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geezerwench · 2 years ago

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Michigan man searches for answers after dolls take over his mailbox: 'We've decided to live here'

Laura Colvin

Hometownlife.com

Published April 13, 2023

Michigan man searches for answers after dolls take over his mailbox: 'We've decided to live here'

Don Powell opened his mailbox one day last August and found, along with the usual mix of bills and pizza coupons, two small dolls sitting on a miniature couch near a tiny table.

The pair and their furniture came with a note: “We’ve decided to live here. Mary and Shelley.”

Powell first thought the homely wooden figurines – a man and a woman – were put in his mailbox by mistake. He wondered if someone in the neighborhood was playing a joke.

“I went around to the other homes on the cul-de-sac to see if anyone else had gotten dolls in their mailbox,” the 72-year-old said. “No one had. There’s a neighbor across the street named Shelly; I knocked on her door and asked if she had done it, but she said no.”

A psychologist by trade, Powell is president and CEO of the Michigan-based American Institute for Preventative Medicine, a company that facilitates worksite wellness programs for organizations and hospitals around the country.

He and wife Nancy ordered a custom mailbox after moving into their home in Orchard Lake, Michigan, about five years ago.

At 26 inches deep, the mailbox, while purposely not an exact replica, bears a striking resemblance to their home. The box features a spacious interior with an open floor plan and plenty of window to let in natural light. Solar powered ceiling lights illuminate the mailbox at night.

While it is against the law for someone other than the mailbox owner and the mail carrier to put items in a mailbox, Powell could see why a doll family might want to move in.

He was amused – although his first thought was to evict the couple and their belongings into the garbage can. But then, struck by a change of heart, he pushed the couple and their belongings to the back of the mailbox and went about his business.

That was just the beginning of the story. When Powell wasn’t looking, someone dropped off a dog for the couple living in the mailbox, along with a rug and even some art for the wall. Then came a four-poster bed.

“I thought, ‘OK, someone is really playing a joke on me,'” Powell said, admitting that by this time he was enamored by the situation and wanted to have some fun with it. “I didn’t think it was my neighbors.”

So he went on Nextdoor, a hyperlocal social networking service for neighborhoods.

In his first post on Nextdoor, Powell asked whether anyone would fess up and admit they put Mary and Shelley in his mailbox, or if they knew who did. No one came forward, so he posted again, joking that he’d contacted the police and asked them to do extra patrols of his mailbox.

“The whole thing got rather whimsical,” he said. “I have a quirky sense of humor.”

When Halloween rolled around, Mary and Shelley were mysteriously replaced by two dolls in skeleton costumes.

Around Christmas, Mary and Shelley reappeared with miniature-sized gifts for their mailbox home. Powell took pictures and documented it all on Nextdoor.

“The response (on Nextdoor) was just incredible,” he said. “People were saying, ‘This is so much fun to read, I was ready to get off of Nextdoor, but this makes me want to stay.’”

Many posters, he said, were leaving comments and sending Powell messages asking for the next installment.

At some point, a second mystery note appeared, claiming the Mary and Shelley dolls formerly lived in a two-story Dutch-style doll house, but had decided Powell’s mailbox house was more accommodating for their cousin Shirley – a third figurine with a broken leg – who sometimes visited the couple.

“Then, after (February) ice storm, I did a post that said the family was locked in the mailbox and couldn’t get out,” Powell said. “Somebody asked if they lost power, I said ‘No, they don’t have power to begin with, but they do have a wood burning stove and were working from home.’”

In the beginning, Powell said, he was worried the mail carrier would stop delivering the mail. But given the large size of the mailbox, space has not been an issue. Calls to the West Bloomfield Post Office went unanswered.

Meanwhile, his wife, Nancy, said she’s been enjoying the saga and likes to see when new things are added to the mailbox – but doesn’t get as worked up about it as her husband.

“It's very cute, “she said. “I get a laugh out of it…it’s a good positive thing, especially during these crazy times."

Powell said no new furniture or other items have arrived in the last month or so. Still, at this point, he’s not sure he’s ready to learn the true identity of the person who brought Mary and Shelley into his life.

“I’m kind of enjoying the mystery,” he said. “I look forward to new things being added to the mailbox.”

The author of numerous health-related books, Powell says the experience has given him a new idea.

“I am thinking, given the reaction (on Nextdoor), of writing a children’s book,” he said. “I think it creates a novel story.”

originally posted in USA Today

#Michigan dolls in mailbox #mailbox dolls #dolls moved into mailbox #Michigan #Don Powell #Nancy Powell #Mary and Shelley #Mary and Shelley dolls

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tristanlovesthequeen · 4 years ago

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The Paddock

Tristan Chase Sparrowe

11/25/2016

The Bull

One day in the fall of autumn, when the moon is high and bright, orange in hue and full in complexion, when the clouds hang oppressively low in the sky I wandered through the meadow to the buffalo paddock, newly installed by decree of the mayor of San Francisco about two months ago.

The headlines in the newspaper were all the same, dismal in hue, recording the afterthoughts of the Mayor. “'The park commissioners expect soon to procure a buffalo cow who will lighten the hours of his confinement,' Harrison says”. Tomorrow the buffalo, Anastasius will be married to his bride-to-be, a new import from a ranch in Wyoming, where my uncle lives with his wife, and a dog, where they have retired and where my uncle hunts and participates in environmental conservation.

It's brisk, with many clouds of smoke blowing from the corners of my mouth into the Fall air. The grass has just been clear cut, and the smell invades my nostrils. The dew from the morning and previous evening cling to the individual hordes of grass scintillating in the dawn evening light. I have been up for a day and a night approximately and everything seems to vibrate around me.

I am here with a specific purpose. No one is around the buffalo paddock the night after Thanksgiving, the city itself is deserted, let alone the park and its many intertwining trails. I could walk for miles on these days in San Francisco, traversing the entire seven by seven without seeing a single person.

I reached into my backpack and extracted a long pair of bolt cutters I had purchased for a penny at Goodman Lumber two days ago.

A swift look to my left, and to my right, and into the stable at Anastasius as he sleeps. The strong bull grunts and twitches in his sleep as steam puffs from his nostrils. His side rises and falls as he breathes and his ears twitch a bit. It is a pity for such a sculptural beast to be imprisoned as he waits for a wedding he has no say in and a migration pattern that is now limited to across the paddock. Either way, an option might be a change of pace for him. A change of scenery, a chance to spread his wings before wearing his proverbial wedding ring around his hoof.

A link in the chain link fence snaps open and then another, and another as I make an archway about the size of an Ort cloud in the distance. Finally the metal links curl like a pad of melted butter to the wet grass. Anastasius sighs deeply and continues his dream. I ponder where he might be in his mind for a moment. The plains with his kin, avoiding native species of humans and the great white hunters of the fields where they used to graze. Possibly butting heads with an alpha male or turning on his heels to run. In space or in a hell like place, with demons floating above his massive cranium. An endless pasture where he sits in a cloud of cow fermones, butterflies braiding his mane.

I find myself walking a few paces ahead, erstwhile extracting the axe from a loop in the lining of my coat. I question my motives one last time before raising the axe above my head and, hearing the blade glint I let it fall into a mass of decomposing wood that surrounds the buffalo encasement. A crack resounds and a group of black birds flutter into the air squeaking as they fly. Anastasius stirs. I let the blade strike again, over and over until I break a hole in his cage. I kick the horizontal beams until they become diagonal and finally...

The bull's eye catches my attention. He has been watching me for some time. I breathe “You're free now lil' buddy,” and continue to circle around back towards the hole in the cyclone fence. Anastasius whines a bit. And grunts again.

I consider my motives and consider this new found freedom that I now share with the bull. It never felt like optimism to free the bull, just felt like a circumstance, a necessity, of the era that I live in. The symbolism of this pack animal now caged by himself, a migratory creature that is now forced to stay in one place. A metaphor for the elimination of the Native Americans who relied so heavily on the existence of the herd. And the grasses that cultivated with the motion of the species, and now wanes due to it's disappearance. What a pity. I wonder why he does not leap anymore, if he is lacking some sort of bacterial family in his gut or if his brain is lacking a certain chemical, why he has accepted his fate as a caged being, why he does not call out or try to create an alliance with a human to help facilitate his escape.

A mild panic surges through my veins and works its way into my knees making me weak for a spell. I tuck all my tools and hike back towards the main road. I decide to wait for a moment by a streetlamp and spark up a cigarette.

I think about the stars for a moment and try to locate Orion's belt. Somehow when compared to the power of the cosmos, my own worldly problems seem immaculately minuscule. And then came a dull rustle from the bushes lining the Fulton street border of the park. Anastasius slowly emerges from the darkness, then pauses, kicking his hind legs out to stretch. One, and then the other. A glow from my cigarette and the plume of smoke from my lungs catches his attention and he freezes.

Now that nothing is separating myself from such a large powerful animal I feel the weakness in my knees again and somehow the cigarette's effects seem more intense. I lower my head a bit to acknowledge his presence and say “fair thee well monsieur.” He lowers his head back at me and then he trots off in the direction of Ocean Beach.

His silhouette pirouettes and fades into the darkness of the night. When I arrive home I undress and lay in bed, and count to slow down my brain. Again I imagine the distance of the night sky, the size and millions of stars in the sky, compare them to the personalities here on earth and the endless multitudes of people. Once again I feel terribly small. Eventually I drift off and I, too am one with the cosmos.

The next day is the opening ceremony of the arrival of the new bison to the paddocks. Anastasius is to have a wife.

I make my way towards the modest crowd of people who have showed up to see the young bull procure a new wife. News teams are there and flashbulbs take snapshots of the Mayor arriving and emerging from his Lincoln town car led by police escort.

No one seems to suspect that Anastasius is not present, then again no one seems to care. The mayor stands up on a soapbox and gives a short speech, then motions like a circus conductor with his left hand to the truck containing the cow. Two men stationed on either side of the truck wearing overalls boots and golfers caps let down a metal ramp and a gate to the flatbed.

The cow, Anastasia, seems to be alarmed by the noise of the cheers of the crowd and the visage of a small excited yapping dog. She immediately starts to gallop into the paddock making a swift round and then charging out of the hole in the fence that I had cut the night before.

The music from the bandstand stops and the crowd gasps. The mayor throws his pork-pie hat to the ground and starts to shout at his assistants. A moment passes and sirens from firetrucks and police vehicles start to whine.

A large gap toothed grin stretches across my face. I laugh for a moment and then my forehead crinkles and I start to grimace. I don't pretend to understand what is going to happen to the bison nor do I feel guilt about setting them free. Seeing this crowd in a frenzy sets me off in an opposite trajectory from the crowd and the escaped cow.

That night at home with a hot toddie sitting by my wood burning stove with the neighborhood cat, Noodles, listening to the radio, the broadcast starts to announce, “In other news, police officials say they located the escaped buffalo which were to be married today on Ocean Beach and Ortega. The bull, Anastasius, and the cow, Anastasia were standing near the sea foam giving each other Eskimo kisses when authorities arrived. The mayor arrived shortly thereafter to find the police troop crying tears of joy. The band played “Auld lang syne” and the mayor hugged his wife. The mayor's assistants opened bottles of champagne and as the corks flew into the air the buffalo walked side by side down the coast.”

Noodles meowed and rolled around on his back.

Bibliography

1) http://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/Oldest-bison- at-Golden- Gate-Park- dies-at- 22-

5870761.php

2) http://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/Golden-Gate- Park-baby- bison-found- dead-

2443708.php

3) https://localwiki.org/sf/Golden_Gate_Park_Buffalo_Paddock

4) http://www.foundsf.org/index.php?title=Buffalo

http://poormagazine.org/node/5456

http://sheriffmichaelhennessey.com/Sheriffs_Stories/Getting_Buffaloed.html

“12 Short Stories of the Bison in Golden Gate Park.” JSTOR web article.

The Bison or Buffalo in the United States. The Indiana Quarterly Magazine of History, Vol 6. No.3 (September, 1910) pp. 114-117. Trustees of Indiana University. Http://www.jstor.org/stable/27785281. JSTOR web article.

Poaching Pictures Yellowstone. Buffalo and the Art of Wildlife Conservation. Alan C. Braddock. American Art, Vol 23, No.3 (Fall 2009), pp.36-59. The University of Chicago Press on behalf of the Smithsonian Institution.Http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1086/649775. JSTOR web article.

#Tristan Chase Arcelona

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javistg · 5 years ago

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Through the Senses

Chapter 3. Smell.

The third instalment of TTS is here! To read the previous chapters you can go HERE or to AO3 or FF.net.

This one’s from Katniss’s POV.

Hope you enjoy ❤️

The electric fence, covered in early morning dew, loomed on the horizon.

Keeping to the narrow alleys of the Seam, Katniss reached the empty Meadow. The smell of freshly cut grass tickled her nose.

She quickened her step. The place would be crawling with Peacekeepers soon -- and not the usual lazy kind.

The officers patrolling the streets today had been sent directly from the Capitol to oversee the reaping. They wore spotless uniforms and walked in a straight line.

Young and arrogant, they always kept their eyes peeled for any irregularities. The thought of catching some poor sucker trying to break the law drew them in, but the prospect of showing up the local authorities --and gaining some glory-- was what truly drove them on their quest.

Luckily for Katniss --who spent her days breaking the law— their loud, coordinated footsteps, paired with the stench of bleach they left behind, were hard to ignore.

Stealthily, she walked over to the loose spot in the fence and, hiding behind a clump of brushes, flattened out on her belly and slid underneath.

After retrieving her bow and sheath of arrows, she moved deeper into the woods. There, hidden by the thick line of trees encircling District 12, she breathed easy again.

Wrapped in the scent of pine needles and wet dirt she knew so well, Katniss made her way to the rock ledge where Gale was waiting for her.

Breakfast was good that morning. Fresh bakery bread; goat’s cheese packed in fragrant basil leaves; sweet blackberries, tart and juicy, that tasted like summer dreams.

The sun was high in the sky when the hunting partners walked back to the district. Their satchels were full; their hearts heavy. A good haul didn’t matter as much when the reaping was just a few hours away.

Eager to get rid of their goods, Katniss and Gale stopped by the Hob first.

The sweet smell of ripe strawberries followed the hunters. Stubborn and thick, it hung in the air as they traded their fish for bread and salt.

After visiting Sae, Katniss wrapped her arms over her hunting bag and stepped out into the bright day. Keeping her eyes to the ground, she hoped the visiting Peacekeepers wouldn’t notice the unmistakable fragrance trailing behind on her way to the mayor’s house.

By the time she got home, a warm bath awaited her.

After scrubbing off the dirt and sweat from the woods, Katniss washed her hair. Clean and refreshed, she rested her neck on the lip of the tub, stretched out her legs, and closed her eyes.

As the water cooled down around her, she took a deep, long breath.

The anise shrub Mrs. Everdeen had planted on the windowsill was in full bloom. The soft, cotton-like blossoms released their heady scent into the muggy air, sending memories of hearty winter stews and rainy afternoons back into Katniss’s mind.

Soon she’d have to dry off and get ready to go to the square, but for a few blissful seconds, her world was at peace.

Prim hadn’t taken any tesserae. Their pantry was full.

Somewhere deep, in that place in her soul where she tried not to dwell, Katniss hoped her father would approve.

XXXXX

The cave was still dark when Katniss opened her eyes.

Pushing her hood away from her face, she stretched out her neck and greedily filled her lungs with cold, early morning air.

Outside, a fierce storm raged on, pelting the rocks of the cave, and filling the small space with the rhythmic patter of droplets hitting wet earth.

The scent of damp tree bark and green moss that filtered through the rocks reminded her of her woods, but the strong arms holding her tethered her to reality. These weren’t the woods surrounding District 12. Her life in the Seam was miles away.

Trying not to disturb her district partner, Katniss gingerly flipped over on her side. It was a tight fit inside the sleeping bag, but she didn’t mind. Having Peeta there, keeping guard right next to her, beat being alone, any time.

“You OK?” he asked, lifting his arm to accommodate her movements.

“Mm-hmm. Just needed to change position,” Katniss mumbled, drowsily resting her head on his shoulder and her hand over his chest.

Peeta’s arms wrapped around her.

He smelled of sweat, dirt, ointment, and… rust?

Probably the dried blood on his bandages, Katniss thought.

It wasn’t the most enticing aroma —some might have even found it nauseating— but, to her, it was better than the most expensive Capitol perfume.

She was so relieved to have him there, alive and kicking and resting in her arms instead of dead by the river bed, that she rubbed her nose against his t-shirt and smiled.

“Hey, that tickles,” Peeta chuckled.

“Sorry,” she said around a yawn.

Lifting his free hand, Peeta began brushing the loose strands of hair on her forehead, gently stroking them back into her messy braid. “Not a problem.” His voice was a soothing caress when he asked, “D’you want me to tell you a story to help you sleep?”

A story?

The world outside was falling apart.

The star-crossed lovers of District 12 were still trapped in an arena with a crazed career hot on their trail, but as she lay there —comforted by the steady warmth of Peeta’s body beside her— none of that seemed to matter much.

Maybe a bedtime story is just what I need. “Tell me about those cakes you make,” Katniss asked, “the pretty ones.”

Still stroking her hair, Peeta told her about the bits of chalk he collected when he was little, and of the funny animals he liked to draw on the sidewalk. “Then, when I was eight,” he whispered as her breathing evened out, “my father asked me to make those same caricatures on a birthday cake. I’ve been in charge of frosting ever since.”

Peeta’s soft words blended with the gentle melody of water dancing around them, and before long, Katniss drifted off.

XXXXX

Wrapped in her mother’s old shawl, Katniss rocked back and forth. Back and forth.

A few feet away, a fire danced in the hearth.

The smoke of burning hickory and eucalyptus leaves floated through the house, infusing the empty rooms with its soothing aroma.

Dull, Katniss stared at the flames and rocked. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Morning broke.

Sae bustled about in the kitchen, humming softly to herself until the smell of scrambled eggs and toast filled the room.

“Come on, girl, breakfast’s ready,” Sae called out.

Too tired to do anything but comply, Katniss dragged her feet over to the table, sat down, and slowly cleaned her plate.

Days went by.

The rocking chair by the fireplace swayed back and forth. Back and forth.

Sae cooked and scrubbed the house clean. Traces of lemon peel and soap lingered in the air late into the night.

Lost in a world of pain and shadows, Katniss buried her nose in her mother’s shawl and, numbing her senses with the smell of mothballs and lavender that still clung to the soft fabric, rocked in her chair.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Spring is in the air today,” Sae said one morning. “You ought to get out. Go hunting.”

The idea seemed absurd, but a few hours later, Katniss left her chair and walked down to the study.

Wrapped in the musky smell of her father’s hunting jacket, she fell asleep on the couch.

The next morning, Peeta came back.

Shaken, Katniss shut the door behind her and ran up the stairs and into her room.

The scent was very faint, but it still laced the air.

A white rose —shriveled and fragile, but holding on to that unnatural perfection cultivated in Snow’s greenhouse— stood among the dried flowers in a vase.

Grabbing the vase, Katniss stumbled back to the kitchen and threw its contents into the embers.

The flowers flared up. A burst of blue flame enveloped the rose and devoured it.

Fire beats roses again, she thought, smashing the vase on the hardwood floor.

Back in her bathroom, Katniss peeled off her clothes and stepped into the shower.

Chamomile scented bubbles danced around her, washing away the weeks of dirt and neglect.

Later, as she untangled her hair, rubbing pomegranate infused oil to the damaged strands, she began to wonder about the world outside her door.

Haymitch was probably at home —drinking himself into oblivion.

Peeta was back.

Where was everyone else?

XXXXX

Restored after a good night’s sleep, Katniss stretched her arms and legs until they reached the edges of the bed. With a contented sigh, she relaxed onto the mattress and turned to the empty space next to her.

The sheets were rumpled but cold. Peeta had woken up early.

Frowning, Katniss flipped over, buried her nose in his pillow, and took a deep breath.

Nutmeg, vanilla, orange peel, and something else —deep and enticing that she identified as exclusively Peeta’s— tickled her nose and soothed her worries.

Smiling again, she pushed the covers away and got up.

After brushing her teeth and getting ready for the day, Katniss threw the windows open.

The smell of sweet lemons and ripe cherries greeted her, making her heart jump in joy. The trees in her orchard were in full bloom. Summer had begun.

Humming a happy tune, Katniss walked down the stairs.

As she neared the kitchen, her nose picked up hints of cinnamon, melted butter, and bacon sizzling in the skillet.

Her stomach grumbled in anticipation. Sunday Brunches with Peeta were something she looked forward to all week.

“Morning!” she said, slipping into the kitchen.

Peeta turned away from the stove. His eyes lit up at the sight of her. “Morning! Did you have a good night?”

“Yup.” Katniss walked over to the counter and reached the teapot. It was already full. “How about you? You woke up early.”

Peeta turned his attention back to the skillet with the bacon. “I woke up at seven. I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I figured I could start my day.”

With a soft hum, Katniss poured herself a cup of tea. “Want some?”

“Yeah, I’m almost done here.”

While Peeta cracked two eggs onto a waiting pan, Katniss poured two teacups and carried them back to the table where she sat down.

Resting her elbows on the countertop, she watched him work.

He looked good. He had recovered some of the weight he’d lost during the war, and the yard work he did every day had given his pale skin a healthy golden glow.

“Got any plans for today?” she asked as the earthy smell of the freshly brewed tea hung around her.

Peeta began to plate the bacon and eggs. “Not really, but it’s a nice day out. We should do something.”

“How would you like to go for a swim?”

Peeta turned around; eyebrows raised in surprise. “Really? Where?”

“I know a place.” Katniss reached out and took the plate he was offering. French toast with cinnamon, maple syrup, fried eggs, roasted apples, bacon. The smell alone was enough to make her mouth water.

Peeta sat down. “Is it far from here?”

“It’s a bit of a walk -- we’ll need to take some food for later -- but I think it’s worth it.” Dipping a bit of bread in the egg, she added, “You should bring your watercolors.”

Looking up from his food, Peeta smiled at her. A soft, warm smile that spoke of the trust between them, the joy he found in the small moments they shared.

Blushing, Katniss nodded to his plate. “Eat up, your food’s getting cold.”

They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence, stealing shy glances over their food while Katniss made a mental list of everything she wanted to show him on the way to her father’s lake.

#through the senses #things I write #smell #everlark fan fiction

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wedreamerz · 5 years ago

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The Island of Maravu - Chapter 2

The Island of Maravu

Chapter 2 - The Bunker

Pairing: Starker AU (Peter is 22)

Rated: Overall: E / Chapter: T

Status: WIP

Summary: The Avengers are in shambles and Tony Stark just needs to get out from under the fallout. So, he does what every genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist does - he buys an island. Maravu is just the escape Tony is looking for until one morning a beautiful young man arrives with secrets and a smile that makes Tony’s broken heart beat again.

Some Tags: AU, A little angst, Smut and Fluff is the goal here people but I can’t just do that apparently without backstory and plot. No real trigger warnings that I can think of unless water or storms are an issue for you. If you run into something I didn’t think of, let me know.

Chapter 1

~~~~~~~~~~

The birds hated him. They were in cahoots. Thirty-three days on Maravu and the birds woke him up before the sun every freaking morning. Tony stirred, rolled over and scowled at the open window. They were at it again.

He groaned and put a pillow over his head.

"Friday, play something loud."

"Playing your Something Loud playlist," Friday said. Tony rolled his eyes, noting the amusement in her voice before the opening guitar riff of Def Leppard's Photograph blasted through the speakers.

The cabin, a simple, but cozy one-room affair with a fireplace, sofa, kitchenette and dining room table, suited him perfectly. One of the two luxury items he'd insisted upon, besides Friday and the technical upgrades he'd made, was the queen-sized bed that dominated the bedroom area of the cabin. He'd have flown in a king if it would have fit. But even the queen was pushing it.

The cabin came equipped with an attached bathroom and shower. But Tony had grown accustomed to showering in the original, outdoor shower that ran using accumulated rainwater. Something about showering outside in the sun brought out the hedonist in him.

During his first week on Maravu, Tony installed a self-sustained arc reactor to solve the electricity problem and ensured they’d had fast reliable wi-fi. The plantation resumed operation the following week with Mr. Umbari as manager. Tony liked the huge mountain of a man. They worked well together and at the end of a long day, he often sought out his calming presence at the community fire that burned in the village's center courtyard most evenings.

They would talk about the day and share a drink before retiring. Tony liked to watch him talk, his expressive, deeply lined face and white, wiry hair and beard that stood up as though it had a mind of its own. Mr. Umbari had learned to speak English by watching episodes of old American shows like MASH and Happy Days and Tony found himself smiling when now and then he recognized a familiar phrase. When the reactor went live, Mr. Umbari had celebrated by giving Tony the double Fonzie thumbs before dragging him into a chest busting hug.

For the most part, the islanders didn't intrude on Tony’s solitude. Mr. Umbari was a fair and able leader, so Tony didn't get involved in the day to day operations unless they needed him. But periodically he'd be working in the lab he’d set up near his cabin and hear someone call out "Turaga Ni Kaukamea!" Tony would look outside to see someone emerge from the trees and request his assistance at the plantation.

Mr. Umbari addressed him as Mr. Stark even after Tony had invited him to call him by his first name. But the rest of the islanders called him Turaga Ni Kaukamea or sometimes just Kaukamea. Friday had translated it as basically Man of Iron.

So, they were aware of who he was. But no one ever asked to see the suit or wondered why he'd chosen to live on the island when it was clear his own house was in such disarray. They didn't bring it up at all. They expressed their gratitude in humble ways and treated him like anyone else on the island, which was perfect with Tony.

He peeked out from under his pillow to find that the sky has lightened into a midnight blue with the faint orange glow of dawn creeping up behind the windowsill.

"Okay, okay. Stop the music and start the coffee," he said, giving in. "And play me something tropical.”

"You do realize that the current temperature is 76 degrees with a humidity of 94%?" Friday asked as the sound of steel drums and ukulele began.

"My body still thinks it's December in New York, don't judge me," Tony snarked back, smiling when the coffee pot came to life. The rich aroma of the local blend infused his little cabin as the sun crested the horizon.

Tony threw back the sheet and stretched. He drew a deep breath and padded naked across the wood floor to the little kitchenette that consisted of the smallest stove he'd ever seen, a microwave, and a refrigerator that was straight out of the '70s in avocado green. The fanciest thing in the kitchen was his second luxury item – his beloved Concordia espresso machine.

He poured a cup into one of the chipped mugs that had come with the place and took it outside to the fire pit he'd built in the dooryard. His cabin was far enough away from the beach to be safe from the tide but close enough that his view from the fire was the perfect place to watch the sun come up. Tony lit the fire and settled into his camp chair with his coffee to do just that.

Although he tried to focus on his plans for the day, his mind wandered down paths he preferred to avoid. He tried not to spend his time worrying about the wayward Avengers, Rhodey, and the countless ways he had and continued to fail Pepper. But in those quiet moments when it was just him and the traitorous birds, Tony let it in.

He rubbed his chest. Like a phantom limb, it ached as it had for months after his last meeting with Steve.

And Barnes.

Tony sighed. Pepper had insisted he see a shrink after everything went down. He'd gone - a couple of times. But he still couldn't talk about it. Hell, he couldn't even think about it without igniting the flame of resentment and hatred. Logically he understood that Barnes had been brainwashed by Hydra. He was no more responsible for his actions than Clint had been for what he'd done when under the power of Loki's scepter.

Nevertheless, here Tony was. If Barnes were to materialize before him, Tony would probably try to bash his head in with a coconut.

Probably. Maybe.

Barnes may have the benefit of Tony’s doubt, the mind-controlled pass. But Steve...Cap…he’d made his choices all on his own. Tony oscillated between hope and fear that the big, stubborn man would get caught. He had no idea what he would say to the man if he ever saw him again. But he had the little burner phone Steve had mailed to Tony Stank tucked into his sock drawer nonetheless.

The temperature had risen just a little. On the horizon, Tony spied a rain cloud, one of those slow-moving clouds you could watch approach with its sheets of rain that blanketed the island at least once a day.

He frowned.

"Friday, what's the weather supposed to be like today?"

"Fair in the morning with severe thunderstorms rolling in at approximately 1:34 P.M."

"I suppose I should get started then," he said, gulping down the rest of his coffee. He put the mug in the sink and fished a fresh pair of shorts and a t-shirt from his dresser. It was time to check on the arc reactor.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Boss, the Fiji Meteorological Society has issued a tropical storm warning with potential for rotation in this area and is expected it hit earlier than expected," Friday warned.

Tony crawled out from under the arc reactor's electronics panel and adjusted his glasses.

"How bad?" he asked, wiping his hands on a towel. He peered up at the doughnut-shaped reactor housing. The walls of the cave in which he'd built it flickered blue and purple as it purred softly.

There was a certain amount of poetic justice in this, he thought. He'd started this in a cave. And now here he was again, minus the car battery and armed guards. And this arc reactor was designed only to help.

Tony climbed a small set of metal stairs, freshly painted safety yellow, which led to the ground floor. He opened a set of doors and entered the circular antechamber where islanders could look through the reinforced glass at the arc reactor below. They'd installed bunker doors at the mouth of the cave for emergencies. But they were usually left open to the public. The reactor itself was locked and protected by Friday. No one entered without Tony's knowledge.

Outside, the palm trees swayed and here and there little puffs of dirt from the path twisted into the air with leaves and rocks. Tony had been in the reactor bunker for a few hours and the wind had picked up considerably.

"Radar indicates wind speed of approximately 22 miles per hour. No active rotation," Friday said.

Tony chewed his lip and considered the news. When he'd moved in, Mr. Umbari had gone over their storm preparedness plan. The island had a storm bunker for its inhabitants. As though he'd summoned the man, Mr. Umbari and his orange menace of a golf cart sped around the corner. He slid in next to Tony's red cart, barely missing the tail end as he turned the sharp corner. Tony chuckled and shook his head as Mr. Umbari unfolded his long legs and climbed out from under the orange and white striped canopy. He hurried toward the bunker as the first drops of rain plip-plopped against his yellow rain slicker. As soon as he saw Tony Mr. Umbari grinned and waved. Tony ushered him inside and hit the button to close the bunker doors.

"Mr. Stark. The boys said you were here," Mr. Umbari said, entering through the single door.

"Yeah, I was just checking on the reactor, giving her a tune-up. Friday says we've got a storm on the way?"

Mr. Umbari had been introduced to the AI and he seemed completely charmed by her.

He smiled at the ceiling. "Hello, Ms. Friday. Thank you for keeping Mr. Stark so informed."

"It's my pleasure, Sir," she answered in her pleasant Irish lilt earning a grin from Mr. Umbari.

"Unfortunately, Ms. Friday is correct, Sir. Since this is your first storm on the island, I wanted to make sure that you were safe."

"Thanks for your concern. I'll finish up here and go down to the cabin, batten down the hatches and be in the bunker in time for dinner, Dad." Tony smiled at the large man as he put away his tools."

Mr. Umbari laughed, deep and genuine. "Good, good. I'm glad to hear it. I hear that Skillet has already begun a pot of lamb stew for the occasion."

Tony's stomach growled at the thought of food and he realized he hadn't eaten yet today.

"Skillet's cooking?" Tony asked and Mr. Umbari grinned.

"If Skillet's in the kitchen I'm not gonna miss it," Tony said.

Kitchen wizard and culinary school dropout, Skillet worked the plantation to help pay off his student loans. But one meal at Skillet's table told Tony that the young Fijian was wasting his talents.

Tall, whip-thin, with long black curls he kept up in a messy bun most days, the kid could cook rings around the overpriced chefs at any of the five-star Manhattan restaurants. Tony had offered to pay his debt and set him up in a spot of his own, wherever he wanted. But Skillet turned him down every time.

Tony, being Tony, had been trying to come up with a loophole that kid would accept to no avail. But he had one final trick up his sleeve he planned to save until the right moment. As Tony's chef, Skillet would both pay down his debt and have his talents recognized by the top critics around the world at the events Tony threw. It was a win-win for both of them.

Mr. Umbari nodded, evidently pleased with Tony's response.

"Good. Good. I should go to make sure the animals are safe. I will see you there, my friend! Goodbye, Ms. Friday," he said.

Tony smiled, amused at the way the islanders treated everything with a relaxed acceptance. Even in the face of a potentially damaging storm, they prepared for a gathering of families.

"See you there."

~~~~~~~~~~

Tony stepped into the storm bunker and was immediately enveloped in the delicious aroma of stew and fresh bread. He breathed in deeply and looked around the room, impressed by the setup. The bunker looked like a basement with concrete walls and floors. A bar and small kitchen stood on the right side of the room where Skillet was working his magic. The left side was lined with padded seats. They'd made the cold, grey room into a warm and comfortable place to gather with tapestries on the walls, and woven rugs and pillows on the floors.

"Turaga ni kaukamea!" several children called and swarmed, reaching up to be held and tugging him toward the group of adults who sat at the tables lined up end to end in the center of the room.

"Oh hey!" he exclaimed when a little girl who couldn't be more than four climbed him like a palm tree. The adults laughed as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He sat down in one of the folding chairs and held her on his lap.

"Kaukamea, what are you building in your lab? Filipe says you have a ghost and you talk to it. Does it help you build things?" she asked.

"Who told you that?"

The little girl pointed to a boy with bronze skin and wide, curious eyes. He looked up at Tony in fascination from the safety of his mother's arms.

"Filipe?" Tony asked with a raised eyebrow. The boy nodded dramatically.

"And what's your name?" Tony asked the girl.

"Sara," she said.

"Nice to meet you, Sara and Filipe. It just so happens that I am currently working on some upgrades to the arc reactor technology that runs the island. Have you seen the new bunker?"

All the children nodded in unison.

"So, if...and Filipe, I'm looking at you here… IF someone were sneaking around my lab, they may have heard me talking to Friday, who is not a ghost. She's more like a really, really smart computer who can talk."

"Is she smarter than you?" Sara asked, wide-eyed.

"Well...technically, yes. I built her. But I taught her to learn. She has access to all the information on the internet. So, she knows like...everything."

"Woooow," the children chorused.

"Right? She’s crazy smart.”

"Kaukamea, can we meet Friday?” Sara asked. "I have a computer at home. But it's never spoken to me before. Do you think if I brought it over, Friday could teach it how to talk?"

The children murmured their agreement, each of them wanting Friday to teach their computers to talk too. Tony noticed that the adults had stopped what they were doing to listen to the conversation.

Tong chuckled. "Unfortunately, your home computers aren't quite as smart as Friday. But if it's okay with your parents, you can come by the lab to meet Friday. But listen, it's super important that if you come to visit me that you don't go into the lab by yourself. You never know what I'm working on. And it could be dangerous. Do you all understand?"

The children agreed and ran off to play. The adults chuckled and resumed their conversations. Sara wiggled down from his lap and grabbed Filipe's hand.

"I told you there wasn't a ghost," she said.

"Well, it sounded like a ghost," he said.

"Sorry about that," one of the women said, taking a seat next to Tony. "The children are so curious about you. I'm Delana, Sara's mother." She held out her hand and Tony shook it with a smile. Delana was a little younger than Tony with caramel skin and sleek black hair she wore swept up in a ponytail.

"It's okay. I'm used to it. I just wanted to make sure they don't get hurt."

"Thank you for looking out for them. And for everything you've done for the island. When Mr. Umbari was forced to sell, we thought that everyone here would be forced off the island. But you swooped in and allowed us to keep our homes, brought reliable electricity and Wi-Fi, and helped us keep our jobs. You have truly been a blessing."

Tony nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat. "I'm glad I could do some good," he said.

Delana tilted her head; she studied him a moment before smiling and patting his hand. "Let me get you some stew," she said finally before getting up and heading to the kitchen where people had begun to get in line.

Tony tuned in to the conversations around him. The people spoke in a mix of English and Fijian. Friday helped by providing translation on the lenses of his glasses and he followed the conversations. Delana returned with a big bowl of stew and a plate piled with roti, a flatbread the islanders seemed to have at almost every meal.

The storm hit late in the evening with everyone gathered around a large pot-bellied stove as Mr. Umbari told stories to the nervous children. They invited Tony into one of the wooden rocking chairs by the fire. He'd refused several times because although he owned the island and everyone had been more than welcoming, Tony couldn't shake the sense that he was still an outsider, merely a means to an end for these people. But eventually, he accepted and as the wind howled outside and Friday fed him updates about the storm, Tony drifted off to sleep in the warmth of the fire.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List: Let me know if you’d like to be added/removed

@caseyhasissues @iroironfestivalgoopmaker @unicornpower5301

#starker #tony x peter #peter parker #tony stark #mcu fanfiction #mcu fanfic

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timeinabottle · 6 years ago

Text

Stranger Things AU | Jopper

William Byers disappears into thin air in 1883. His distraught mother, Joyce must put aside her differences with the only man that can help her now. In their desperate search for her son, they uncover the dark world of the occult, a terrible haunting and something the Witch’s daughter calls… the Other Side.

Stranger things have happened…

Read Chapter One: The Vanishing of William Byers on AO3 {X}

Read Chapter Two: It’s Happening Again (Part I) on AO3 {X}

Listen to the soundtrack on spotify {X}

Chapter Two: It’s Happening Again

Part I

The rustle of leaves underfoot was her soundtrack on the long march home from the center of town. Joyce had finally started to become numb to it all and was trying her best to just enjoy the walk for what it was, without dwelling on the situation at hand. Off in the distance, the noon train to Indianapolis sounded it’s whistle while birdsong carried lightly on the breeze. A rooster crowed from a nearby cottage. Each sound was comforting to her; pure white noise and a blank canvas to paint her thoughts.

The sky had begun to clear up, and a blue sky threatened to break through. The maple corridor, which lined her path home, glowed a ruby red in the sun as the broad leaves danced around the hem of her skirts. It was turning into a crisp autumn day, beautiful in all its glory; a stark contrast to the bleakness she felt in her heart.

The familiarity of the scene made her yearn for the quiet and simple life she had only one week prior. All the mornings she spent walking her boys to school when they were younger played in her memory. Jonathan walking ahead with Will puttering behind, stopping every few yards to jump in another gully full of leaves. Joyce would have to pause and wait, chirping at him to hurry up (he’d be late for school, again!) even though she loved to see him so excited by the season’s offerings.

Her sweet baby boy, eyes full of wonder and light. He was all she could see when she looked around her now. Everything reminded her of Will. There was the tree he loved to climb, and that was the pond where he caught his first frog when he was three. Over there was the bench they would stop and sit on when she walked him home from school. Happy memories came flooding back at once, and she smiled. But it didn’t last long before her thoughts quickly turned dark again, as she vividly recalled the reality that she had been at this exact spot two days ago, crying out his name over and over into the forest, as Jonathan searched every nook and cranny of the woods.

It was then and there that she finally allowed herself the indulgence to cry.

At first, it was a whimper — small and hidden behind a delicate lace glove. A stifled sob followed, and Joyce tried to steady herself, suddenly unable to breathe; it was as if someone sucked all the air out of the sky above. She was gasping when the tears came. With each step closer to home, Joyce allowed the tears to wrack her body. She became unabashed and unwavering in her cries, shed of the worry that someone might witness her coming-undone.

She rounded the corner down the winding path to her home, and her only relief was the sight of the smoke drifting out of the chimney indicating that Jonathan was home from Indianapolis.

The old house had once been a neglected two-story gothic revival, but after Lonnie’s insurance paid out, Joyce wasted no time and spared no cost in fixing it up to its original grandeur. She even had it painted her favorite shade of green, just because she could.

Soon after she began renovations, a man had stopped by from a new company in town, Hawkins Power and Light. It seemed they had gotten their hands on Edison’s patents and electricity was making its way to sleepy little Hawkins much sooner than the rest of the country. This man, called himself Owens, had heard she was renovating from one of the builders she hired. He wondered if she would be willing to allow his company to install an electric light system throughout her house, as a trial, for free.

All she had to do was let them set it up, no questions asked, and answer a few surveys by telephone occasionally for the next year. Owens explained that they were government funded and they wanted three things: One, to see if it was possible. Two, to use her as an experiment to examine the total costs involved, and three, to study how the ordinary American family adapted. Joyce asked him if he knew she was a widow and that her family was anything but ‘Ordinary.’ The man had a kind way about him though and insisted that just meant she needed it more than anyone. He promised she wouldn’t regret it.

And he was right. There was something about not having to light every goddamn candle in the house, or fuss with the gas lanterns, that she didn’t think she could ever go back to what her and the boys jokingly called “the Dark Ages.” Sure, she had gone a bit overboard with all the upgrades, and money was running low now, but she didn’t regret anything if it meant her sons were more comfortable. Everything was for them.

She drew a shaky breath and hastily wiped at her tear stained face as she neared the house, pointless as it was. She could feel the rawness in her cheeks, and there was no way she could hide that evidence from her oldest son. The best thing she could do was to put on a brave face for him as she walked through the door.

A new fire danced wildly in the hearth, struggling to stay lit. Ingredients for a stew were spread out across the counters in the kitchen, and a pot was steaming on the stove, filling the house with the smell of Will’s favorite dish.

The tiniest grin touched her lips at the thought of the last time she had made it for him, only a few weeks earlier. The memory was fresh, yet so far removed from her. It already felt like a lifetime ago.

"What's in it?" Will's nose wrinkled as he looked over the lip of the pot boiling on top of the woodfired stove. Joyce tutted him away so she could stir their dinner one more time and make sure it didn't need anything else. Will settled in at the kitchen table, picking up his pencil and getting back to his sketchpad.

“Don’t worry, It has everything you like,” she reassured him, meeting his look of concern, though his attention was on his drawing - a wizard and a fiery dragon dueling on a rocky cliff. “Although, now that you mention it, I think it might be missing something…" she pursed her lips, tapping her chin as she thought, trying to regain his attention. "Something special. Magical, even."

That got him. Will watched with a grin as his mother searched the kitchen for her exceptional ingredient, her dainty fingers waving over spices and herbs as if casting a spell on the savories. She slowly turned her focus to her youngest son with a wicked grin.

“What are little boys made of, again?” She counted off the ingredients on her fingers, creeping toward him. “Snakes, snails…”

“Puppy dog tails?” Will perked up, but not before returning to his sketch.

She pointed at him, “Yes! In that case, you’ll do just fine!” She cackled and lunged for him, but he didn’t flinch. Waving her fingers around him for good measure, she added, ”Double double, toil, and trouble. Fire burn and William bubbles!” The reaction she got was tepid.

”I know you're not a witch like everyone says. You can't scare me with that anymore, you know,” Will rolled his eyes and went back to his drawing.

Joyce’s heart dropped. He was growing up so fast… but not if she had anything to do with it!

She grabbed the leftover carrots and stuck them between her fingers as if they were long, crooked old hag’s fingers instead. Ever so quietly, she snuck up behind her son and gently ran the roots across his cheek, letting out a sinister cackle when he jumped out of his seat. He fell into a fit of giggles when he realized what she had done.

Joyce reached for him with her other hand, through her own laughter, finding the ticklish spot between his ribs that made him laugh and squirm and shriek in delight.

He jumped back from her wiggling fingers, his face lighting up with laughter, “Mom… you’re home.”

“What do you mean, baby?” she asked him, her cheeks aching from smiling so hard. She turned away from Will and back to the stew bubbling away on the stove behind her.

“You're home,” Jonathan repeated when she didn’t respond. He touched her arm, stirring her from her daydream, pulling her back into her waking nightmare. His eyes met hers, and that's when she noticed the deep frown lines etched upon his face. It made him look so much older than his sixteen years, and that made her heart break even more. He was far too young to be this haggard with worry.

She touched her son’s cheek and pulled him into a hug, and throwing herself into it, letting him hold her up for a moment.

“What did the police chief say?” Jonathan’s voice hitched, the worry seeping through.

Joyce pulled back and allowed herself to collapse into the chair at the kitchen table before answering him, loosening her bodice to allow herself more air. She was beginning to feel faint again. “Chief Hopper took the case, and he’s gathering volunteers to form a search party. He sent me home to rest… for now. I have to go back to the printer’s by half-past three to pick up the posters with Will’s information,” her voice wobbled with emotion when she spoke. She was trying her best to hold it together. “Did you see your great aunt in the city?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Her eldest frowned, “Only for a moment. She hadn’t seen Will… but she wasn’t really making much sense either.”

Joyce nodded sullenly, she knew Aunt Darlene would be difficult to get a straight answer from. “And your father’s sister?”

“She moved to Chicago last spring,” Jonathan place his hand on her shoulder, knowing this wasn’t the news his mother wanted to hear. “Her landlord gave me her card, but the operator said no one was answering when I tried to call on her.”

Joyce drew a deep breath and covered her face in her hands. Will was missing, and they had nothing to go on. Was this all really happening?

Jonathan rubbed her back, “You’re shaking. I’m going to draw you a bath, and then I'm going out to join the search party. Don’t worry about the posters, I’ll get them.” He began rummaging through her coin purse, grabbing what he hoped was enough and pocketing it, not even wanting to worry her about counting it out right now; she didn’t need the added stress of worrying about the money, or the lack thereof. He knew the accommodations she had made for him and his brother had cost more than she let on and she was struggling to keep up with household expenses again. His poor mother could never seem to catch a break.

Jonathan turned back to the meal he had cooked up for her, “Will you please eat something?” Scolding her over his shoulder, he served up a bowl of stew. “I know you haven't since I left yesterday.” He placed it in front of her, an expectant look on his face.

She sighed, there was no way she could possibly eat right now, her appetite was just as missing as her son was. Jonathan looked sternly at his mother, and she could tell he wasn't going to take no for an answer. Where did he get that stubbornness from?

She smiled meekly at him and took the spoon, pushing the steaming stew around the bowl and blowing on it.

Jonathan nodded at the sight of this, taking that as good enough sign she would eat if he left her alone for a few moments while he prepared the bath for her. Leaning down, he kissed her on the forehead and left her to her meal.

She continued pushing the stew around the bowl as it cooled and listened to the noises of the pump squeaking and the water hitting the hammered tin of the bathtub. The rushing sounds from the other room were soothing; another familiar background noise. Something to remind her of how things used to be, not so long ago. She sighed once more and slowly brought a spoonful of stew to her lips. Hungrier than she realized, Joyce polished off the entire bowl before Jonathan had returned for the hot water bubbling over the fire.

He filled the bucket with the hot water and carried it off to the next room repeating this task several times while Joyce cleaned up the mess her son had made while making her dinner.

The sun had shifted, and everything was suddenly cast in shadows. Joyce turned on a light in the kitchen and began to wander the old home; it felt even more empty now than ever before. Down the hall, she stopped at the portrait of her two boys, wrapped up in gold foil framing and convex glass, the fanciest frame she could get for her only picture of her sons together. Without a thought, Joyce grabbed it off the wall and marched it to the parlor where the sun still shone through the windows in the mid-afternoon sun. She examined the grey image, the sight of Will calming her somewhat. Her boys were so handsome. They looked like little princes in the photograph, dressed in their Sunday finest.

It was a blessing she was able to afford such luxuries. She had heard of families only being able to afford the photography after a person had died as a memento mori, and she was thankful that was not her case. Heaven forbid they couldn’t find the body… her tears dripped on the glass as she banished the thought from her mind.

Jonathan came back to let her know, “The bath should be ready for you now. I’ll be home later tonight, I promise. Try to get some sleep?” He squeezed her shoulders to say goodbye, and she nodded, putting the picture up against the piano, following her orders once more. Bath. Then sleep. It was all she could do right now so why bother fighting.

It was just what she needed, after all, it seemed. She hadn’t realized how tense she was until she dipped below the surface of the hot water and her muscles began to relax. She let herself sink to the bottom of the tub, the water coming up over her head. When she finally came up for air, she was renewed, the water soothing her anxious mind. She combed her hair out and lathered up in the special French lavender soap Will gave her for her birthday (he saved up all his allowance for months just to buy it for her.) Her eyes became heavy as she rinsed off, so she leaned back against the tub, drifting off in the warmth that enveloped her.

She didn’t know how much time had passed when she opened her eyes again. The water was cold, and the sun was low in the sky, casting the house into shadows. She must have fallen asleep.

The house shifted and creaked, and she heard the piano tinkle, catching her attention. A loud thump came through the walls, startling her. Was someone in the house? Joyce stepped out of the bath, quickly getting dressed, the fabric of her nightgown clinging to her wet skin. She didn’t bother to tie up her robe. “Hello? Who’s there?” she poked her head around the corner and listened.

No one.

She tip-toed her way to the kitchen and then to the front of the house. “Hello?” she asked one more time, just to be sure. She was met with silence.

Joyce collapsed into the chaise behind her in relief. She spent a long moment there listening to the fire crackle and the wind beginning to pick up outside. She listened to her quiet house, with her true fears finally realized: a mother missing her child. She wouldn’t wish this on her worst enemy. When she couldn’t stand the silence anymore, she grabbed the pack of cigarettes she kept hidden in rolltop for special occasions. She lit one, the tobacco sweet on her tongue.

The memory of her first taste of nicotine came rushing back. She was thirteen. Hop - though she called him Jim back then - had stolen a pouch of tobacco and papers from his brother one hot summer night. She was curious; He wanted her to try. It was her first cigarette, and her first kiss as they watched his friends shooting off fireworks down by the riverside that fourth of July. She drifted in the fleeting memory and inhaled deeply, meditating on the smoke.

The last beams of sunlight hit the cloud on her exhale, turning the parlor into a hazy dream. She was finally starting to relax, just a little, and she sank back into the cushions. Words couldn’t express how relieved Joyce was that Hopper didn’t hold a grudge with her. Or if he did, it would seem he was putting it aside for Will’s sake now. She would be eternally grateful for the kindness of an old friend, and the relief he brought her, knowing she wouldn’t have to face this on her own.

A loud crash interrupted her reverie, and she looked over to see the picture of her boys on its face across the room, glass shattered around the pretty frame. Joyce frowned, it didn’t feel drafty in the house. That glass shouldn’t have smashed so violently unless…

A chill came over her. She listened, but there was silence. Nothing but her heart beating and the fire dying.

She was alone.

A/N: Part II coming soon...

#stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #jopper #joyce x hopper #au #joyce byers #jim hopper #victorian pulp #cheap melodrama #danse macabre

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lykegenia · 6 years ago

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The Things We Hide Ch. 22

The Southern Water Tribe stood for a hundred years against the Fire Nation, indomitable until Sozin’s Comet tipped the balance in Fire Lord Ozai’s favour. Now, as planned, the South is decimated, Chief Hakoda is a puppet on his throne, and Princess Katara is a political prisoner held in the Fire Nation capital to ensure his good behaviour. But Ozai has little time to gloat. A vigilante masquerading as the Blue Spirit is causing unrest among the people, rebel ships still hound his navy, and right under his nose the South’s most powerful waterbender waits with the patience of ice to strike at the very heart of his empire and bring it crashing down.

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Zuko woke somewhere dark. As his awareness grew, the first sensation to come back to him was pain, a sharp ache at the back of his skull and a dull throb down the left side of his face that he knew would only get worse. Whoever had knocked him out had left his mask on, and it did nothing to relieve the feverish itch of his skin. His hands were chained above his head; the metal clinked when he tried to move. He drifted off again, falling between wakefulness and unconsciousness so that even with his ability to sense the sun, he couldn’t tell how much time passed.

Eventually, he heard footsteps. One set steadily approaching, echoed by another running to catch up. They stopped beyond the shadow he presumed to be the door of his cell.

“Food for the prisoner.”

He shifted, tense, the guard’s muttered response lost in the pop of joints that hadn’t moved for hours.

“Katara, are you sure this is a good idea?” The Water Tribe boy. “You know –”

“I know what I’m doing, Sokka.”

Sokka sighed. “Just be careful.”

She murmured something Zuko couldn’t hear, and then a key turned in the lock and the door swung open on the groan of old hinges. He turned away. Her footsteps carried her through until she halted, and the door slammed shut again, and the scrape of her boots over the packed dirt floor came with the smell of hot food and the glow of a candle.

“Zuko?” she called, with a wary, muted quality to her voice that grated on his nerves. She sighed and crouched down next to him. “How’s your head?”

“Spare me your false pity,” he snarled, unable to help the way his fists clenched.

“It’s not false pity. I’m going to take your mask off now. Even if you won’t admit it you’ll be more comfortable with it off.”

He watched her hand reach for the ties behind his head but didn’t move away, knowing that to do so would be useless, and token shows of resistance were beneath his dignity besides. Even so, he hissed when she pried the mask off him, flinching away as the bandage over the left side of his face stuck to the wood and broke the scab. He had hated her for months – a lifetime – but somehow, it was her gasp on seeing the ruin of his face that formed the hard lump at the back of his throat.

“Don’t touch it,” he snapped as her hand stretched out again.

Her fingers curled in on themselves. “What happened?”

“Why do you care?”

“I care,” she replied. “Zuko, this is infected, let me help you. I can heal –”

“Get away from me!” He jerked upwards, calling fire to his fists so she had to flinch away. “I don’t need anything from you. You did this to me.”

“No, I didn’t.” Her gaze held something inscrutable, like a riddle she was on the cusp of solving, but he was glad when she didn’t reach out to touch him again. “Why are you here?” she asked instead.

He bared his teeth. “Why are you here?”

The only answer was another sigh as she pulled a ring of keys from a loop on her belt and rose on her knees to unlock the shackles above his head. His wrists were still bound together, and the rush of blood back into his hands made them sting as they dropped into his lap, but he nevertheless had to bite back a sigh of relief.��

Katara was already standing. “You should eat something.”

He hadn’t noticed her place the bowl next to him. It was mostly rice with only a small amount of some thin, gristly broth soaking around the edges, but at least it smelled edible, and as his watering mouth and rumbling stomach reminded him, it had been at least a day since he had eaten.

“There aren’t any chopsticks, I’m afraid,” she told him. “It was decided you might try to escape – which I wouldn’t recommend, by the way. I managed to convince them to bring you down here without taking off the mask, but everyone knows who the Blue Spirit is now, and the Prince of the Fire Nation is a valuable prisoner to have.”

“I won’t help you,” he managed, because of all the retorts crowding on his tongue, that one was the safest.

“I wasn’t asking for your help,” she replied coldly. “That was a warning. There’s more than one person here who would love the chance to avenge family killed in the war. By your people.”

“Are you one of them?”

She turned away from him, and was nearly at the door before she threw her answer over her shoulder. “My quarrel isn’t with you.”

The door groaned open at her knock and as she stepped through a shadow detached from the wall and reached out for her. She paused, but ignored the touch and kept walking, leaving Sokka an instant to glare through the darkness at the prisoner in the cell, before the guard blocked the sight and slammed the cell closed once more.

When it opened again, dawn was not far off, but the air was more bitterly cold than before. Zuko had managed a few hours of fitful sleep after Katara’s visit, the food palatable but nowhere near enough to fill the hunger that gnawed deeper into his gut whenever he thought about it. He had never had to go hungry, not even on the ship. At some point, someone had left him another candle, with a bowl of salted water, clean bandages, and a pot of ointment to treat his burn. Though he tried to ignore the offer, without anything else to distract him the itching on his face became unbearable, and before he knew it he was reaching for the small stone pot and all but whimpering with relief as the thick, herby salve cooled his fevered skin. He had applied the new bandage as best he could without a mirror, but he left the mask lying where Katara had dropped it. He had no use for it now.

A guard stood before him, one of the ones in deep blue and white. Close to, he noticed a floral pattern embroidered into the hem of the quilted robes, and over the white mantle that draped the man’s shoulders, a heraldry that he’d never seen before.

“On your feet,” the guard snapped.

Prisoner he may be, but Zuko was still a prince. People did not talk to him with such disrespect. “Why?”

“Because I’m authorised to make you if you won’t cooperate.” The man grinned. “Don’t worry, you’re too valuable to haul off to the execution block.”

“Then where are you taking me?” Zuko asked, deciding to stand. His legs wobbled from being cramped for so long, but he didn’t stumble.

“The Grand Master wants to see you.”

Another two guards joined them beyond the door of the cell and together they led their prisoner through a maze of tunnels. He was blindfolded, and though he tried to keep track of all the turns as they took him through the maze of corridors, the construction of the temple was disorienting, and all he could tell was that they were climbing up into one of the towers, the steps worn and uneven beneath his feet. Draughts whistled down the spiral staircase, cutting through his thin clothes and dousing his inner fire until even shivering was too much effort, but perhaps that was the point, a way to make him less dangerous.

Eventually they reached a landing. One of the guards opened a door that creaked on old hinges, spilling warmth and the familiar scent of jasmine out into the corridor.

“The Grand Master will see you shortly,” someone said as he was pushed forward onto thick carpet. The door slammed behind him. For a moment he stood, cautious of his new surroundings, suspecting a trick of some sort because while he was still manacled, nobody had said he could take off the blindfold. When he was sure he was alone with only the howl of the wind for company, he reached up and peeled away the offensive layer of cloth.

The place was plush, well-appointed. Scrolls of artwork decorated the walls and artefacts from every nation filled blank spaces in the shelves that lined the room. The airbenders had little use for fire outside of cooking, so there was no hearth, but someone had installed a stove in one corner of the room, and it blazed with a lively fire while an iron kettle heated water on top of it. Zuko edged towards the only window only to find it locked, the sheer drop on the other side added discouragement to try and escape. As he looked around for another opportunity, his gaze was drawn to the centre of the room, where a low table was laid with a Fire Nation tea set on a lacquered tray.

He started when the door opened. And stared.

“Prince Zuko.” The man who surveyed him was squat, old, his jowls sagging and his brown eyes framed by deep wrinkles at the corners. He too wore one of the blue and white uniforms, but his beard was carefully trimmed in the fashionable Fire Nation style, and though he was balding, his wiry grey hair was pulled back into a topknot with a golden general’s clasp.

“I am afraid if you were looking to find a way out of here, you were wasting your time,” the Dragon of the West said as he ambled towards the stove. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to one of the large cushions by the table.

Zuko, numbed by shock, forgot his defiance of a moment before and tottered to where he was directed.

“I suspect you have questions,” Iroh continued, turning away to busy himself with the kettle. “I do as well, but that can wait. First, we must be comfortable. How about we share some food and a pot of nice, warming tea?”

#zutara #Zuko #katara #zuko x katara #katara x zuko #blue spirit #avatar #avatar: the last airbender #a:tla

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blackrose-ffxiv · 6 years ago

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Patronizing the New Shop 08/20

Luke Gravespast was bent over some spread papers, the door opening barely registering until there was a voice. And then he twitched his lips, a glance over his shoulder - there were no apprentices or keeps (yet, maybe?) and it was just Luke tending the floor of the almost homey place. "-You ain't dead," he said in greeting, standing up and shuffling his papers into an ordered stack, looking Lebeaux over, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Lebeaux Desrosiers flashed the saintly smile in the direction he heard noises and soon after a familiar blonde head popped up. The medic extended his long arms outwards to show he was very much alive and in one piece before they folded over his chest again. “See, we nearly had a pleasant moment until you opened your mouth.” He teased flatly. “Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I’m sure you’re thrilled. Though that would explain why you’ve not been around the Tradehouse lately."

Luke gave a polite almost grin of a smile, hands folded under his arms in a manner that was at least consistent with how he held himself. "Ain't heard much from t' boss lady except on a job I wouldn't touch with a ten fulm polearm, so's been mostly keeping myself in regular work." He sounded pained to admit that Lebeaux was one of his better connections for well-paying work. "And I were movin' in," he added, lightly scratching the side of his jaw at the trimmed beard. Which then led to a slight frown, one shoulder riding, before he made a gesture to the set-for-company couches. "Y' want a seat, I c'n make you somethin' t' drink up." Manners dictated he was even required to control the brow twitch that Lebeaux had shown up on his doorstep...

“Ohh? You’ve turned down a job from the Proprietress herself?” Lebeaux mused as he looked around the shop. “I see you’re still moving in. It’s really quite… quaint.” He removed his hat and held it out towards the other as Luke made the mistake of inviting him in and making himself comfortable. The rule of vampires also extended to pompous elezen. “Tea or brandy, preferably both if you have it.” He glanced over the seating options, perhaps looking for the one least likely to transfer dust or dirt to his coat. “What was the job that was worth the risk of burning your shaky bridge with her?”

"I didn't turn -down- a job, jus' lettin' someone else pick it up.." Luke idly waved a hand, sounding almost amused. "Besides, information ain't what I do, aye? Let the folks who handle tha' work handle tha'." It wasn't turning it DOWN it was making sure he didn't TOUCH it - exactly the best place to be in. And while the rule of vampires extended, that required someone to know them... Garleans didn't really have those traditions. "Wh-" He saw that held out hat and took it, adding it to the half-partition and setting it there for safe keeping. "I c'n do both fer y', sit down, if y' want," he added with a wave to the seating again.

Lebeaux sniffed in amusement. “She asked you. For information.” Well that was certainly rich. “She has several competent brokers, I can’t fathom why she would turn to you.” He smiled as he opted for one of the seats nearby, settling himself primly onto it. “Unless it was the sort of thing you would have more expertise in. I doubt it would be something so simply as locksmithing or patching up a faulty stove.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Does it have anything to do with your side project, I wonder?”

"Open call~" Luke clarified, the man getting tea down and sniffing the water like he was checking it before starting to heat the water up, picking herbs out. It was time to remind Lebeaux that he was supposed to be a hick. "Still workin' on that project but slowly gettin' everything set up t' be able to resume working on it." Hopefully by the tone Lebeaux would read 'and you're not invited to see the facilities either' but he wasn't going to hold his breath with this Elezen. While he measured out the tea, Luke kicked open a cabinet and grabbed a bottle of what one would have to presume was brandy, kicking the cabinet closed again. He couldn't check to see if he was doing a decent hick impression or a little too much, quite yet.

“Ah, I see. Well there may be hope for you yet, then.” Lebeaux offered cheerfully. “Ignoring an open call isn’t quite the same as turning down a job offered to you directly.” The elezen looked around at the surrounding furniture, deciding it was still new enough not to be too terribly saturated with residual ‘country’. He shifted his attention back to Luke, smiling serenely all the while. “Oh, good. That brings me to one of the reasons I’ve decided to drop by. It’s somewhat related to your own project, in fact you may have some familiarity as a byproduct of your own research.”

Luke snorted as he took the water off boil, tipped his finger in the air a few times until the boiling stopped, and then poured it over the tea. For a backwater he could at least make tea well? It was all down to the leaves now! "Oh yeah, ain't dumb 'nough t' ever do tha'," he said with an eyeroll, keeping that from Lebeaux. Because he was more than once or twice tempted for his jobs... The furniture hadn't hit 'lived in' look, still near new. Not the country. "An'... wha' reason would tha' be," he said with just a tad bit of hesitation, a furrow of his brows as he grabbed cups, and something that looked like a wood tea tray to load things up on. "I'm cautiously ears..."

Lebeaux waited patiently for his tea, smiling in his best approximation of ‘warm and friendly’ all the while. Even if his icy eyes did narrow slightly as he observed the method in which the tea was prepared. “If I recall your ramblings correctly, you were on about a project to combine the means of aether manipulation along with magitek.” His hands raised as long fingers curled to gesture several things coming together, apparently feeling it would help clarify what he meant to the other. “I would be interested in rather the reverse. A magitek device to disrupt aether.” He separated his hands and splayed fingers wide. “To limit or entirely prevent casting within a designated area.”

Luke set the tray down, sliding the brandy bottle over - it was probably brandy, nothing amazing but not rotgut - and a cup of tea to Lebeaux. "Y' want..." His expression looked almost wildly concerned at that, sliding himself a cup of tea and setting the teapot down, the tray flipped as a little platform for it. "Why?" Or the read-between-the-lines-question, who.

Lebeaux removed glasses from his jacket pocket and slid them onto his nose as he lifted the bottle offered to him. Making a quiet sound of derision through the nose that said just what he thought of that, though he at least had the decency not to say it out loud. He was a guest after all. “Well. Considering I just laid out what I would like for it to do, the ‘why’ should be rather obvious, Luke.” He said flatly, smiling all the while. He accepted the cup of tea and took a small sip to taste it before he added a generous splash of the brandy. The brew he at least approved of. “I would like to limit or prevent casting within a set area.”

Luke was not going to offer Lebeaux the top shelf, if he even could have afforded it. Only after the man sipped and then augmented his tea did Luke pick his own up, giving it a taste check before hip-leaning against the table since he didn't quite want to sit. His brows were knit together a little in concern, fiddling with the teacup by spinning it around in his fingers. "How large? How long? What type?"

Lebeaux smiled sweetly. Now he was getting it, those were far more acceptable questions. He took a small sip of his fortified tea and nodded his satisfaction. “I would prefer a fifteen to twenty fulm radius from the device. I can work with ten. It will need to be an absolute aether dead zone, no conjury or thaumaturgy or even teleportation. The bit that may be tricky is I would like to be able to activate and deactivate it at will.” Lebeaux took a long sip of the tea and tilted his head as he smiled a bit flatly at Luke. “If you weren’t made aware by the gossip, the damage done to my office was courtesy of a mage. I would like to ensure there is no chance of a repeat performance.”

Luke exhaled slightly, a short chuff of air as he breathed out. "You wan' t' be able to turn it on an' off a few times, or... how fast? Y' want a..." He drank the tea again, muttering under his breath and eyes narrowed. "That's not... uh... usually allowed stuff, y' know?"

Lebeaux lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I realize this is quite a tall order and not the sort of thing one would come across in the markets or salvage yards.” He noted calmly, the smile growing somewhat over the edge of the cup. “I’m sure you’re already aware that much of what the Golden Fox deals in isn’t quite ‘allowed stuff’. Yet considering your interest in the field you seemed the best candidate to run my problem by. I have looked into arcanima and warding, yet that would require a more permanent effect.”

Luke shifted on his feet, slowly twisting the cup of tea again in his fingers, his expression something that was more than a little conflicted but also interested. "I... am, aye, an' jus' makin' sure you know that this could... get y' a bit of attention. You say you don't wan' permanent... somethin' like this might... need stuff laid out 'r down at least?"

Lebeaux tilted his head as he considered it. “Some accommodations may be made to ensure its efficiency. I’ll not have my rooms tangled in wire and cable but I can surely make adjustments as the remodeling is done should minor changes be necessary.” He smiled, his head still tilted as he peered at the smith. “Which part of it would draw attention? Acquiring materials, fabrication, installation?”

Luke shifted on his feet as he considered, fingers tapping against his arms as he mapped it out mentally. "...Installation," came the rather quick answer, a twitch of his mouth as he continued to think. "Problem's s'more in the matter of the fact if y' want it concealed, gonna need t' be careful on how it's put inta place." He scratched the stubble on his jaw, eyes narrowed at Lebeaux. "I c'n get away wit' tha materials rather easy, s'fine fer me. You? Gonna shine yer nose inta the wrong places if y' do it. So gonna have t' put tha fabrication all on me fer tha' an' acquirin' s'well."

Lebeaux straightened up far enough to have a sip of tea. “In that case I have no choice but to defer to your expertise in matters of acquisition as well as design. Surely your estimate and quote will reflect accordingly. As well as a consideration towards keeping the matter between us.” He smiled serenely and this time tilted in a small mock-bow. “There is a budget limit, should we come too close or exceed it I’ll simply have to return to my standard method of breaking or removing the fingers of mages who irk me.” He suggested cheerfully.

@glowinggunmetal

#lebeaux #luke gravespast #because the shady magitekkie is definitely trustworthy #and wouldn't ever bite back at lebby #suuuuure

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handiestmanboston · 2 years ago

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whosxafraid · 6 years ago

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Jayden and Luka for the Married Life

Meme: Married Life Meme Status: CLOSED

leaves their dirty clothes on the floor

Shame. He has it. But not about physical things. At least not a lot. And there’s a certain sort of walk mortals talk about; that you do the morning after. Walk of Shame, if he’s got that right. But that’s not the sort of walk he’s doing is it? Even if for a second he thinks about pulling on lounge pants and a shirt, but she’s already seen what he usually hides from the world….So in nothing more than what he was born in, he gets up. Stepping on clothes that had been shed last night because tunnel vision is one hell of a drug.

Gets the coffee started. Checks the fridge. Realizes they’ll have to go out for breakfast because he’s all out of eggs. Something brushed off for the time being, as he allows the door to fall back shut of it’s own volition. Back to the window to clear the bowl of creme and throw away the burned out candle. The slightest of twitches to his lips, because he doesn’t know why he bothers hoping things will change.

Off to the table, clicking on the tv. Switching it to the morning news, while he surfs through the supernatural want ads. Don’t knock it. Once in a while there’s a high paying job in these things. Not everyone could know him by word of mouth. Why? Because that takes part of the fun out of it. The coffee pings and not a moment later he picks up the tread of feet.

“Mornin’, love. Coffees ready. Be moi’ndin’ bringin’ me o’mug?”

A noise that sounds like agreement so he leaves her be. At least until a handfull of his ass is getting groped.

Ya know most people at least put on pants when they get up in the morning.

“Aye. Mos’ people do.”

forgets to run the dish washer

Time is…rather relative when you don’t age. And getting back from a job can be at any hour. Today it happens to be at two in the afternoon. He’s hungry. He’s tired. And he just wishes he could eat and sleep at the same time. But even he can’t manage that one. So eat first it is. Or would be if not for the fact the dishwashers not full of clean dishes. A minimal sigh, that pulls shoulders down into the dirt.

Okay, plan b. The steak gets put directly on the eye of the stove. Turned over twice. Picked up with tongues, then juggled between his hands a few moments before a chunk is bitten out of it. And that would have been the end of it if she hadn’t come home early. Stopped dead center in the kitchen door way, one brow lifted, like him with a pratically raw steak hanging out of his mouth is the weirdest thing she’s seen all week. Which by the way? He knows would be a lie if she tried it.

“In me de’fense? S’no’ d’weir’est d’ing ye be walkin’ in on me doin’….”

Did you just quote Tony Stark?

“Maybe?”

And there’s a tired grin around the pound of flesh between his teeth. At least until he pulls. Tearing off a bite and chewing.

Just….try not to get any on the floor and wipe up the stove. My mother’s coming over.

“Aye, love. As ye loi’ke.”

pumps gas for the car

It’s one little stop over. I don’t see why you’re…

“Oi’ said no. oi’dunna go d’ere less oi’absolutely have ta.”

Out of the car, leaving the door open. Pushing and pulling a card out. Punching in his pin. Punching the gas selection. He really hated rentals. But it couldn’t be helped.

Have you seriously scheduled every flight you ever taken to compensate for not even wanting to BE in England’s air space?

“Aye. An’ oi’ dunna plan on stoppin’ now, jus’cause i’be shavin’ an hour off travel toi’me.”

Luka this is ridiculous. It’s been what? Twelve hundred years? Let-it-go!

He shuts the driver’s door without response. He’s not going to continue this argument right now. And he lets his ears settle to the clicking of the gas pump. Let it go? Over his damned dead body, he will.

drives when they’re going somewhere

They’ve been driving for a half hour. Not a word between them. And this is not at all how he’d pictured driving to through the Italian country side but here they are. And there’s a small huff, as he lets the window down. Lights up. He’s not going to break the silence, because he’s not going to bend. Not on this. Even if he knows in his heart of hearts of hearts–it is a little stupid. But he’s bitter and he’s been bitter about that one thing for ages.

Fine. There’s a flight out of tomorrow night. Take an extra two hours but the lay overs in Iceland. Happy?

“Aye.”

She’s upset. But he’s not going to apologize for it. Not yet anyway.

rearranges the furniture

It starts with not leaving her be while she attempts to make herself tea. Hands where they shouldn’t be going at one in the afternoon. Hands that get soundly popped, thrice. So he backs off for all of fifteen seconds. Trying again from a different angle behind the couch. Hands on her shoulders that don’t waste a lot of time sinking further down as teeth nibble at her neck. And this time she’s got a hold of his nose. Pulling him up by it.

What’s gotten into you? I told you not right now. I have a meeting to get to in an hour.

“D’at’s plen’y o’toi’me….soi’des how ye expect me ta be keepin’ me hands ta meself when ye smell loi’ke ye do?”

And he’s pushing forward. Stealing a kiss. And there go his hands again. Wandering places he knows will get him what he wants.

Luka O’Ria–

And there’s a dawning sort of sun that rises over her entire being. Because it clicks and oh no. Oh god damn. And there really isn’t a fairness in making him wait. But she’s going to put up her best defense anyway. Because the chase is all part of the process.

So before he can react, she’s faded out of his hold. Appeared again behind the arm chair, and he moving with that one speed he usually saves for when he’s working. And the first thing to fall is the coffee table. The next the couch that’s tipped over, and the frame of it cracking under the pressure. The shattering of a light bulb when the lamp bites the dust. And by the end of it, one would think a small war had occurred in the loft.

Books knocked off shelves, furniture split open and/or split in half entirely. Scatch marks in the wood floors the same as in flesh. And in the middle of it all, the heated pair of them. Echos still drifting on the air, walls settling back into place from the pressure. And if there’s one thing for sure? She’s going to be late, just like he’s going to be furniture shopping after she leaves.

falls asleep with the TV on

Sometimes she can’t sleep. Sometimes he can’t. The only difference is how they handle it. And though each other doesn’t know it…the other always wakes up. The only difference is how they handle that too. But tonight’s a little different isn’t it? Because she wakes up a second time and he’s not come back to bed. The easy sound of water shifting as he cuts up and down the pool isn’t there. And well she can hardly be blamed can she?

Blanket wrapped snugly around her, treading lightly over wood panels. And to be honest she’d expected to find him bent over his table. Researching or working his way through plans for a job but what she finds…

He’s asleep. Head propped up by one hand, in his chair. The record player near by skipping off its track. And she’s twice as careful and quiet after that. Moving the book that’s been threatening to slide out of his lap for who knows how long, to the table. Hanging up the record needle and switching it off; along with the lamp. Pulling his head away from his hand, to lay it back against the chair, that she reclines. No sense in him waking up with a crik in his neck. Then comes the blanket. Cast over him as gently as possible, and there’s a small wince when a rather canine quaffle escapes him. But thankfully he doesn’t wake up. And Jay? She slips off back to bed. Not to say a word about it come morning.

gets to use the bathroom first

Sometimes but not always she wakes up first. Lays there in the stillness of the pre-dawn, wondering how she got here. Where she’d be if she wasn’t here. But then the quiet clink of metal and brown is drawn to the familiar looking up at her from across the room. And that’s her que isn’t it?

She gets up. Quiet and slow so as not to wake him. Not that she thinks a canon going off could do that right now. He’s probably still got enough alchol in his system (to numb the hole in his shoulder), to kill three horses. Something that is only emphasized by the way his hand slides from her middle. Flopping dead weight on the bed that’s already cooling with her absence.

Then it’s off to the bathroom. To shower and find clothes for the day. They’re not normal…they’ll never be that. But every once in a while it’s nice to pretend that they are. And she’ll let him sleep, while she lets Prue out before getting started on breakfast. Because canon fire might not rouse him, but the scent of sweet bread and bacon? That can raise the dead. Just don’t ask her how she knows that.

decides the temperature for the ac/heater

I’m back!—-Luka?

“Up here, love.”

Holy shit, what the fuck are yo—

“Fan no’ runnin’. M’replacin’ d’rotor.”

How the hell did you even–

“Pulley ropes. Installed ‘em when oi’ renovated d’place.”

And there’s a few seconds where she’s just standing there with the bag of groceries. Open mouthed staring up into the ceiling where all she can really see are his swinging feet and the occasional flash of red hair. But then she’s shaking it off the almost surreal feeling of it all. Because how long ago had he renovated? The truth is? She doesn’t want to know. It’ll just make her feel like she’s five and remind her he’s older than the dirt her great five times removed grandmother was buried in. And she almost laughs when a question comes drifting down from the ceiling.

“D’ink ye can be doin’ me o’favor and flippin’ d’eigh’d breaker switch?”

sets up holiday decorations

Incessant knocking. And even though it takes him only a few seconds to open it, the person–or rather familiar–on the other side huffs. Pushes her way inside a bit frantically. Tinsel stuck in her hair and garland hanging off her shoulders. A crooked set of reindeer horns half cocked on her head.

Save me.

“From wha’, lass? Ye look loi’ke ye go’o’ttacked boi’y d’at wan’o’be elf.”

Jay. She’s decorating the shop and everything i–wait you’ve met Santa?!

“In passin’….”

Get out!

“Ye know fer o’magical bein’ ye no’ really me’ many people have ye?”

Well I mean yea I have but n—oh no. HIDE ME SHE’S COMING.

leaves the lights on

Sentimental.

There was a time when she’d gone. Disappeared out of his life as quick as a snowflake melts on his tongue. And he’d been forced to move on. Forced to pick up and keep going, because what choice did he have? Though it gnawed at him for decades. More so than any of the others that had come before her. And company…was not sought after in the wake of her. At least not in the same form.

And once a year, every year he’d put a candle of another kind in the window by his reading chair. Tall and strong. The kind of wick meant to burn slow and last well into the wee hours of the morning. And when he rose the next day it was cleared the same as the flameless light by the bowl of creme in the kitchen. So the routine became habit, until he’d stopped thinking his way through the ritual.

Stopped remembering every candle marked another birthday spent without her. Because the day wasn’t important it was the year in between. And though he knew in the bottom of his soul she had to be gone, the kind of gone mortals do not return from, by the fiftieth time, he’d carried onward through the decades.

The corpse of every single tower of wax still encases the single candle holder. Collecting dust now on a shelf. Its existence forgotten most days, because against odds he’d never imagined, she’d come back. So it is left to the ages of the past, where he has every intention of leaving it. Though he never finds the heart to throw it out. It had been his first birthday candle after all.

uses the bathroom with the door open

There are things. That no matter how old you become. No matter how weird the things are that you’ve seen…there is something utterly alien about what he’s currently staring at. Coffee filtering steam up into the air in front of him. To the point that he hasn’t moved in the last thirty seconds. To the point what the feck doesn’t even begin to cover it so it never makes it out of his mouth. Though it suddenly makes sense why the toilet paper would be torn off at weird angles periodically.

The sound of flushing, and then the clitter clatter of claws on the tile turning to wood panels. An annoyed sort of quaffle as the familiar goes click clacking by him. And honestly? He needs another few seconds to process it all; before he turns on his heel and vacates the door way. Because nope. He’s not had near enough coffee to calculate all the ways that didn’t add up. Only to get as far as the kitchen before remembering he had to piss. And its back round again, giving Jay nothing more than a single pointer finger, when she asks if he wants his eggs scrambled or fried.

One thing at a time.

One.thing.at.a.time.

fixes the plumbing (or calls the plumber)

How should I know?! It just stopped pumping.

Hands up because okay, okay. And back down he goes. Cramming himself into a space he really should not be able to fit at all. Bending in ways he knows his back is going to be punishing him for later. But right now all that matters is getting the pump to the latte machine working. Before Jayden goes nuclear…literally.

Something turned….something else tightened. Flashlight between his teeth starting to taste like lead.

“Proi’y i’mouw.”

What?!

A sigh, worming his way back out. Yanking the flash light out of his mouth.

“Troi’y i’now.”

And there’s a second where he will never admit he’s holding his breath, because if that doesn’t do it….whirling and something fires off and there it goes. The vibration of the pump that’s the tell tell sign hot water is on it’s way up to fill the tank reserve in the machine.

YES!

It almost looks as though she’s going to hug it, instead opting to kiss its metal front; before she’s turning to him. Grabbing his face and planting one right on his lips. And ya know? The last thirty minutes of being squashed in the space too small for a toddler becomes completely worth it. Cob webs still stuck in his hair and beard regardless.

#anonymous #[3495834 years later my dude i am so srry it took this long]#moncaí || jayden morgan #Her Hands Are In His Hair His Clothes Are In Her Room || Jayde and Luka #tra la la la la || main verse #return to sender || answered asks #morgansmornings

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plumbervegas · 3 years ago

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kapellegardendoneright-blog · 7 years ago

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Rocket Woman?

As far as I can tell, building and installing a rocket mass stove is damn near the safest DIY build homesteaders can complete.

It’s really cool when built right; the wood burns so hot and gives off so much of its energy that the exhaust leaving the house is warm, water vapor. I have watched so many rocket mass stove heater YouTube videos that I feel like I’m friends with Ernie and Erica Wisner. (They don’t know we have so much in common yet, but that’s cool.) They are the superstars in permaculture and homesteading circles; they have built hundreds of rocket stoves!

How many stoves have I built? None. Yet!

The one we’re going to build in the basement will work exactly the way I want and not burn the house down. That, you see, is Bobby’s fear. He likes the house and all the stuff that it’s in it, and we really like each other and there is Pete, Knox and Saul. The good thing is, we don’t have to worry about our kids or grand-kids, they are all living in their own homes, but, being empty-nesters, we have pretty special pets. So, yeah, I don’t want to lose them to a house fire either.

But, I’m pretty much done with the whole fear-of-fire argument. These stoves are safe! The very design of a rocket mass stove heater prevents the risk of house fires.Don’t laugh! Don’t dare me to build one and anticipate laughing at my misfortune. We can be foolish when it’s benefits us in living well, but we’re not fools.

See, the “mass” part of the rocket mass stove heater is “cob”. Cob is made of earth, sand, and straw mixed in with a bit of water. The cob’s mass is what captures the heat, holds it, and disperses it into the room at a comfortable rate. The entire stove is one big blob of insulation.

I am being a bit silly here (okay, quite a bit silly), but I am serious about building the stove. It will happen. Bobby is not happy about the idea of purposefully hauling hundreds of wheelbarrows full of mud into our house. He spends his days ridding our house of dust, dirt and grime. Why in the world would he aid in hauling dirt into our house to build a stove he thinks may burn down our house? But, like I said, it will happen; he just needs to be convinced. It won’t be hard. I’ll just ring up Ernie and Erica- they will talk to him.

#Go Ernie and Erica rocking at rocket stoves

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sailorsaigas · 7 years ago

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“Substitute Guardian” (a Morgan Lives AU) Chapter 2

Author's Note: Chapter is after the Read More, so as not to clutter folks' dashboards.

A year ago, I wrote the first chapter of an AU fic about Morgan surviving the events of Turn Coat. Well, I know it's been a long time in coming, but here is Chapter Two of that AU, the title of which has been settled on. I only hope you will find this entertaining, and that it might help some of you stave off the boredom of having to continue to wait for Jim to finish Peace Talks. Enjoy. ^_^

Being in Chicago again was...odd.

I wasn't entirely certain how I should feel about my return to the states, having spent the better portion of the last year under house arrest in Edinburgh. The early months saw me hospitalized, recovering in an infirmary bed after pushing my already wounded body too hard apprehending the man who'd framed me for murder. A grueling process of rehabilitation eventually began when my mandatory bed rest order was lifted, though after regaining my previous strength, I continued with physical training as a means of self-improvement and killing time. One might be surprised how utterly boring being confined to a centuries-old castle can be. So I trained - trained and studied like a newly minted apprentice one-hundred and fifty years younger. I had no intention of being bested again by my enemies.

Over the course of my time under lock and key, I had a few brief but important conversations with Harry Dresden, who made it a point not to interact with the Council more than absolutely necessary. I understood that mentality far more easily, now, after having my eyes opened during the events of that last year. We discussed where we stood as associates, swallowed what we could of our pride, and made something of a halfhearted but honest attempt at reconciliation. There was a lot of bad blood there, and neither of us could really get over some twenty years of animosity overnight, but it helped that I'd been made aware of the unfortunate truth. The Black Council, a hidden force seeking to tear apart the wizarding community from within, was real...and it was high time somebody did something about it. And so, despite some reluctance from Ebenezar McCoy, I was brought into the fold of the Gray Council, a nearly treasonous body of our own that sought to prevent the enemy from gaining the upper hand in our shadow war.

Stuck as I had been in Edinburgh, I didn't have much to offer of my previous talent as a Council enforcer, but my copious free time gave me opportunity to put my experience to good use in other ways. I was permitted supervised free range of the hallowed halls, and since the only individuals experienced enough to be trusted to watch me were Wardens I'd had a hand in training, they'd rarely challenge me regarding what I did or where I went. Thus I made my primary purpose one of study and documentation, becoming something of a writer for Dresden’s project, the Paranet. The idea of networking the minor talents of the world so that they'd be educated enough to protect one another had been risky in many ways, but had so far been more than worth the risk. However, their information had been limited primarily to what Dresden and a few of his friends were capable of offering, so I made it my goal to expand upon that.

Such was how it became my job to transcribe my personal knowledge, alongside those of Edinburgh's ancient libraries, to create tools for use by the Paranet. To speak plainly, they were mainly pamphlets with a few illustrations, but Dresden and Anastasia said so earnestly that they could prove invaluable to the lesser talents of the world that I started taking pride in the work. It helped that there was little else to do, of course.

Now I stood back on the streets of Chicago, a free man of a sort, though the Doom still hung above my head. These were my old stomping grounds long before they had been Dresden's, and they'd been my area of responsibility as a Warden up until the war with the Red Court of Vampires. I'd hounded Dresden through these streets as I observed his own probation beneath the Doom, and now the shoe was on the other foot. Dresden, if he yet lived, was a Warden of the Council, while I was the one with a single mistake keeping me from summary decapitation. I'm certain there was a lesson in that, and it was one reason I strived to put aside the more petty and miserable aspects of myself.

Shaking off my reminiscences, I examined the building where I'd be staying for the duration of my time as a mentor to Dresden's young apprentice, Molly Carpenter. I knew the building, of course. Only a few blocks away from the ruins of Dresden's own home, the address on my note had directed me to what had once been a boarding house that had been converted into apartments. During our time trying to prove my innocence, a mortal private investigator had set up an observation post in this very building to stake out Dresden. I don't know when the Council had found the time or money to empty the building and remodel it, but they'd done so. It looked pristine, at least from outside, and I knew nobody lived here anymore from a notation on Ana's scrap of paper. The Council didn't want to risk more collateral damage after whatever destroyed Dresden's place nearly killed several mortal bystanders.

I headed into the building and opened the door to the ground floor apartment, though I had keys to all of them. I wondered if they expected me to house Miss Carpenter here while I trained her? That would be practical, but Ana had mentioned the girl would be at her parent's house, and I imagined she'd be more comfortable there. Undoubtedly so, considering what had apparently transpired over the past 48 hours or so.

The apartment was sparsely furnished, though it had necessary amenities like an ice box and a wood-burning stove. There was one bedroom with a bare twin mattress against a wall, connected to a small bathroom with a standing glass-door shower. A single recliner occupied one corner of the living room near the fireplace, and a small dining table that had no accompanying chairs filled space in the kitchen. On it rested a plain white envelope labeled 'Donald.' Inside the envelope was a crisp stack of bills, the first installment of my new monthly stipend. I noted with a small smirk that it was the same monthly amount I'd be making if I were still serving as a Warden. Though I wasn't a Warden anymore, and likely never would be again, I supposed that my time in-service had earned me something. I'd have preferred my blade to the money. Warden or not, Ana made the sword for me. Practically speaking, nobody else would be remotely capable of wielding it effectively. Sentimentally speaking, it was probably my dearest possession.

Placing the envelope of cash in the pocket of the overcoat I wore with today's ensemble of a well-tailored, tan three-piece suit (why couldn't Dresden see the obvious social benefits of not dressing like a hoodlum?), I decided to set aside all other thoughts in favor of the most immediate concern. I couldn't put it off any longer. It was time to pay a visit to my new apprentice. I stepped outside, hailed a cab, and was shortly on my way.

-----

The house I arrived at looked like something out of a Hallmark card, something I wouldn't have thought possible in this part of Chicago. Complete with finely manicured lawn and white picket fence, it was the absolute model of idealized American suburbia. I could feel a kind of power emanating from within the borders of the property, and I knew immediately that this was indeed the correct residence. Michael Carpenter, Molly's father, was the only living retired Knight of the Sword, an ancient group of warriors who served to maintain the balance between Good and Evil on behalf of God. I could only imagine a retirement package from such an occupation would be graced with ample benefits from the Lord.

I was cautious as I approached the front door of the home, being careful not to offend whatever sort of divine bodyguards might watch over the place. I knocked politely, three times, and awaited a response from within. A woman promptly answered, and I could recognize in her face that this must be Molly's mother, Charity. I could also see in her general stance and demeanor, a woman of fierce physical and mental fortitude. I'd hazard to guess she'd once served as the sparring partner for her husband, and Ana had mentioned to me before my departure that the woman was an accomplished smith, likely as a means of indicating someone from whom I could commission a sword. I bowed my head politely, and introduced myself.

"Mrs. Carpenter, I am Donald Morgan," I spoke. "I am a wizard of the White Council. I am here on the Council's behalf to speak with your daughter, Molly, regarding the disappearance of her mentor, Harry Dresden. And, if necessary, continue her training in our arts in his absence."

Mrs. Carpenter looked at me, her right eyebrow arched upward.

"Morgan?" she asked. "The Warden? Harry spoke of you before. Not nicely, either, I should say."

I sighed. I should have known one of Dresden's friends would know my name and my reputation, colored though it might have been by his own perceptions. I could believe she did not think very highly of the man I once was.

"Former Warden," I explained. "I am no longer a Warden of the White Council, Mrs. Carpenter. After a political incident about a year ago, I was removed from my position and consigned to the Doom of Damocles, much like Molly and Dresden before her. That being the case, Dresden has gone missing, and is presumed dead. The Council has but two options regarding your daughter's future: execute her under the order of the Doom, or send me to mentor her in Dresden's stead. I shall see her through to her graduation into a full wizard of the Council, or merely until Dresden returns."

I held my arms out to the side, palms up in a non-threatening gesture of sincerity. I don't do those much, so I doubt it looked very convincing.

"I'm not here to hurt Molly, Mrs. Carpenter," I said, plainly.

Charity continued to stare at me for a moment, sizing me up, gauging my honesty.

Then, her voice firm, she said, "I won't invite you in. Prove to me that you mean no harm."

I understood her meaning immediately. Wizards, and other supernatural entities, cannot pass through a threshold (the magical barrier that separates a home from the outside world) without giving up a significant portion of their power. Certain creatures, like the Vampires of the Red and Black Courts, cannot pass through a threshold at all without first being invited. The threshold of this home was one of enormous potency, and stepping through it would mean leaving nearly all of my magic at the door, making me incredibly vulnerable. It was a common and reliable practice among those who were 'in-the-know' supernaturally, and I applauded her in my mind for thinking ahead. She was clearly a sharp-minded and no-nonsense woman, and having apprenticed under Anastasia Luccio, that was something I could most certainly respect.

"Very well," I replied, and stepped across through the doorway.

It was an odd sensation, leaving my magic behind me. Stepping through the Carpenter threshold was like stepping through a wall of gelatin and coming out the other side disrobed. I felt diminished and exhausted, as if I'd dived into a pool of ice water. I bowed my head politely in her direction after crossing, and she nodded at me. Had I been one of the few harmful supernatural entities that might have crossed a threshold uninvited without trouble, I'd likely have been pulverized by whatever security force watched over the household if I'd intended harm.

Charity motioned to the staircase with a wave of her hand.

"Molly's sleeping upstairs," she explained. "She was wounded when she went to help Harry at Chichen Itza."

I didn't have many of the facts, but if Dresden had been at Chichen Itza, he'd been at one of the most powerful domains of the Red Court. I could only assume it bore some connection to his supposed demise.

"Would it be a problem if I woke her?" I asked. "It's important we get this settled as soon as possible."

"It won't be a problem, but she's not in any condition to talk for very long," Charity stated, matter-of-factly. "She's heavily medicated, patched up on a helicopter and brought here by some of Dresden's associates afterward."

"Field medicine? Why not a hospital?"

"Her wound wasn't severe, she'd mostly overexerted herself after being wounded on the battlefield."

"Well, I am relieved to hear that she is alright, but I will need to speak with her right away so that she understands what is to be done."

"Alright, then. This way."

Inside a room cramped with sewing equipment, Molly slept soundly in a small bed, an IV in her arm.

Charity gently shook her awake as we entered, saying, "Molly, Morgan from the White Council is here to see you."

I didn't miss how Molly's eyes shot open with fear at the mention of my name. Once again, my old reputation preceded me. Swiftly, Mr's. Carpenter calmed her daughter with soft, gentle words explaining that I wasn't there to hurt her, and that I just needed to inform her of some changes regarding her apprenticeship since Harry was missing. Molly was still groggy from sleep and pain medication, but the initial adrenaline rush had cleared her head enough that she acknowledged her mother's words and nodded at me to proceed.

"Hello again, Miss Carpenter," I began. "Your mother is correct that I'm not here to do you any harm. I can only assume the medicine is to blame for you forgetting I'm no longer a Warden."

I tried to smile to show I was being lighthearted, but I was long out of practice, and Molly got a somewhat sour look on her face. I awkwardly tried to recover momentum.

"Ahem, anyway, I have just been released from house arrest. I'm here because Dresden has gone missing, and is presumed dead. Whatever Dresden and the rest of you did at Chichen Itza has thrown the supernatural world into a frenzy. I couldn't begin to tell you even half the things I've heard, and my situation left me fairly out of the loop to begin with. Whatever it is, the Council is preoccupied with damage control, and wasn't sure what to do with you. After much deliberation, rather than have you executed under the Doom, I was chosen to act as your mentor until such a time as you graduate or Dresden returns. I was already under the Doom, myself, so it is no great loss to the Council, and it spares any needless bloodshed."

I paused to let Molly absorb what I had said, and then continued.

"It will only be a temporary arrangement, of course. Under my tutelage, barring Dresden's return, I imagine it would not take longer than a year or two to get you to full wizard status, in which case you would no longer need a mentor. And, of course, should Harry come back, he will be granted the opportunity to once again take over your training. As it stands, however, none of us has any idea what has become of him."

I looked at Molly sternly, though not bluntly intimidating, trying to put a kind of gentle, grandfatherly rebuke into my demeanor.

"What in the world was Dresden doing on the vampire's boat at the time of his presumed death?" I asked.

Molly let out a huff of indignation. "I should have known the first thing you'd do is be suspicious of Thomas."

"Why shouldn't I be? He is a member of the White Court--"

"He's more than just a White Court vampire," she interrupted. "There's a reason Harry was on the boat, and Thomas' offer to let him use it was made in good faith."

"You're the second person today to tell me that," I responded. I tried giving the girl a small smile. "I guess I'll take your word for it, for now."

"Thomas isn't responsible for Harry's murder," Molly said. "I know that for certain."

"You do?" I asked, arching an eyebrow at the remark. "That implies a great deal. If you know for certain that Thomas Raith isn't involved, do you know who is responsible?"

Molly sighed and shook her head. "No. But whoever did it didn't use magic."

"Captain Luccio was able to confirm as much to me before I came out here. Regardless, such discussion has no bearing on my purpose here. I won't trouble you with more questions. Get some rest, and I'll be back tomorrow so we can go over the details of your training."

Molly nodded, and promptly returned to sleep.

Afterward, Charity saw me to the door and wished me luck getting situated in town. She gave me the number for the house, as well as their cell phones, and told me that if I intended to continue investigating Harry's disappearance it would be good to get in touch with Harry's associates in town. A good place to begin would be with their mutual acquaintance Father Forthill at Saint Mary of the Angels, and Karrin Murphy of the Chicago Police Department, in particular. I thanked her, and made my way out the door.

No sooner had I closed the gate to the front yard behind me than I was very nearly run over by an emerald green stretch limousine that sped up to the curb in front of the Carpenter home. Immediately after parking, the driver walked around to passenger side rear door, opened it, and gestured for me to enter. I knew him for what he was the moment I set eyes upon him, and the voice that beckoned to me from within the limo only confirmed my suspicions.

"La! Mortal magi, always so paranoid," called a beautiful singsong from the dark interior of the vehicle. "You have my word of safe passage for the duration of a conversation, Wizard Morgan. On behalf of my Queen, I must needs speak with thee regarding the matter of Harry Dresden."

I looked from the driver holding open the door, and back to the waiting interior of the car. Stepping into the vehicle would be stupid, even with word of safe passage from one of the Fae. Then again, it was about Dresden. Considering that, I thought to myself: what would Harry Dresden do in this situation? The town, after all, needed someone to fill his boots for a time.

I got into the car.

#Dresden Files #Substitute Guardian #Morgan Lives AU #Donald Morgan #It's finally here #Sorry you all had to wait so long

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centralheatinginstallationk-blog · 5 years ago

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How to Solve Issues With Central Heating Installation Near Me

Central Heating Prices Basics and 101

Wood-fired main heating unit Warm water central heating unit, using wood as fuel A central heating system supplies warmth to the entire interior of a structure (or portion of a building) from one indicate multiple rooms. When combined with other systems in order to manage the building environment, the entire system might be an A/C (heating, ventilation and a/c) system.

The heat is dispersed throughout the building, normally by forced-air through ductwork, by water distributing through pipelines, or by steam fed through pipelines. The most typical technique of heat generation includes the combustion of nonrenewable fuel source in a furnace or boiler. In much of the temperate climate zone, many separated housing has had central heating set up given that prior to the 2nd World War.

the Anthracite coal region in northeast Pennsylvania) coal-fired steam or warm water systems were typical. In more current times, these have actually been updated to use fuel oil or gas as the source of combustion, removing the need for a large coal storage bin near the boiler and the requirement to get rid of and discard ashes after the coal is burned.

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A more affordable alternative to warm water or steam heat is forced hot air. A furnace burns fuel oil, which heats air in a heat exchanger, and blower fans circulate the warmed air through a network of ducts to the rooms in the structure. This system is more affordable due to the fact that the air moves through a series of ducts rather of pipes, and does not need a pipe fitter to install.

The four various generations of district heating unit and their energy sources Electrical heater take place less typically and are useful just with inexpensive electrical power or when ground source heat pumps are utilized. Thinking about the combined system of thermal power station and electric resistance heating, the overall effectiveness will be less than for direct usage of nonrenewable fuel source for space heating.

Alternatives to such systems are gas heating systems and district heating. District heating uses the waste heat from a commercial procedure or electrical generating plant to offer heat for neighboring buildings. Similar to cogeneration, this requires underground piping to circulate warm water or steam. Historyedit Ancient Koreaedit An illustration of the ondol system Use of the ondol has actually been found at historical sites in present-day North Korea.

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The main elements of the traditional ondol are an agungi (firebox or range) accessible from an adjoining space (typically cooking area or bedroom), a raised masonry floor underlain by horizontal smoke passages, and a vertical, freestanding chimney on the opposite exterior wall offering a draft. The heated floor, supported by stone piers or baffles to disperse the smoke, is covered by stone pieces, clay and a resistant layer such as oiled paper.

When a fire was lit in the heating system to cook rice for supper, the flame would extend horizontally since the flue entry was next to the furnace. This plan was necessary, as it would not allow the smoke to take a trip upward, which would cause the flame to head out too quickly.

Whole spaces would be developed on the furnace flue to produce ondol floored spaces. 2 Ondol had actually generally been utilized as a living space for sitting, eating, sleeping and other leisure activities in the majority of Korean houses before the 1960s. Koreans are accustomed to sitting and sleeping on the floor, and working and consuming at low tables rather of raised tables with chairs.

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For short-term cooking, rice paddy straws or crop waste was preferred, while long hours of cooking and flooring heating required longer-burning firewood. Unlike modern-day water heaters, the fuel was either sporadically or frequently burned (two to five times a day), depending upon frequency of cooking and seasonal weather. Ancient Rome and Greeceedit The ancient Greeks initially developed central heating.

Some structures in the Roman Empire used main heating unit, conducting air heated up by heating systems through voids under the floorings and out of pipelines (called caliducts)4 in the wallsa system called a hypocaust. 56 The Roman hypocaust continued to be utilized on a smaller scale throughout late Antiquity Central Heating Quotes and by the Umayyad caliphate, while later Muslim contractors used a simpler system of underfloor pipes.

In the early middle ages Alpine upland, an easier main heating unit where heat travelled through underfloor channels from the heater room changed the Roman hypocaust at some locations. In Reichenau Abbey a network of interconnected underfloor channels heated the 300 m big assembly room of the Central Heating Installation Near Me monks during the winter season.

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The well-preserved Royal Monastery of Our Lady of the Wheel (founded 1202) on the Ebro River in the Aragon region of Spain provides an excellent example of such an application. Modern central heating systemsedit The 3 primary techniques of central heating were developed in the late 18th to mid-19th centuries.

Strutt's style consisted of a large stove that heated air brought from the outdoors by a large underground passage. The air was ventilated through the structure by large central ducts. In 1807, he teamed up with another noteworthy engineer, Charles Sylvester, on the building of a brand-new building to house Derby's Royal Infirmary.

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spursthatgojinglejangle · 7 years ago

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Home || Dribbles and Drabbles

So...I’m in love with this song.

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And I’ve been wanting to explore Cara’s relationship with her family a bit more since....well, since I want to.

Forewarning, there is death in this drabble (what else is new with me though). I cried. I cried a lot....

The call came in sometime after midnight. One of the women that lived in the town found her mother laying in the kitchen. She hadn’t heard from her in a couple days and grew worried. She had fallen, broken her femur and would be unable to walk.

Cara canceled her job and went home for the first time in years.

Being back in the old house, surrounded by memories she would rather forget, hurt more than she could ever describe. Her mother’s condition, while it improved slightly, still wasn’t enough to keep her going for the long run. The doctors explained that she was older - getting her hopes up that she would make a full recovery wouldn’t do her any good. Cara could do nothing but nod, hanging her head and muttering words of affirmation.

She knew it, just as much as her mother did.

Walkers were bought, automated chairs installed so she could make the climb up the stairs to her bed room. Finally, Eliza gave up and decided to just stay in bed. “I’m tired, baby,” She mumbled one day. “Can I eat up here?”

She wanted to beg, to plead with her mother to get up and pull out of the slump. This wasn’t the mother she wanted to remember - she wanted to remember her laughing with Aaron, to be running around after animals and a man who refused to sit down. She wanted to remember her staying up late into the night while they sipped wine and talked about the cute delivery boy who dropped off their pizza or how Aaron had almost gotten that old truck started. She wanted to see her blond hair a mess on the top of her head, watch her blow the little tufts that fell out of place.

She didn’t want...this. She didn’t want the skeletal remains of Eliza to grip her hand. She was always tired now, always quiet. She tried, tried to get up and cook. Tried to make breakfast or keep a conversation going. She had trouble hearing, trouble speaking. She was just...weak. And no amount of want or desire or praying or crying would change that. Tears did nothing to help her get out of bed, begging before bed did nothing to help her get her strength back.

“Do you know if she has a will? It would probably be best to get her affairs in order.”

The will was found in the nightstand by her mother’s bed. Cara read it over to her mother, made sure everything was in order. Her mother didn’t seem to think much about it - she was ready. And that was the worst part. She was so ready to go, so ready to be with Aaron and Papi and Memi, with Lizzie. She didn’t want to be there anymore, to be fighting the inevitable. She wasn’t nearly as strong as she used to be.

“Someone’s going to have to take care of the old car in the garage.”

“....don’t sell it.”

“I won’t, mom.”

“Aar....Aaron almost got it working.” She added quietly, eyes closed as she dozed.

Cara watched from from her spot in the chair, trying to keep calm. Blue eyes scanned over the arms that rested on the plaid comforter, the dark spots prominent against the near transparent skin. The white hair was sprawled around her, too thin to do anything with. She tried not to think about when she would crawl up into this bed, between her and the blankets. She tried not to think about the whispers they would share under the warmth, secrets that she couldn’t remember.

“He...he loved that car...stupid thing.” Her lips parted in a soft smile.

God it was so weak.

She reached up and wiped the tear, “Yeah...yeah he did.” It’ll stay right there. Right where he left it. If not for Aaron, for her.

“Mom,” She reached over, gently taking her hand but her words fell short.

Cara wanted to tell her she didn’t have to stay there. She didn’t want her to be in pain anymore, to feel so heavy and stuck. She didn’t want her to have to fight if she was scared for her. She would be alright. If anything, she had been taught how to be strong. If not by trail, by example.

For so many years, her mother was a rock. From holding her as she sobbed when her Papi passed, to taking care of her after Lizzie. No matter what happened, Cara knew there would be at least one pair of open arms waiting for her at home. No questions asked, no pressure to explain. Her mother would sit and hold her hand, stroke her hair so she could sleep. She drove away nightmares, hushed the tears, and soothed the aches in her chest. Her touch was always so warm, so giving. And she never asked for anything.

She gave the hand - so thin and so cold - a squeeze. “Mom, you...you know I love you, right?”

She nodded slowly, “I love you too, Cara Bear.”

Her free hand reached up, wiping the tears as best as she could. “You...you were the best mom I could ever ask for. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m so sorry I wasn’t around enough. I should...I should have...”

“I love you, Cara Bear.”

“Mom, you don’t have to hold on for me. You can...” She choked, covering her face with her hand so she didn’t have to see. Her heart was tearing, breaking...

She didn’t want to say it. She didn’t want her mother to leave. What was she going to do without her? Who would she confide in? Who would she turn too when the nightmares got too much? Who would know how to fix the meals she burned or sit with her while she waited for the take out that she would order?

Who would she share everything with? Who would...

“You were an angel, mom. I love you so much.”

“....I...I love you...I’m...so...so proud...”

“...” Another choked sob, she was gripping her hand so tightly, her entire body shaking. “I know, mom. I know.”

The room fell quiet - aside from the shaking breathes Cara was taking. Time seemed to slow down, the only thing that existed was that room, that chair, and that bed. There was nothing - no work, no car, no affects that needed going over for the hundredth time in a week. She didn’t want to to feel how loose her mother’s grip was. She didn’t want to think about how soft her breathing was - just barely above a whisper.

It’s okay, Cara heard her mother say, ever so softly. It’s going to be okay. I’m only a call away, Cara Bear.

She looked up, trying to keep her breathing steady. Eliza’s eyes were closed, her grip limp in her hand. For a moment, her heart stopped. Her body was frozen, staring at her mother as her mind tried to make sense of...

“Mom...?” Cara tried, reaching up and gently shaking her shoulder. “...Mom?”

She didn’t move, made no noise. The space was now filled with...nothing. The woman once so full of life was...gone.

For a split second, the woman didn’t know what to do. Part of her wanted to cry for help, wanted to scream for someone to come and...bring her mother back. There had to be something that could be done, something that could make everything...

Cara swallowed and wiped her eyes. With a sniffle, she pulled away from her mother and stood up. Her footsteps were quiet as she crossed the room and slipped out the door. Past photos of weddings, first days of school, snips of the lives that occupied the now empty house, she made her way to the kitchen. She put a pot of water onto the stove, and prepared two cups for tea. She stood there, waiting to hear the whistle. If asked now, Cara couldn’t tell you what she thought about - if she thought anything at all.

One cup of tea was placed on one side of the table while Cara sat down across from it. With trembling hands, she remained in that spot for hours. Her eyes settled on the cup of tea, watching as the steam slowly faded into the air. Her mind ran through memories, through heartbreak and tears, joy and giggles. She tried to find reason in the wood, tried to come up with a solution in the minutes spent alone.

In the end, she found nothing and the tea was dumped down the sink.

As promised, the car stayed in the garage - overcome with rust and old age. The food left in the refrigerator was tossed out and the kitchen cleaned. Dresses were folded and put away in storage, chairs and couches covered to protect from dust. Cards and flowers were thrown away, gifts packed away where they would never be seen again.

It took a day to finish packing up the house.

Fall had set in, the fog covering the front porch steps as Cara stood. Her jacket hung heavy around her shoulders as she stared into the dark house. The walls were bare, the plants gone. Any sign that a family had lived there at all was gone. She overlooked the living room, swallowing thickly. For a moment, she could see shadows of a young girl dancing with her mother, an older man rubbing his knee as he smiled. A grandmother shook her head, a wry smile on her face as she focused on her cross stitch. The grandfather laughed and clapped his hands for them.

Her chest twisted, tightening for a moment.

“...good bye, guys.“

#dribbles and drabbles || Drabbles #The Queen of Harts || Cara Tag #An Angel in the Shape of my Mom || Eliza Tag #tw: Death #Ed Sheeran #Supermarket flowers #gif warning #The Rock that Holds Us || Aaron Tag #Little Angel in White || Elizabeth Tag

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