguing more often than not—so she does not expect the acute, palpable stab of guilt that radiates through her chest and leaves her standing senseless and numb and, once the call is over, staring at a black screen and thinking I should be there, I should be the one showing her bugs. Duty and expectation always came easy to her and she embraced it with fervor; it was a privilege to be entrusted to care for children, to run a household, a school. She could not love Flora any more than she already does, but the responsibility of this child is fraught with a meaning that has, over the past two years, nearly crippled Caroline with endless self-recrimination and doubt.

She’s still staring at the phone when Gillian comes into the kitchen. When Gillian sees the expression on Caroline’s face she dials back her big, sweet grin and jams her hands into her pockets. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah,” Caroline says perfunctorily. “It’s—” She shakes it off, smiles, and reports the only thing that matters: “Flora is collecting bugs in the garden.”

“Got a curiosity about ’em, doesn’t she?” Gillian grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and starts washing it. “Calam has this picture book—all drawings of animals and such. It has a few pictures of insects in it like a spider, a ladybug, and a caterpillar, and a butterfly—well, when Flora was here last, I showed her the book and after we’d looked through the whole thing she kept turning back to the insects—she really liked the caterpillar and the butterfly. I was trying to tell her that the caterpillar turns into the butterfly but I don’t think she was having any of that, kept looking at me like I was off my nut.”

Helpless, Caroline glares at her. “You know my own child better than I do.”

Gillian rolls her eyes, and to Caroline’s mild horror wipes the apple on the front of her jeans. “All recent developments, Caz. You know how kids are. One week they’re keen on one thing, next week it’s something completely different. You can’t notice everything.” She heads back to the living room and calls over her shoulder, “Come sit and finish your tea, yeah?”

Instead of heeding the suggestion, she makes the mistake of checking email on the mobile and encounters several tedious messages about setting up and conducting interviews for the new teacher. Her stomach churns. Wandering into the living room, all thoughts of worms and caterpillars and teachers and interviews fly out of her head, for Gillian’s particular brand of rough but indisputably feminine sensuality is on full display: she sits in a sprawl on the couch, legs extended and feet bare, lazily chewing on a bite of the apple. It’s so undeniably erotic that she stops dead in her tracks. Then Gillian looks at her knowingly, lustily—o the mighty Caroline McKenzie-Dawson wishes she were an apple, doesn’t she?—and the conflagration of desire and emotion burns hotter and brighter.

“C’mere,” Gillian says around a mouthful of apple.

Caroline shifts nervously. “No,” she blurts.

A sardonic laugh. Gillian keeps eyeing her. “No?”

Self-conscious, she looks away from Gillian’s beautiful eyes and feels as awkwardly on display as when she was nineteen years old and attending a lesbian and gay social at Oxford for the first time.

“I’ll let you have a bite of my apple,” Gillian singsongs.

Caroline laughs. “I seem to recall hearing a story like this a long time ago.”

“If it’s the story I think you mean—don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”

Caroline crosses her arms. Usually she feels quite self-important and in charge when she does this, but in this moment the gesture feels more as if she is somehow barely holding herself together. “Be flattered. Very flattered.”

“So you’re just going to stand there like a numpty ’til you fall over.”

“Very likely, yes.”

Humming, Gillian finishes the apple, rolls the well-gnawed core in a napkin, and places it on a side table. She leans back into the couch again and in this manner of voluptuous repose resembles a wild queen of the forest bored with both debauchery and duty and awaiting the one subject that will liven her mundane existence, and so softly issues a summons: “Caroline.’

Well. Unable to resist the devil’s draw, Caroline fights off the almost imperceptible buckling of her knees and strides across the room.

Gillian seems surprised by this as well; she is clearly not expecting to be boldly mounted, have her face cradled in Caroline’s hands, and to be kissed so senselessly that her eyes glaze over similar to when she has consumed three or more glasses of wine and prompting Caroline to silently congratulate herself on being a similar form of intoxicant.

“Jesus,” Gillian exhales.

The insistent pounding of blood in her veins drives her on. “When can I see you again?”

Gillian’s eyelids flutter. “W-whenever you like.” Then, as if remembering something: “Wednesday.”

Clearly Caroline has forgotten it too. “Wednesday?”

“Yeah. Gonna be at your place anyway. Remember? Taking Dad for his checkup.”

“Oh. Right. You’re still—going to stay for dinner?”

“Of course. Unless you don’t want—”

“No. I want you to.”

“We won’t have time to—”

“I know.” Caroline pauses. Her mouth moves, the words struggle to come out, but finally do: “It—it’s enough just to see you.”

“Yeah?” Gillian’s pupils blossom, dots of ink from a divine fountain pen that drop a dark expanse into those amazing irises, and that stupidly prompts Caroline to think of some old song from the 80s—oh you’ve got green eyes oh you’ve got blue eyes oh you’ve got gray eyes—and God help her, she’s pushing Gillian down on the sofa and they’re at it again: Clothes discarded in a whirlwind of haste except for Gillian’s jeans, which are always a bit of an ordeal to pull off and seriously, she deserves another orgasm for accomplishing that task alone but instead she slips a hand between Gillian’s legs and cradles her cunt, possessed of great patience despite the nervy curl of her fingers and waiting for the single tremulous please whispered into her neck before entering her. She particularly likes to watch Gillian’s face at this moment: the tense lines around her mouth slackening into pleasure and eventually release. In the Mobius strip contortions of sex satiety becomes need and after she comes Caroline moves against her roughly, grinding against her thigh until the surprising intensity of the climax falls over her like a wave.

Afterward she does not fall asleep so much as enter a drowsy fugue state while lying there on the couch and more or less on top of Gillian, who at some point managed to pull a quilt over them against a vigorous, chilly cross breeze; even in the summer, the farmhouse living room stays surprisingly cool. Silence here is different than at home, in Harrogate; silence here intensifies the smallest sound and the swish of the wind ruffling a newspaper reigns equally with tires on gravel, bleating sheep, a leaking faucet, and her own obvious comments: “It’s so peaceful here.”

In response Gillian merely hums and strokes her hair, her glugging heartbeat providing a backbeat to the torch song of her blood, the muscles of her forearm twitch restlessly in the clasp of Caroline’s hand.

“I have to go,” she finally says.

“I know.” Gillian says it clearly, strongly, as if she has been bracing herself for it in every action and breath since the moment they kissed the night before.

Despite her reputation as someone operating on pure reckless impulse, Caroline knows that she mulls things over to the point of obsessiveness; perhaps that is why the execution and results of her decisions are less than ideal—classic overthinking, pummeling things in her mind to such an extent that no action seems ideal or even makes sense anymore. It would not surprise Caroline that in the aftermath of all this Gillian has been cogitating mightily all along—perhaps more than she does herself. Perhaps Gillian thinks that this is not the beginning of anything but merely a sex-saturated coda to what they had been before, because there is simply no way of going forward. So she could back out, save a scrap of dignity while rescuing Caroline from violating whatever vague code of ethics she lives by, a code at times impenetrable and incomprehensible to Gillian and seemingly bent by the arbitrary whim of a woman in constant conflict between desire and expectation.

“Can—can I say something?” Gillian begins, and Caroline finds it heartbreaking that she seeks permission to speak up in her own home.

She presses her face against Gillian’s sternum, the boombox that contains a very complicated heart, and tastes the sweet salt of sweat. She thinks of how, as a child, she would press her face against the stereo speakers in her father’s study, desperate to catch the warp and hiss and delicate strains of music, as if she wanted to taste the sound—and laughing in delight when an orchestra would rise up and knock her back on her arse. “Of course.”

As usual the mix of thoughts and desires that go through Gillian’s mind tumble out in poorly congealed fashion; Caroline likens it to following an elaborate recipe in a cookbook where the result turns out to be an edible yet spectacular mess that in no way resembles the glistening food porn photo in the book itself. It’s particularly true in this case, where she is obviously trying her damnedest to ensure not only Caroline’s happiness, but her own: “I just wanted to say it’s, it’s okay. If you want to keep seeing her. Sacha, I mean. Yeah? I want you to be happy. And I’m happy being with you like this, spending time with you when we can. I want to be with you, and, and I don’t know what—what that could be like, you know? Well, yeah, maybe you don’t know yet either. But, I’ll, I’ll take what you’re willing to give.”

It is at this crucial, awkward, and somewhat inconvenient moment that Caroline finally remembers she already has a girlfriend.

to an evening star

On the drive home the evening sky is so spectacular that Caroline eschews sunglasses, boldly squinting westward into white and gold and pink and orange—she stops counting at seven different colors and thinks, if only the skeins of the sunset could be gathered and woven into one fantastic word that would adequately describe them. It is the time of day when one should be sitting somewhere with a drink or walking across the moors, in either instance the ideal being alone or with the right person.

It would have been nice to fit in a walk with Gillian this time. In times past, whenever she visited the farm they made a habit of going for a walk together. The last time, however, seems a lifetime ago and she has since molted several skins of grief; it was about seven months after Kate died and not long after Gillian had married Robbie. For no reason in particular it had been a bad week and she had only gotten through it on diazepam-driven automatic pilot and wanted nothing less than enduring a family dinner at the farm. But Alan had twisted his ankle while gardening and so it was Caroline’s chauffeuring abilities and not her company that was desired. While straining at the effort of bare civilities, she avoided a nervous breakdown and got through the meal. Afterward, Gillian—rocking on heels, peering at Caroline from under bangs desperate for trimming—shyly mumbled a suggestion that they go for a walk, as if for all the world Caroline would refuse this mad idea when in fact she was seconds from collapsing under the chaos of the household and if she heard Robbie tell more banal police adventure about drunkards at the pub she would scream.

She dreaded the possibility that Gillian might use the walk as an opportunity to bitch about Robbie and/or enumerate a list of recent shags. Instead Gillian prattled softly about the land, in that sweet low burr she used only with those closest to her. It was late autumn and late afternoon, with the sun hugging the horizon and shooting through the sparse clouds in a last blaze of glory, throwing shadows and gold on the dales and copses, the moss and hedgerows, the evergreen heather. They had taken a different path than times before, one Caroline was not familiar with, so Gillian would stop and point out things. Down a ways, she said, was the stream where she and her father used to fish when she was young. And there, that old broken fence along that bridleway—used to jump over it with ease. Probably break my neck now.

On the way back they encountered Gillian’s closest neighbor, a wizened, gnarled old farmer named Pete and his sullen middle-aged son. While Gillian and Pete made impromptu arrangements to help each other at harvest, the son mercilessly appraised Caroline as if she were a ewe at a country fair—not quite top notch in his silent estimation, but she would do.

Under normal circumstances she would have no problem summoning a few choice words cutting him down to size. But she was tired, tired of being mercilessly judged by any male idiot with an opinion, and she grew increasingly enraged. She glared at him, trembled, and her jaw tightened in a massive effort to not scream what the fuck do you think you’re looking at? Then, without breaking conversational stride, Gillian casually took her hand. She could breathe again; in fact, she released such a hoarse, shuddering breath that Pete gave her a concerned look. His son glanced down, caught sight of the clannish, protective gesture of her hand in Gillian’s, scowled, and turned away.

Meanwhile Gillian laughed at Pete’s joking efforts to sell her an aging ewe. Then the men went one way and they went another. Gillian kept hold of her hand for a while, even gently swinging their arms back and forth as they walked in silence. Then she told Caroline that after Eddie died Pete, ever the dealmaker, had been mad keen to match her up with his unmarriageable son—complete eejit, she said. Makes Robbie look like Stephen Hawking.

That made Caroline laugh. Few things made her laugh back then. Even now, it’s not as easy as it used to be. Now. She realizes that she has not had a proper panic attack about all this—resurrecting this affair, what it means, how it will play out—and so she pulls over abruptly on the side of the road, breathing heavily at the shock of the new and the old commingled together in this thing called life. Way to go, she thinks derisively, think about Prince—one of Kate’s favorite musicians—now of all times. She recalls how Kate had initially proposed painting the nursery a very lurid shade of lavender in honor of the Purple One; Caroline had to rely on a steady supply of ice cream and sexual favors to convince her otherwise. She chuckles aloud at that—and abruptly stops. She has arrived at the point she has dreaded for so long now, where memories of Kate were growing relatively painless because now she is strong enough to forsake the bad ones and hold dear to the good ones. For so long pain had been the only thing convincing her that she had loved, that it was real, and the void it would leave too terrible to contemplate.

She stares at the sunset. The white edge of the multi-skeined sunset cedes to blue and the glint of the evening star. This morning she witnessed not the sunrise but the nascent blaze of bright heat from the open door in Gillian’s kitchen, standing there barefoot and in a dressing gown not her own, eating buttered toast with cunty fingers—all the perfections of English life distilled into one moment, as an always-obscure writer once posited. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, she had been content. She sighs and climbs back into the Jeep Cherokee. Hedonistic pursuit of another moment like that will have to wait.

An hour later she pulls into the driveway of the house and is unsurprised when accosted by her mother and Alan the second she steps out of the vehicle.

“Well,” Celia declares, folding her arms. “We thought you’d gone native out there.” She nods at Caroline’s Wellies, which Caroline has retrieved from the back seat and are baptized with grime.

“You do realize Gillian lives in a house and is not some wandering gypsy around a campfire?”

“You’d never know by the way she acts sometimes,” Celia replies.

Rather than contradict this, Alan grumbles in agreement.

Caroline sighs. “What’d she do now?”

Poking at his mobile, Alan brings a series of Gillian’s terse texts on screen and, once read, resemble a form of cranky beatnik poetry:

Im ok just leave it hes an idiot fuck I want brandy snaps don’t lecture me old man christ

Alan rumbles, “Not one bit of relevant information!”

“Except the bit about the Brandy Snaps,” Celia observes helpfully.

“Like getting blood from stone!”

“At least she didn’t call you a mad old dyke,” Caroline replies, recalling Gillian’s most infamous text to her, for which Caroline had to endure a drunken, stammering, nearly incoherent apology several months after the fact. By that time she had completely forgotten it and on recalling it once again, thought Gillian had deserved to call her far worse in light of the events that had transpired between them. Blame yourself as usual, Caroline thinks. When Alan pulls a face of pure despair—sometimes she thinks her mother’s melodramatic antics are a poor influence on him—she squeezes his arm affectionately. “Don’t worry so—she’s fine, really. And given everything that’s happened, the farm could be in far worse shape. She was in, um, good spirits when I left.” Now she longs for the camouflage of sunglasses because she’s fearful that the luscious glaze of her eyes and the rosy glow of her cheeks will somehow announce to Alan that she has spent the better portion of the past twenty-four hours fucking his daughter.

Fortunately Alan moves on to the Land Rover Drama. “Land Rover’s out of the mud, at last. All she needs is cleaning up.” He chuckles, shakes his head. “Aye, poor Raff, that’ll keep him busy!” He kisses Caroline’s cheek and murmurs, “Well, anyhoo. Welcome back, love. See you at dinner.”

“Although God knows when that will be,” Celia mutters, as Alan heads back to the guesthouse. “A lot has happened in a day,” she says to Caroline, and matches her daughter’s gait as they meander to the front door.

“Yes,” Caroline sighs happily—then, before the old woman could get suspicious, reforms it as a question: “Yes?”

“Lawrence keeps going on about clown school.”

“Well, it may be the only chance he has, you know?”

“William broke up with his girlfriend.”

“Told him he should shave that bloody beard.”

“John called. He’s out of rehab but he’s still writing a memoir about you.”

“You think Meryl Streep would play me in the film? She’d love the challenge of a new accent.”

“I’ve saved the worst for last,” Celia says, and then intones grimly with her flair for the dramatic: “Greg is making tofu.”

“Oh shit,” Caroline wails. While Greg is a decent cook, his ambitions sometimes exceed his natural talents; she is still discovering bits of chocolate here and there stuck to countertops, appliances, and various crevices courtesy of this spring’s Great Souffle Debacle.

“He’s having woman trouble,” Celia says, as if this justified destruction of her kitchen.

She groans. Recently Greg had become enamored of a woman named Brigitte; on first glance she seemed as compelling and attractive as a Malibu Barbie still trapped inside the box. What nudged Caroline’s apathy into active dislike was this woman’s barely concealed consternation regarding Flora’s mere existence.

Speaking of whom, when Caroline opens the door Flora, like a tiny determined rugby player, rushes at her, crashing against her shins. She scoops the girl up into her arms.

Flora’s default greeting these days is an enthusiastic “Hey!” with arms raised.

“Hey yourself, sweetheart! I’ve missed you.” She notices that Flora is desperately trying to wipe tofu goop from her hands onto her orange hippo t-shirt. “God, why are your hands so white?”

Celia opens her mouth.

Caroline is one step ahead: “If you make any sort of racist comment right now I will smother you to death with tofu.”

“Everyone is so sensitive these days,” Celia complains. She shrugs dismissively. “Fine, I’m leaving. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.” She nods toward the kitchen. “He is like a woman and you like women, as we all know.” On that barbed note, she departs.

“Tofu,” Flora says, quite clearly.

On one hand, Caroline is disappointed not to hear her say mum—which she hasn’t done yet but Greg has assured her that Flora said it the other day while pointing at a picture of her; on another, she’s relieved that Flora has stopped saying shit. At least for now.

The kitchen is indeed a wreck and Greg sits morosely at the table, surrounded by old cookbooks, soybeans soaking in a pot, and batches of tofu in various blob-like states and stages, as if he is Dr. Frankenstein brooding in his lab and flanked by brains in jars and convict corpses ready for reanimation. Her first thought is to snap a pic and text it to Gillian with a caption: The Tofu That Ate Harrogate. Over the past year, she has made a concerted effort not to treat him like complete shit; it seemed an easy enough goal to achieve once she became truly cognizant of the fact that while she may have lost a wife, he suffered a loss too: one of his oldest and closest friends, the woman who kept his confidences, offered him advice, and vetted his girlfriends. Clearly there is no replacing Kate. But she could do better in providing some sort of emotional support for him—although she fears her lack of diplomacy may rear its ugly head if he ever seeks an honest opinion of Brigitte.

Caroline attempts to joke him out of it: “There’s really no need to out-lesbian me, you know.”

His pathetic attempt at a smile resembles the sad rallying look of a Labradoodle on a rainy day.

“Right, then. What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m in love,” he says.

Gently she juggles Flora, who squirms restlessly while smooshing tiny sticky tofu fists against her face.

“Mum!” Flora barks, as if to say pay attention to me and not the nitwit who made tofu in your kitchen.

“Well.” Caroline grins ridiculously. The day could not possibly get any better. “It’s wonderful to be in love.”

SOUNDTRACK: “One Sunday Morning (Song for Jane Smiley’s Boyfriend),” Wilco—oh, but it’s long, like this chapter. “Temptation,” New Order “Everything Hits at Once,” Spoon “Evening Star,” from Richard Wagner’s Tannhauser (Franz Liszt transcription)

#long chapter is long #are we cool vincent #last tango in halifax #random purple prose smut

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Mothers’ Day, Driving and Sound | #53 | May 2021

May was been great, hectic. Pentecost, the Judeo-Christian holiday some 5O days from Easter and Passover—this year from May 23, 2O2I—led to monumental shifts in what’s been up with me. So, while we’ve gone back into the Church’s Ordinal Time now, I’ll focus this time on that Easter chunk of May. Tales include my first adventures of licensed Vegas driving, followed by experiences on and before Mothers’ Day 2O2I.

Month of Feels

While in Reno on April’s second-to-last Friday (my last before Vegas), I discovered that Evan Call's original soundtrack to 《Violet Evergarden》 was on Spotify. This delighted me immensely because I’ve for years listened to people’s covers of the soundtrack. The originals hadn't been available.

Back during my last semester of interpersonal group therapy in spring 2OI8, a handful of peers had recommended I see 《Violet Evergarden》 for it helped them to better empathize with others. (I'd gone to counseling to better figure out how to communicate my Catholic feelings about grief.) I went back to China that summer for my second time. Then, during my first weekend after my college junior year classes had begun, I finally watched the Netflix series. That was nearly a year and a half since Mom died.

I loved how the show, through its characters, narrative, settings and score capture so many aspects of grief, displacement, inspiration and comfort. Now in 2O2I, I found that I could listen to its entire score. Tracks that particularly resonated this time with me were “Across the Violet Sky,” “Birth of a Legend” and “Another Sunny Day.” Music guides me to meditations. To my surprise, that last song's title resembles "Another Day of Sun”—another song I deeply enjoy. Mom had called me a ‘sunny’ boy.

To Vegas’ Roads

May 1, 2O2I had my first time driving to and beyond downtown Vegas. My family's house has been on the valley's north side.

My older brother and his girlfriend were the only others living at the house besides me. Since they had activities that Saturday, I'd for the first time drive the family’s ol’ Dodge Ram that accompanied us all the way from Indiana.

Dad had in his usual somewhat joking but actually serious way suggested that I could drive the pick-up around town. Dad had hardly used it, so over the years, strangers have placed offers to buy it. He wouldn’t sell. My using it would probably justify his keeping it, anyway.

While I see trucks more as gas-guzzlers, which don’t jive well with my environmentalist tendencies, I appreciated that Dad let me borrow it regardless. I don’t like driving vehicles that lend themselves to considerably negative environmental impacts. Still, a ride’s a ride.

That Saturday, I was to meet from the Southern Nevada National Peace Corps Association a fellow Returned Peace Corps Volunteer (RPCV) and his family at the Las Vegas Wash Green-Up. Despite having lived in Vegas 2OO8–I5 and again in 2O2O, I marveled at having never heard of the Wash. That said, it’s quite a ways south.

In bygone days, my late ma would have driven me to service events similar to the Green-Up if I couldn’t carpool with Kiwanis Key Club friends. Well, I hadn't read that other RPCVs would from the north. So, I hoped driving in this case would least harm the environment.

Sights and Sounds Known

From the house for my day’s trip, I first looked up a Google Maps itinerary that could get me to a shopping plaza in the north and then down to the valley's southeast side. So, on my Surface, I plotted my route, copied the web address, messaged it to myself, found by our house's door the truck’s keys, came outside, unlocked the weighty vehicle, lugged open the driver’s door, clambered in and on my phone booted up the route.

I’ve driven different vehicles over past months and years, training with friends and family. So, I began my familiar routine of buckling up, adjusting the mirrors, making my seat comfortable. When driving alone, I also tap my phone’s Spotify app and start my “Recent Wonders” playlist or another.

The playlist reminds me a bit of my MP3 player habits when I was younger. I used to have to manually pick tracks from my computer’s library to download to my portable player. Since undergrad, though, I’ve had this Spotify playlist I shuffle for about the same purpose. My rotating set usually has between 15O and 25O songs. I prefer under about 18O. 《Violet Evergarden》 tracks comprise a good chunk of the newest.

Maps and playlist ready, I powered on the mighty truck and lurched it forward. As the high vehicle entered the street, I imagined Dad saying something annoying like, it’s a great vehicle for picking up chicks. Sure, it’s certainly spacious, but I prefer modest rides. If my vehicle were to make a statement, I’d rather it concern the planet not status. Still, I work with what we have.

Familiarly, I drove the streets I’d trained on three months earlier to secure my driver’s license. While the truck was the largest thing I’d driven here, roads’ rules were the same. I brought the truck to 24 miles per hour except when stop signs appeared. I piloted from the neighborhood to the main road, where I brought our speed to 33. Then I began north toward the shopping center along streets I’d walked with in middle school.

Arriving, I located the Bed, Bath & Beyond parking lot. Two of my former Residence Hall Association coworkers, including one whose FarmHouse fraternity brother I had become, would wed this May. So, I’d ordered an item from their gift registry to pick up. Afer sitting in Vegas heat, a woman brought me the gift. Success!

Across the Vegas Valley

Gift in possession, I powered back on the truck to begin my first road trip across the Vegas valley. I’d decided against taking freeways, since I figured proverbially that I’d better know how to walk before I run. Besides, Ma hadn’t liked highways. She’d traveled Vegas fine. So, I opted for major side streets.

I regretted avoiding freeways. Perhaps a dozen signal lights in, I realized that much of the trip felt more “stop” than “go.” I sorely underestimated how few roads let me bring the speed up to 44 mph. 35 zones seemed far more the norm.

Yet, I found the southbound view of Boulder Highway breathtaking. I hadn’t foreseen this urban desert’s beauty. The long road showcased the valley flora's summer embrace. I recalled a similar ride 'round Reno with a close college friend before we’d graduated. While I still resolved today to try the freeway back, my journey felt worthwhile.

Environmentalism For Earth Day

As I steered left off the highway nearing the Vegas Wash, its immensity awed me. I slowed the truck as I neared the parking area. With luck, I backed the truck into a spacious place near trees.

I donned the white Panamá-looking hat from my Mongol host family, hopped out and walked to tents where volunteers looked ready to sign folks in. I picked up and put on branded swag like blue planting gloves, a black face mask and a clear clip-on hand sanitizer. I then followed a dirt trail along the Wash. I was wearing too my ol' hiking shoes Mom had bought me mid-way through my college freshman year. To my surprise, the still fit!

I emerged soon where folks were taking potted shrubberies to flag-marked holes. There my RPCV friend found me. This was our first in person meet-up, so I felt surprised how easily he recognized me. He introduced me to his Kyrgyz wife and one of their kids who’d come to serve too. My friend's daughter was sick at home, but this was his son. We chatted a bit about fermented mare's milk, a drink common to both Kyrgyz and Mongols!

I asked him about the service project. He shared how these projects happen here annually. The flowers and shrubs we'd plant would help filter the Wash. I remembered my Key Club and CKI days and felt amazed that our clubs hadn’t participated. Still, as an RPCV, I found that my love of service remained. I carried plants back and forth, burying them throughout the grid.

After we concluded planting, we returned to check-in. Jimmy John’s to-go boxes awaited us volunteers. I walked with my friend to his vehicle, and we wished each other well. I strolled back to the Wash.

A roadrunner stood on a short cement wall by the water. Then it hopped off and disappeared. So, I hopped up, sat down and removed my visor, face mask and gloves. I like nature. I enjoyed the Wash, my chips and a sandwich.

I felt both stronger and vulnerable. When I finished here, no one would come get me. I got to choose when and how I'd head home. So, mistakes were on me, too.

I didn’t like heat much. I finished my food, saved the cookie and walked back to the truck. Heading back before I tired would keep me safer for my hour-long journey home.

“What If I?”

As I drove back toward Boulder Highway, a new thought came: What if I turned left instead of right?

I could visit Mom's grave. She was buried in the Southern Nevada Veterans Memorial Cemetery half an hour south. Dad hadn’t replied whether we’d visit it the Saturday after, being the fourth anniversary of Mom’s passing. I felt a twinge to go now.

But my phone had already lost half its battery. I’d had it on the hour-long drive to reach here. I wanted to still have Maps to help me navigate, as I would soon take on my first valley-wide freeways.

When two desert roads diverged, I took the one I’d traveled by.

Then freeway traffic sucked. But I think I still made better time. There was the difference.

Vegas and Mothers' Day

The next day, which was the Sunday before Mothers’ Day 2O2I, I took back up the task of sorting Mom’s former belongings. My pa had wanted me to organize the room where he’d been letting me stay in the Vegas house, too. Part of organizing that room meant I’d need to move out my mother’s clothes that siblings and I saved. Last spring’s garage clean-up led me to know that we had both plenty of space and large containers. While I worked, I listened to 《Violet Evergarden》 tracks.

Sight and Touch

On one of my sister Becky's visits, she and I ventured into Mom's closet to box and bag Mom's clothes to send to our stepmother’s family in the Philippines or donate. Working with Tita later, I'd identified some to keep. I hung those in the closet of the Vegas room where I was staying.

We'd kept clothes that were either extremely familiar, like her lavender and mauve ones, or rather unique, like suits and Chinese attire. Many of these clothes, I hadn't known Mom had. Not until after her death had I seen these dresses and sweaters. I wondered when she’d last worn them, in what stages of life. She must have liked them enough to have kept them all these years.

In my room, I unhooked Mom’s clothes from the closet and laid them in a large grey plastic bin with a green lid. Its shape reminded me of a coffin, though this was smaller, more rectangular and less imposing. I tried pushing away the coffin thought.

I laid in Mom’s clothes by Marie Kondo’s method, according to thickness. Thus, “最后的，最厚的” /zuìhòu de, zuì hòu de/, the furthest back, the thickest. I placed Mom's Chinese traditional clothes closest to the surface. I supposed that if any of us sought her clothes, perhaps we’d want to see those first.

I was placing the last of Mom's clothes, white and green silk, when I stopped suddenly.

Patterning looked familiar. I turned back to the closet, to its right half where I kept my clothes. I found my Chinese-style shirt I'd purchased in 北京 Běijīng 2OI7. I took my black and red shirt and laid it beside Mom's Chinese clothing.

The patterns similarly repeated stitched dragons and fish on shimmering silk.

Perhaps these were common patterns. But the coincidence felt uncanny. In China after Mom died, I’d made my purchase for thinking the shirt I found looked cool. Now I wondered, had Mom influenced what drew me to choose mine? For had she been there in person, perhaps she'd have recommended the same.

I exhaled a shaky breath. The shirt I'd bought resembled ones I didn't know my mom wore and kept.

“Across the Violet Sky” was playing—an emotional sound.

Mom was with me perhaps.

Sandals, Years Later

On the Thursday that preceded my drive to Saturday’s service event, I needed to get shopping done.

Older Brother wasn’t busy, so he drove me to the North 5th plaza our family had frequented when we were in junior high and high school. Pops now wanted me to replace my plaid slippers, and I’d also noticed my black sandals getting slick on smooth floors. If I went back to Mongolia, I’d need better wear. Ross tended to be my first choice.

Entering with Brother, I recalled that spring 2OI7 trip when Mom took me to this very store before I left for China. Back then, luggage, shoes and sandals were along the right wall. Now they were along the left. We hadn’t needed to sanitize our hands back then, either. But it’s good practice.

A new thought struck me as I tried on sandals. I’d come to replace the very pair that Mom had bought me in this very store. They’d lasted me all these years, back and forth to China and Asia.

Earlier that week, on the Tuesday when I’d leave Reno, I felt amused. I was telling my pastor after we taped the Proclamation how I’d fly to Vegas that night. He mused how they’d need to find someone to fill my sandals.

I prefer sandals to shoes when the weather’s nice. “They’re comfy and easy to wear.” As an inside joke, because our Proclamation recordings don’t tend to show our feet or much below our waists, viewers don’t tend to see whether we’re totally dressed for Sunday Mass. When permissible, I even prefer walking barefoot!

Anyway, I realized on this seemingly mundane Ross trip to find slippers (which I ultimately ordered online) that I’d returned to the same place to replace sandals Mom got me for my first overseas trip.

Having had a long day, I spent some time that evening while finishing my April 2O2I blog story browsing the web. A particular article caught my eye noting how people can visit dozens of real places from the film, “La La Land.” I felt surprised to think that people can actually swing by the film’s iconic locales. I loved that movie.

Coincidences

The day after sorting Mom’s clothes, Monday, my sister Becky messaged me if I or our siblings would come to L.A. for her graduation. It’d be the next Saturday, May 15. I didn’t conflict with any other graduation events that I’d sought to attend. So, I offered to fly in to visit.

Writing of L.A., I also remembered a friend to whom I’d been talking had said she was living there. The evening of after I stowed Mom's clothes, we’d reconnected for the first time in months. In fact, we'd be chatting over video later that night. I let my friend know that I’d be in the city and asked if she recommended places to see.

My friend suggested Hollywood.

Then I remembered—that “LA LA LAND” ARTICLE!

I also realized in that moment that the film's title contains “L.A.” three times. I doubt that that was a coincidence.

Anyway, I felt super stoked for the trip. Not only could I see my sister and my friend—I could see where filmmakers taped my all-time favorite film.

Final Vaccination

Knowing I'd be off to L.A. made receiving my second Pfizer dose against COVID-I9 more exciting. Two days after making arrangements with my sister came Wednesday, Cinco de Mayo. I’d scheduled from Reno to get my last dose in Vegas.

Brother was busy, so I drove again the pick-up. My appointment at one of the College of Southern Nevada campuses. While my pastor had taken me to my Reno appointment, I was on my own today.

Campus didn’t have many signs to indicate where to go. I asked a woman behind a desk, and she told me which way to head outside to find the site. Sprinting to make up lost time, I arrived and showed my verification. All went smoothly, though the National Guard vaccinating me asked where I’d gotten my vaccination card. Turns out that Washoe and Clark had different-looking ones.

I proceeded to a waiting area after. The Guard didn’t say to wait before I left, but I remembered Reno. I took a selfie and posted it to my Story: “Let’s get vaccinated!”

I heard a pop song and thought it sounded nice. I looked it up and felt surprised to learn it was Justin Bieber’s “Holy.” I used to despise the guy’s songs. But, this one made up for it. I like to let go of negativity.

Fourth Anniversary

That Saturday, May 8, 202I came the fourth anniversary of my mother’s passing. Dad had come back to town and indeed agreed with my hope for us to visit Mom’s grave. The trip would also be our first May visit with my stepmom, who borrowed my ol' Key Club fire visor. She’d joined our trip last August as well, for Mom’s birthday, I think.

Getting into Boulder City, we visited first the 99¢ Only Store—Dad’s tradition here.

Dad dropped off Tita and me at the entrance while he went to park. Tita asked whether to get fake flowers again or real ones, so I suggested real. I feel like fake flowers at gravesites seem weird.

Afterward, Tita requested that I pick out graduation cards for my sister Becky, our other sister’s boyfriend and my older brother’s girlfriend. It was at that time I realized that many folks I knew had graduation ceremonies this spring.

Cemetery

Once we got what we needed and Dad did his browsing across the store, we at last made our way to the cemetery. I found first the gravestone of our family friend, Tom Wood. His was on the edge of a row, making his easy to spot. Grasses had started to cover many of the words.

Ants crowded around his stone, so I didn’t stay long. I’d been trying my new sandals and wanted to avoid getting bitten. My recent binging of Kurzgesagt videos led me to know that ants can be intense. Still, beside Papa and Tita, I said my prayers in thanks to God and our friend who’d helped introduce my siblings and me to making the most of our educations in Vegas.

Then I walked over to Mom’s grave. Hers was nearby, across the road. Dad’s friend and my mom both perished on the same day, May 8, 2OI7.

Mom’s grave isn’t hard to find walking from between a tree and a bench by a trash can then down a few rows. From the ground, I popped out a metal cylinder and filled it at nearby faucet. Tita and I would then set into it some of the purple and white flowers she’d purchased for both graves.

In times like these, I tend to want to talk, but Dad looked quieter than usual. So, I let him have his peace. I wish he’d open up more. I guess that from his patriarchal generation or military service, fathers didn’t believe that sons needed to know their feelings.

Meanwhile, maybe the summer-like lush trees here contrasted Reno’s spring. Or perhaps my thoughts of “La La Land” reminded me of what was on my mind when we first visited this Boulder graveyard. Regardless, I felt transported back to 2OI7.

After personal little prayers, I and Dad recounted to Tita how the area looked back then—how we’d buried Mom in a dirt space at what was the section's edge. But now there are more grasses and grave markers for rows from 2OI8, 2OI9, 2O2O and 2O2I.

We noticed a youngish adult woman who seemed a bit frazzled. She held numerous colorful objects including large flowers, searching for something. Tita and I asked her, and she said she was looking for her parents, who’d passed away in 2OI7 and 2OI9. Tita, Dad and I helped her look. We scanned the ground beyond my mother. We found the parents. I felt glad.

Mothers’ Day

The next morning was Mothers’ Day. Since the holiday falls on May's second Sunday, Mothers' Day most always follows Mom's death day.

This year would be my first time celebrating Mothers' Day with my stepmom. We and her daughters convened at a Lucille's Smokehouse Bar-B-Que, which served meals in large portions. It was Tita’s baby grandson’s first time in crowded public, too! I enjoyed watching the way that baby Luke stared with wide eyes at us. White noise didn't faze him.

That day I’d I wrapped the Bed, Bath & Beyond gift that I’d bought for my friends to wed later in May. Pops, Tita and I readied anything else we’d need for the road trip back to Reno. Then began our journey again.

Into Graduations and May’s End

Friday, May 14 would celebrate the Baccalaureate Mass of lovely student coordinators and friends from my undergrad. The next morning, Saturday, May 15, I’d fly with my youngest siblings to L.A. for our sister Becky’s graduation. Then I’d stay behind an extra day for my friend and “La La Land” adventures.

That Wednesday would mark the 2Ist birthday of my youngest sister, Vana, as well as the day when I’d be fully inoculated, May 19! That Saturday my L.A. sister would then drive through Reno, where we’d sing karaoke.

Pentecost would follow on the Sunday after, May 23. Then would be May 3O and the trip with fraternity brothers to California for the long-awaited wedding of my undergrad coworkers—one of whom was also our fraternity brother. Weddings of peers feel so special.

I’ll probably have a second blog story themed around May 2O2I, given its abundance of activities. This summer I’m delighted mid-June to visit the Bay Area and a childhood friend I haven’t seen in a decade. Then at June’s end, after supporting virtual Boys’ State, I'll journey to Seattle to see Becky before my 24th birthday.

I still hope to return abroad this fall, but January 2O22 seems more likely now. Regardless, I’m doing my best to be ready when my time comes. I’ve enjoyed my year back in America. I hope that wherever I go next, I’ll remember with gratitude this life.

You can read more from me here at DanielLang.me :)

#Peace Corps #Mongolia #memoir #story #Catholic #God #memoryLang #Las Vegas #summer #Coronavirus #COVID-19 #Nevada #WithMe #death #Mothers' Day #driving #gratitude #Earth Day #Kiwanis #Chinese

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parisstreet · 4 years

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How To Acquiesce To A Band Member And Cover Some Christmas Songs

The newest Paris Street album, 15th Street – Others, features 10 cover songs, the majority of which were recorded by request from various friends. Starting this week, I’m doing the same shit I did with the prior three albums, rambling on a bit about each song. These will be shorter than the other ones, which I said last time and that turned out to be a total lie. Anyway, enjoy!

The song(s): The Little Baby Hefner’s Xmas Song For Holland and A Marshmallow World

Whose songs are these a cover of? ‘The Little Baby Hefner’s Xmas Song For Holland’ is by the British band Hefner, and was originally released in 1999. The song can currently be found on their 2006 B-sides compilation Catfight.

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Hefner had a three-year run in which they were one of the best indie bands out there. They received consistent support from the late John Peel, which aided in their steady growth in popularity (in Europe, at least). They then took a sharp left turn with an album made primarily with analog synths, which pretty much drove everyone away. Shortly after that, the band broke up. The band’s primary songwriter, Darren Hayman, has since released a staggering amount of music, almost all of which veers from very-good to fantastic. His 2015 album, Chants For Socialists, is his apex, in my opinion.

I don’t fucking care about the history of ‘A Marshmallow World’.

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When were these cover songs recorded? Both were recorded towards the end of 2007 in the garage of my duplex in Nashville. In a bit of superfluous Lucas-ing, I added some extra piano and electric guitar to ‘Little Baby Hefner’ while holed up in Fargo earlier this year.

The players: Just me on ‘Little Baby Hefner’, playing acoustic and electric guitar, keyboards, and tambourine.

Things are murky with ‘A Marshmallow World’. It’s done entirely on keyboard. However, I don’t remember who played what. I mean, I played most of it, but I know that my Christmas-loving bandmate, Darrin, came over one evening and contributed . . . something? I think it was a keyboard part, but I don’t remember which one. It could also have just been a backing vocal. I don’t know. No one cares. Let’s move on.

Who asked you to record these covers, i.e. whose to blame? The aforementioned Christmas-loving bandmate, Darrin, who suggested recording some Christmas songs for an EP to give away at our final show for the year. The deal we made was that we’d record one cover of my Christmas-music-hating choice (‘Little Baby Hefner’), one cover of his choice (‘A Marshmallow World’), and one original song (the execrable ‘Candy Cane Withdrawal’, which I’m not really sure why I hate so much, given that it contains a reference to the Diagnostic And Statistical Manual Of Mental Disorders, 4th Edition that I’m quite proud of, plus a nice keyboard line).

What sets these covers apart from the originals? ‘Little Baby Hefner’ hues fairly close to the original, which is already pretty-stripped down.

I have not heard the Dean Martin version of ‘A Marshmallow World’ - which was the basis for our version - since I recorded the cover (nor did I bother to listen to it prior to attaching the YouTube clip to this post), so I have no clue what the differences are, though I’m sure he didn’t play keyboards on it, nor sing it because a friend pressured him into it.

Fun fact: Despite my aversion to Christmas songs, I have written two other ones. One is simply called ‘Christmas Song’ and was written in Tampa around 2002. It’s about suicide, a cat freezing to death, and the propensity for local TV news to begin their Christmas morning broadcast with a segment about a neighborhood house burning down on Christmas Eve (‘It hasn’t been a merry Christmas morning for one North Little Rock family . . . ‘), which always seems to happen. Anyway, the song sucks.

The second song is called ‘La Navidad’, which re-interprets my instrumental song ‘Dream Melody’, adding sleigh bells, and very angry words about the government’s response to Puerto Rico’s destruction after Hurricane Maria. I released it just for the month of December in 2017. It might show up again this December.

15th Street – Others is available now, exclusively through Bandcamp. It’s totally free to download, so have at it. Parts One, Two, and Three of 15th Street are available now via Bandcamp, Spotify, and all the other streamers. A sampler of songs from each album in the 15th Street series can be listened to here.

Previously: . . . Baby One More Time, Cry Cry Cry

#paris street #15th street #hefner #dean martin #cover song #christmas #xmas #indie #pop #songwriting

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lodelss · 5 years

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Leah Sottile | Longreads | July 2019 | 25 minutes (6,186 words)

Part 1 of 5 of Bundyville: The Remnant, season two of Bundyville, a series and podcast from Longreads and OPB. Catch up on season one of Bundyville here.

When the house around the corner exploded, Richard Katschke and his wife, Karen, were reading scripture. The retired pair looked up from the pages and froze. In another room, a plastic light cover clattered to the floor.

It was a warm Wednesday. Mid-July 2016, about 8 p.m. Outside, a boy rode his bike near South Fifth Street. A man started a lawn mower.

The Katschkes were seated on a brown leather couch in a room they’d added onto their Panaca, Nevada, house years earlier for Richard’s elderly mother — both he and Karen called her “Mom.” She lived there until the Katschkes made her more comfortable at the nearby hospital in her final days, where a quiet nurse would rub her feet with cream and stay by her side, watching the old woman’s eyes for a sign she was ready to be with God.

The Katschkes never imagined that nurse, 59-year-old Glenn Jones, would, in the last seconds of his life, commit a bombing around the corner from their house — a cataclysmic event that would send a family screaming from their home seconds before it exploded and, even now, three years later, would still have no official explanation from federal authorities.

Glen Wadsworth was the last person to see Jones alive. He was pushing a lawn mower across the grass at his childhood home. Inside, his elderly father sat in front of the television.

Ever since Wadsworth was a teenager, he mowed the lawn the exact same way: pushing and pulling the machine from front yard to side yard to back. But for a reason he still can’t quite understand, that July evening he pushed and pulled a different way than ever before: front, back, side.

Wadsworth — a tall man with straight teeth and neatly combed hair who serves as a member of the local volunteer fire department — looked up from his mower to see Jones back a car up to the gray house next door, where Joshua and Tiffany Cluff lived with their three daughters. Jones parked, got out of the car, and waved to Wadsworth. Wadsworth waved back and continued mowing. He didn’t know Jones, but thought he looked familiar from when the Cluffs built the gray house and friends chipped in on the work.

Wadsworth didn’t see or hear Tiffany and her girls run out of the house, screaming into the telephone.

“911, What is your emergency?” the operator said.

“I … Someone … somebody showed up at my house with a bomb,” Tiffany Cluff panted into her neighbor’s phone. “He’s going to blow my house up.”

“Ma’am. Ma’am. Take a breath for me, OK? I can barely understand ya. What is happening?”

“We’re running away from my house,” Tiffany, hysterical, choked on her words. “I grabbed my kids and I ran.”

“He said he was going to kill you?”

“He said he was going to blow the house up.”

“OK, all right, take a couple breaths for me,” the dispatcher said. “Are you away from the home?”

“Ye—”

Tiffany couldn’t even finish the word “yes” before the sound of a bomb exploding and the heart-stopping screaming of three little girls flattened any other noise coming through the receiver.

“Oh my god!” she screamed. “He just blew my house up!”

Down the street, Lincoln County Sheriff Kerry Lee — one of Glen Wadsworth’s oldest friends — was out in his yard with his dog when the blast shook his ribcage.

Lee smiles a lot for a cop — a wide, friendly grin under a thick mustache and a flat-top haircut. And in Panaca, he wears a lot of hats: He’s the sheriff, but he’s also the chief of the volunteer fire department and the county coroner. By July 2016, he’d been in law enforcement for nearly 30 years, and he knew that in Panaca, loud noises are often easily explained: a sonic boom from a military aircraft flying low around Nellis Air Force Base or the Nevada Test and Training Range.

But this was different. Normal noises don’t shake you from the inside. The sheriff yanked his dog into the house, grabbed the keys to his patrol rig, and sprinted back out again. He paused, trying to understand why, all around him, it sounded like a hailstorm was falling from the clear blue sky: “I knew something wasn’t right.”

Wadsworth was still mowing. He didn’t hear Jones shoot himself as he sat in the front seat of the car. Maybe the mower drowned out the sharp pop of the gun, or maybe he’d just fired so many gunshots of his own across the dry desert that he had conditioned himself not to flinch at the sound. But when he looked up from his mower and saw the house next door on fire, he sprinted toward it, believing the family was inside. He ran toward the house, but at the front door, it was as if he ran right smack into the palm of an invisible hand. “It was just like a wall. I just couldn’t.”

Another explosion sounded on the 911 call.

Sheriff Lee could see a mushroom cloud billowing when he looked down South Fifth Street. He assumed it had to be a fire, a gas explosion, an exploded transformer. A bomb? Here? In Panaca? Never crossed his mind.

The windows of the Wadsworth home exploded inward and a hunk of Jones’s car rocketed straight toward the old man sitting in his chair, landing just short at his feet. Glen Wadsworth, somehow, wasn’t hit by a thing.

The chipping house next door to the Cluff home inched sideways on its foundation. A chunk of shrapnel careened toward the boy on his bike, hitting him so hard in the shoulder that it knocked him to the ground, but miraculously, only left a small bruise.

The two explosions sent hot metal shrapnel flying upward, curving in long arcs over the remote desert town. A half mile away, debris rained on the high school. The football team, outside doing drills, dropped to the ground. Daggers of shrapnel stabbed into the sides of nearby houses. One piece punched through the roof of a garage, piercing the hood of the car parked inside.

In a town where nothing ever happens, a town where there are no secrets, suddenly there was mayhem.

“It was Glenn Jones,” Tiffany Cluff cried to the 911 dispatcher. “He said he was going to kill himself and blow up our house.”

As Sheriff Lee drove closer, he could see the destroyed house: It looked like a giant had mashed the house with colossal fists and twisted a car into a grotesque tangle of metal, leaving a deep crater in the pavement.

“Cars blow up like that in a movie,” Lee said. “They don’t normally blow up like that.”

Neighbors who’d gathered at the corner of Fifth and Hansen waved the sheriff down. “Stop! Stop!” he remembers them shouting as he pulled up to the scene. “You’re running over body parts!”

Sure enough, there on the ground lay a pair of legs.

It would be 14 hours before investigators would find the rest of Glenn Jones. His torso had flown out of sight, high into a neighbor’s tree.

Though the investigation was transferred to the hands of federal authorities, Sheriff Lee — in another of his roles, as county coroner — inspected the top half of the body when it was fished down from the branches. He was surprised to see two tattoos on the chest.

One clearly read DNR — medical code for “do not resuscitate.” The other was a phone number for the man whose house he had just exploded: Joshua Cluff.

***

A gravelly town on the sinful side of the Utah-Nevada border, the desert outpost of Panaca was established in the 1860s by Mormon pioneers whose legacies live on in the few street names here and in the last names of the people who still call this place home.

Today, Panaca is like a peninsula of Utah: the only town in Nevada that is dry, and one of just two in the state where gambling is prohibited. If you want a beer, you’ll have to drive 15 miles to Caliente — pronounced around these parts as “Cal-yen-ee” — to get one, at a smoky bar along a peeling downtown strip. Panaca, Caliente — they’re what you picture when you think of a Western town: At night, tumbleweeds blow down the middle of empty streets, coming to rest against a hardware store with deer heads and bobcat pelts on display in the window.

It’s a place where you know your neighbor, and you know that really knowing him means understanding what’s your business and what isn’t.

On Thursday, July 14, 2016, the day after the bombing, shrapnel lines a previously quiet street in Panaca, Nevada. (Brett Le Blanc/Las Vegas Review-Journal via AP)

Most Panacans worship together at an LDS church right smack in the center of town. A single market sells snacks and produce. The streets are pocked and rough. Chickens hustle busily in some yards, horses graze in others. Here and there, piles of junk look like they’ve been battered by desert winds for decades. Next to the high school, a massive mint-green rock formation called Court Rock bubbles skyward, named for the way young folks traditionally have “courted” there; on my visit, a condom wrapper stomped into the silty mud at the rock’s foot suggested that’s still the case.

A sign displaying the Ten Commandments guards the town, as if its presence will keep the Devil out. Panaca may have a Nevada zip code, but Lord knows it’s God’s country.

Panaca is the birthplace of John Yeates Barlow, one of the most influential leaders of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints — a group that still practices polygamy. LDS folks here are adamant that they would never want to be confused for FLDS, but most don’t mind having them as neighbors.

Mormonism, after all, is what built Panaca, and polygamists historically have had a place in Lincoln County. In the mid-2000s, essentially with the blessing of the FLDS prophet Warren Jeffs, a group that operated a 3,000-acre ranch more than 40 miles north of the town. The Caliente-Panaca area was a special place for Jeffs: At the Caliente Hot Springs Motel, Jeffs reportedly held underage wedding ceremonies at a moment’s notice.

When the FLDS farm sprung up, Sheriff Lee said the group was clear that they didn’t want the police in their business. So he drove up to introduce himself, shook their hands, and assured them they could call if they needed help. They were “good, good people,” he said, who were living under the direction of Jeffs: “A bad guy. A bad man.” (After a conviction on charges of felony rape was reversed by the Utah Supreme Court, Jeffs was sentenced by a Texas court to life in prison for sexually assaulting two followers — age 12 and 15 — in what his church deemed a “spiritual marriage.”)

Living here means looking the other way sometimes. Picking your battles. More than one Panacan told me they wouldn’t want to speculate about why a bombing occurred in their town, but then offered an opinion anyway: A lot of people here think the bomb was simply a loud, messy expression of a workplace grievance between Glenn Jones and Joshua Cluff.

Jones, for years, did live in Panaca, and worked under Joshua Cluff as a nurse at the Grover C. Dils Medical Center in Caliente — just across the highway from the Caliente Hot Springs. Records from the Nevada State Board of Nursing show Jones’s license was revoked after he failed to “document administration or waste” of three separate doses of morphine in a two-month span. Messages left for Grover C. Dils Medical Center staff for this story went unreturned, but in 2016 one administrator told the Las Vegas Review-Journal that Jones left his job there voluntarily and on good terms. Even so, some Panacans think maybe Jones blamed Cluff, and that’s enough explanation for why he bombed him. Sheriff Lee is skeptical of the whole workplace grievance theory. “I don’t think that was a major reason for the bombing,” Lee said.

After leaving his nursing job, Jones moved several hours south to a blue-and-white-striped mobile home in the Zuni Village RV Park in Kingman, Arizona. His camper, parked in Space #69, was at the center of the park, surrounded by homes with mostly graying retired folks.

Upon entering Jones’s RV the day after the explosion in Panaca, bomb technicians found multiple devices, several of which were “fully functional,” one officer wrote in his report. A neighbor told police they’d seen him carrying a large artillery shell into his RV, but Jones was known to buy items like it in the area, restoring and reselling them to other collectors. So most people didn’t bat an eye.

But police accounts paint a picture of a trailer brimming with bomb-making materials: metal containers, fuses, power tools, smokeless powder. Ammo cans were stacked under his dining room table. Even his shower had projectiles inside.

On a nightstand, investigators found three spiral-bound notebooks each with Jones’s name written on the front. Inside one, he had drawn diagrams for a bomb, which gave investigators reason to believe the devices were originally intended for a different target.

“The entries indicated that Glenn Jones had been approached [by] a subject identified as ‘Josh’ who offered to pay him to construct an explosive device,” wrote one detective.

“The intended target of the device was identified on one page as ‘Forth of July BLM Field Office,’” the detective continued. “The journal entries indicate that there was a falling out between Jones and ‘Josh,’ and that Jones instead decided to target ‘Josh’ with his explosive device, or ‘bomb.’

“Jones went on to document that ‘Josh’ is the cousin of LaVoy Finicum and seemed to indicate this was a possible motive for the planned attack on the BLM Field Office.”

In his office, up the road from Panaca in the town of Pioche, Nevada, Sheriff Lee keeps a large chunk of the bomb — one of the pieces the FBI didn’t seize. Just touching a finger to its razor-sharp edges is enough to draw blood. “These bombs were actually bomb artillery shells made to make shrapnel,” he said, “made to kill people.”

Nevada Governor Brian Sandoval and Lincoln County Sheriff Kerry Lee outside the destroyed Cluff home on July 15, 2016. (Brett Le Blanc/Las Vegas Review-Journal via AP.)

****

At the heart of what little is known about the events in Panaca was the handwritten documentation left behind by the bomber. It makes clear that Jones had an interest in Finicum — one of the central figures in the so-called Patriot movement, a collection of anti-government groups that includes the conspiratorial militia-types and sovereign citizens who flocked to the anti-government standoffs and way of thinking popularized by the Bundy family. Finicum was only ever in the movement at the end of his life, but he became a martyr for it in his death in January 2016, when he was shot and killed by law enforcement. He was fleeing a traffic stop in Oregon during which authorities intended to arrest the leaders of the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge occupation.

The car Jones blew up in Panaca was a rental. When police entered the dark green 2007 Saturn Ion that Jones owned, parked in an Avis rental car parking lot, inside they found out more about Jones and Cluff. There was a 2014 contract for a land purchase with both of their names on it and an agreement for Jones to pay Cluff $50,000.

Two years before the bombing, Jones also deposited $9,000 into an interest-bearing bank account that would mature in one year and, ultimately, be payable at the time of his death to one person: Cluff.

Much like in the rest of the U.S., people in Panaca don’t talk much about domestic terrorism these days. They likely have a better reason to talk about it than other Americans, but Panacans explain the bombing away — that what’s important to remember is that some gesture of holy providence saved them that day.

At the town’s only bed and breakfast, the mother of the kid on the bike — the only person to be hit by shrapnel — served me pancakes and eggs in the morning and mentioned she thinks “angels of our ancestors” were watching over the town that day the bomb went off.

Panacans believe their collective faith in God bent the trajectories of shrapnel to miss Wadsworth and his father. That faith kept shards of glass out of eyes, harnessed flames and surging power lines, and kept the Cluff family alive.

If God saved this town, why think about the bad parts of the story anymore — even if there’s never been an official explanation for what happened? Besides, could domestic terrorism really happen in a place like this, where everyone knows everyone else, where every house is a home?

People laugh darkly about the bombing now: The way, a few days later, a lady caught her dog gnawing on an unfamiliar bone and realized his snack was actually human. The way people still find odd remnants and assume they’re pieces of shrapnel. The way dozens of birds, for weeks, pecked away at some of the Chinese elm trees where Jones’s body parts landed.

Every spring, when Richard Katchske plants a line of flowers along his fence, he digs out twisted nobs of shrapnel from the dirt. Katchske showed me a piece, holding a brownish-black gnarl in his palm. I could have it if I wanted. I declined.

“It’ll be a legacy I pass on to my kids,” he laughed.

II.

Last year, when Bundyville came out, I felt satisfied that I’d found the answers I’d come looking for about the Bundy family and the Patriot movement, and I felt I had a sense of their place in America’s long-standing anti-government movement.

The Bundys created flash points members of those movements could rally around: Their very public confrontation in 2014 near their Bunkerville, Nevada, ranch was borne out of long-simmering discontent with how federal agencies have treated rural people in the American West. In the case of the Bundy family, that was combined with specific gripes about how Mormon pioneers, who tried to flee America in the 1800s to create a new homeland, were treated. Then, in the 1950s, those same people in Nevada, Arizona, and Utah were showered with nuclear fallout without any warning from the government. But the 2014 standoff was also based on a conspiracy theory being pushed by the Bundys: that the feds couldn’t actually own land, and that the Bundys were entitled to graze cattle on public land for free.

So by 2014, when Bureau of Land Management agents came to collect on long-unpaid federal grazing fees — racked up by the family patriarch, Cliven Bundy, as his cattle lived on public land without a BLM permit — the family combined forces with anti-government militia groups willing to point guns at those officials. And it worked. They kept their cows. The Patriot movement declared victory. The feds turned tail.

Then, in 2016, when two of Bundy’s sons, Ammon and Ryan, helped lead the 41-day armed takeover of a federal wildlife refuge in Oregon, it was the sequel to Bundy Ranch. Anti-government groups looking to stick a finger (or a gun barrel) in the government’s eye convened in one location, as if to dare the feds to chase them out. They talked about Waco and Ruby Ridge. They said they were ranchers upset over grazing prices and the arrest and conviction of Dwight and Steven Hammond, two Oregon cattlemen who’d gone to prison for setting fire to federal land. But really, it was an event that brought out kitted-up militia guys and kitted-up guys who wanted to look like militia guys, sovereign citizens, jaded veterans, Islamophobes, white supremacists, and fringe politicians out in force.

One of the few actual ranchers who did come to the Bundys’ side at Malheur was Finicum: a 54-year-old Arizona rancher who assumed a leadership role at the Oregon occupation and was killed there. But in his death, the Patriot movement got a new martyr.

Last year, I thought I knew what that meant, how this concept of “Bundyville,” to me, was a state of mind. You believe whatever you want about the world, even if you know very well it isn’t true — as if by thinking this way you will manifest it into existence. And that felt like a way of understanding the deep divides in America right now.

But then, something I didn’t expect happened.

After we released Bundyville, these conspiracy theories I’d heard about in the Patriot movement — ones that were always there, but never central to my reporting on the Bundy family — started popping into the headlines more and more. The Guardian reported that investigators, upon looking into motivations for why Stephen Paddock committed a deadly shooting spree in Las Vegas, encountered stories of his supposed sovereign citizen ideology and a purported belief that FEMA runs concentration camps meant to round up Americans.

Then, in March 2019, a Florida man named Cesar Sayoc Jr. pleaded guilty to mailing 16 explosives to a dozen prominent Democrats and billionaire investor George Soros. Within the Patriot movement, talk about Soros — who has been the target of conspiratorial rhetoric by Trump — was something I’d heard more than once. But now the President of the United States was known for floating conspiracies about Soros. Last fall, he told reporters he “wouldn’t be surprised” if the caravan of migrants approaching the southern border were paid to come to the U.S. He added, “a lot of people say” the migrants were funded by Soros.

Back in 2016, when I covered the Oregon Standoff trial, I spent a lot of time talking to Patriot Movement supporters outside the courthouse. Our conversations, often, would feel normal until, quite suddenly, they’d take a hard turn; conversations about federal overreach would turn to conspiracies about the so-called New World Order, shadowy cabals of “globalist” leaders, implementation of sharia law, and supposed terrorist training camps in the U.S. They told me about Agenda 21 — a United Nations plan of action, which they believed would use sustainable development to redistribute wealth and turn the U.S. into a communist state. They talked about Uranium One, a conspiracy in which Hillary Clinton supposedly sold uranium to Russia in exchange for donations to the Clinton Foundation.

I wrote them all down, but then threw those notepads into a blue Rubbermaid bin in my office and mostly forgot about them.

But those conspiracy theories kept resurfacing. The day after Sayoc was arrested, another conspiracy theorist was in the news: An antisemite named Robert Bowers, who’d been posting to a social media site largely populated by racists, and stands accused of opening fire in a Pittsburgh synagogue, murdering 11 and injuring 7 — motivated by his apparent belief that Jews are “children of Satan” and were to blame for any problems in the United States.

I’d heard things like this before, too, when learning about how Christian Identity — some followers of which believe that Jews are the spawn of Eve and Satan — drove people to form the Posse Comitatus movement, which considered the northwestern United States as a possible outpost for an all-white nation. People like that have found a home, too, within the Patriot movement.

When I asked Mark Pitcavage, a senior research fellow at the Anti-Defamation League, about conspiracist thinking, he offered that a conspiracy theory develops as a way of fitting in with someone’s worldview. Or it can explain a dramatic event with an equally dramatic theory. He uses President John F. Kennedy’s assassination — and more than 50 years of conspiracy theories about what occurred that day — as an example of how the psychology functions. “It’s a psychological thing where what actually happened is simply too simple for someone to be satisfied with,” he said. “The idea that one person killed the president is just not satisfactory to some people. For such a big event like that they seek an equally big and complex explanation.”

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Pitcavage sees conspiracy theories as the beating heart of the anti-government movement: “All the main movements in the Patriot movement are dominated by conspiracy theories.”

Suddenly, these ideas I’d scribbled down a few years ago were becoming a key conversation in America, and they gave me a sense of what the fringe edge of the far right was willing to believe. So when the president floated half-baked stories to push his agenda, they were willing to hop on board.

As steam built during the government shutdown in the winter of 2019 around President Trump’s plan to build a border wall along the southern edge of the United States, I felt like I was watching a Patriot movement passion project come to fruition. Trump, by then, was justifying the wall’s construction by telling tall tales that cartels were sending drugs over the border and terrorists were streaming into the country. Even Rep. Will Hurd, a Republican representative from Texas called bullshit.

One of the Bundys seemed to be talking relative sense on this topic. Throughout the past few years I’ve heard the family continually explain their unsubstantiated interpretation of the United States Constitution — and now Ammon Bundy, of all people, was telling his acolytes that Trump’s rhetoric about “the wall” wasn’t real. He called for compassion for people fleeing persecution, poverty, and fear. Trump, he said, “has basically called them all criminals,” and Bundy urged his followers to see that the president was peddling conspiracies.

Ammon Bundy in a video posted to Facebook in 2018, which made some internet commenters joke that he was becoming “woke.”

“What about individuals? What about those who have come for reasons of need for their families?” Bundy asked in a Facebook video. “The fathers, the mothers, and the children that come here and are willing to go through the process to apply for asylum so they can come into this country and benefit from not having to be oppressed continually?” Bundy scoffed that anyone could actually believe migrants had been paid by George Soros.

Some of his followers were outraged. Chatter went around online about Ammon Bundy being “woke.” My head spun. I called Ammon Bundy at his Idaho home as news outlets were breathlessly reporting that Cliven Bundy’s most well-known son had left the militia movement. I, too, was interested. Here he was, dividing himself from a group of people from which he’d so clearly benefited. Suddenly, the most anti-government of his followers needed to choose who to believe: Bundy, a man who had twice led them in confrontations with the feds, or the commander in chief himself, the literal embodiment of the government. Many chose the president. Even if what Trump was saying wasn’t based in reality, he was pushing an anti-immigration stance they could get behind.

Maybe Ammon Bundy realized that and saw it was a good time to bow out. His family was free. The Hammonds — the other ranchers at the center of the Bundy-led Malheur standoff — got a pardon from Trump last summer. Anti–public lands figures cycled in and out of the Department of the Interior. Bundy’s brother, Ryan, ran and lost his bid for Nevada governor, but otherwise, things were coming up Bundy.

Over the phone, Ammon claimed never to have been in the militia movement, and he told me people with fringe ideas have always been the minority of those who come to his family’s side. “Ninety-eight percent probably or better are people that are very peaceful people,” he said. “At Malheur, we considered ourselves to be on the people’s land, and who am I to say [militias] could come or couldn’t come? That makes it difficult to police yourselves.”

So I asked him: OK, what’s next?

“I had a reporter a few months ago come to my house and he said, ‘I hear you’re building a 100-man army. No! It couldn’t be farther from the truth,” he said. “I was like, ‘I don’t know what I would do with an army.’”

Would he make a “hard stand” again?

“I certainly would if there was an individual or family that I felt would benefit from it. But heavens no,” he said without hesitation. He said he’s “not afraid to do what’s right,” but that as far as another standoff is concerned: “I have no desire, I don’t believe that is where change will be made.”Maybe the Bundys are only anti-government when it’s convenient for them. But — and this sounds crazy even to me — I have to hand it to Ammon Bundy for trying to talk some sense into a historically itchy movement, to use his position to call for calm and normalcy.

And that’s why I realized we had to make more Bundyville. We are living in Bundyville. The truth is not winning. The center is not holding. The anti-government is now pro-president. And as I continued to report on the stories that make up this series, blood kept being spilled around the world in the name of conspiracies. In Pittsburgh, in New Zealand, in Southern California.

The president of the United States is floating conspiracy theories shared by the most radical members of the anti-government movement I’ve been reporting on. By February 2019, at a rally, Trump enthusiastically acknowledged the founder and several members of the Oath Keepers — an anti-government militia — who were standing directly behind him in the front row, grinning underneath their signature black-and-yellow logoed hats.

Maybe even Ammon Bundy doesn’t know the true reach of who came to his family’s side, or who they might have emboldened. The Patriot movement has been violent before, and violent people came to the family’s confrontations with the government, but didn’t get a fight.

So what’s to say the Patriots won’t be violent again, especially if — under federal prosecutors’ scrutiny and an opposing House — Democrats try to impeach Donald Trump? What then?

III.

Lincoln County Sheriff Kerry Lee, to this day, has never gotten a closure report from the FBI or an explanation for why Glenn Jones did what he did, and why, in the days and weeks after the 2016 explosion, Joshua Cluff never provided insight either.

The Cluffs were clearly victimized: Their family barely made it out alive, their house was destroyed, their children were traumatized. They don’t even live in Panaca anymore.

When the media tried to speak to him about what happened, Cluff was confrontational — saying reporters were revictimizing his family. When a TV reporter approached, Cluff jumped into a car that drove away. He gave one “angry telephone interview” to the Las Vegas Review-Journal, in which he told reporters that he didn’t have any idea why Jones did what he did: “Do you know why crazy people do crazy things before they do them?” he asked. He told those reporters the FBI “fully exonerated” him, but my multiple requests for clarification from the FBI went unanswered.

In Kingman, Arizona — where Glenn Jones lived at the time of his death — he was as well-liked by the people there as he was in Panaca, remembered for his deference more than anything else. In fact, no one in Panaca said a bad word to me about Jones; though most wouldn’t even say his name. They referred to him as “the suspect” or “the person.” On the other hand, a few people had choice words about Cluff — the victim of the bombing.

Jones “was a quiet unassuming guy. Never gave us any trouble,” said Kevin McCumber, who has managed the Zuni Village RV Park, where Jones lived, for the past five years. “In fact if you were having a bad day, he would come tell you a joke.”

In the days before the bombing, McCumber said, Jones came to his office and made a surprising offer. “There was a gentleman who lived near him who was suffering and was going through chemo. Jones came over and paid this guy’s rent,” he recalled. Jones was clear: If the guy asks, say you don’t know who paid his rent for him.

The Panaca investigation, within hours of the explosion, became the jurisdiction of the FBI and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives, among other agencies. Soon, even Lee wasn’t sure what to tell people about what happened on his own street. All he had to go on was a severed torso with a strange tattoo and what he read in the newspapers.

And Cluff wasn’t cooperating either. Lee didn’t know Cluff well — but his mind went to an incident years earlier, when he’d asked him, in his capacity at the hospital, to help with an individual who needed medical attention.

For reasons Lee declined to detail, the state needed to intervene, but that enraged Cluff, who made it clear to Lee that he didn’t think the government should make decisions for people — even if they needed help. “I got a little bit of an eye opening about how Josh felt about government overreach,” Lee told me, picking his words carefully.

In the six months between the Oregon standoff and the bombing at his home, Cluff actively posted on Facebook about his support of the Bundy family and shared posts about the death of Finicum, his cousin. The Las Vegas Review-Journal reported Cluff, at one time, shared several posts from anti-government militia groups.

At one point, Cluff changed his profile picture to Finicum’s signature “LV” cattle brand — something that’s worn on bumper stickers and shirts of Patriots and even tattooed on the bodies of some. Cluff was raised in the same town where several members of the Finicum family live: Fredonia, Arizona — a tiny town on the Arizona-Utah border.

Today, the area where Cluff’s house used to be is just an empty lot filled with mud. I walked the whole perimeter of it, stared at it on a cold winter morning thinking some answer to what really happened there would present itself. But all I got were muddy shoes and nervous looks from a guy standing quietly on his porch across the street, watching.

Earlier this year, I reached out to Cluff on Facebook, and asked for an interview. After a couple of messages, Cluff wrote back:

“We are just happy and not trying to dig up the past,” he said.

I typed out a message immediately — that I wasn’t trying to compromise that happiness, but that it seemed like his side of the story hadn’t come out. What, in his mind, was the truth? Why did Glenn Jones have his phone number tattooed on his body? What did the FBI ask him and Tiffany when they interviewed them? And why — if the answer was so clear that Jones was suicidal and crazy — was the investigation still open? I hit send.

But by then, Cluff had blocked me.

***

The way Sheriff Lee sees it, there are things the federal government could do better. The last time it was measured, in 2010, about 98 percent of his county was federal land — and, because of that, people there brush up against federal agencies more than most Americans. But that’s not to say they’re anti-government — far from it.

But even Lee can partially understand where the Bundys’ arguments about the feds come from: Lee’s dad’s was a rancher, and the way the BLM decides to handle where they can graze their cattle, what water they can drink, can be frustrating. But people work with the BLM to figure out solutions.

“I feel like we get so tied down with government regulation and oversight that we feel like nothing gets done,” he said. But to take up arms? To point guns? To flee from a traffic stop? That’s crazy.

But that’s the confusion of the Patriot movement, he said.

“You have both in the Patriot movement. I feel like I think you have the normal Joe blow guy [that thinks] the government’s way too big,” he told me. “And then I think you have the one that’s like … ‘We shouldn’t even have the government.’”

Cluff was vocal about his views on Facebook — but did that make him a member of the Patriot movement? Was he the “Josh” Jones was referring to in his journals, in the same breath as bombs and blowing up BLM facilities? Why would Cluff go into business with the man who would bomb him — and then write that off to reporters as the work of a crazy person?

In June 2016, just before the bombs detonated at Cluff’s house, a militiaman in LaVoy Finicum’s inner circle, named Bill Keebler, thought he had a bomb on his hands, too. And he thought he got away with destroying a federally owned BLM building, far out in the Arizona desert.

I asked Sheriff Lee about this — how three weeks before Cluff’s home blew up, believed he had bombed a federal property. “Two bombs go off in the same summer,” I said. “It seems kind of strange.”

Lee leaned back far in his chair and smiled. “Makes a person think doesn’t it?” he said, hands behind his head. “That’s all I really can say is it makes a person think.”

***

Leah Sottile is a freelance journalist based in Portland, Oregon. Her work has appeared in theWashington Post, Playboy, California Sunday Magazine, Outside, The Atlantic and Vice.

Editors: Mike Dang and Kelly Stout Illustrator: Zoë van Dijk Fact checker: Matt Giles Copy editor: Jacob Gross

Special thanks to everyone at Oregon Public Broadcasting.

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