#You see more and more meat disappear off the bicycle

[cryoverkiltmilk]

This is New York City's third official form of wildlife after rats and pigeons.

when i see an abandoned bike locked to a rack with its wheels stolen my immediate mental image is always a shackled skeleton in a dungeon

[gotnofucks]

What’s Your Escape

Pairing: dark!Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Summary: Sherlock could never resist a mystery, especially not one as deliciously wrapped as you.

Words: 4.5k

Warnings: Non-con/dub-con, smut, harassment, jealousy, 18+ ONLY

A/N: Spoilers for Enola Holmes

MASTERLIST

+++++

It was your duty to make sure that the young miss could escape quietly. You put extra padding on her shoes and made sure the mud outside the window was spongy. She would need something strong and long to climb down from here, so you sew together a few old curtains to make a rope and put them in the chest in her room. If she follows the plan, she will leave, and none will be the wiser. You hoped she would make it back before noon, or you’d have to answer the masters of the house why their sister was missing.

You liked living here before the brothers returned. Things used to be fun at the Holmes ancestral manor before Mycroft and Sherlock returned after their mother’s disappearance. You would have thought they will leave after bringing back Enola under their roof, but they seemed to have reconnected with their roots and to your displeasure stayed.

Eudoria Holmes had hired you as a second housekeeper after Mrs. Lane started getting up in the years. Or well, that’s the story she told everyone else. Eudoria had rescued you from a life of abject poverty, brought you to her estate and given you a roof and work. She saw in you a fire that she claimed would light the way for many women to come. You had trained with Enola since childhood under her mother’s direction, but you were more mentally skilled. While Enola could jujitsu her way out of a situation, you could read a person, manipulate them into letting you go. Together, you both made the best team.

Everything changed when Eudoria disappeared. You knew one of you had to stay here to keep an eye on the Holmes brothers, so you helped Enola escape while you stayed. You didn’t think anyone would suspect you had a hand in her daring getaway, but then you hadn’t met Sherlock Holmes before. Since the morning Enola was missing, his eyes followed you like a bloodhound’s to meat. You could feel them, the weight of his gaze heavy on you. If you would look up and catch him, he would get an irritable look on his face, like he’s stuck trying to undo a knot for a while.

You were glad when he left the Holmes Manor for London to search for his sister soon enough. His looks made you antsy and you had to bite your tongue on various occasions to set him straight. For years you had lived unrestrained with Eudoria, and suddenly being thrust back into your duties as a housekeeper proved to be more difficult than ever. More so now that Enola was back as Sherlock’s ward.

Things could have gone back to normal for it seemed Sherlock was more liberal than Mycroft when it came to their sister. Yet, he was a man of society. Intelligent as he may think her to be, he was still of the mind that she must marry a suitable gentleman, after which she could frolic wherever she wished. It fell on you to help Enola escape the Manor, to go away for a few precious hours at night to spread her wings and breath freely. You’d been doing so for nearly a month and every night your exploits had gone without a hitch.

You’d just seen her down the curtain rope, waving to her from the window as she climbed atop her bicycle and rode away into the dark. You sighed, wishing you could perhaps go too. But you owed a great debt to both the Holmes woman, and you would continue to serve them as long as they would desire.

“Would you like me to help you climb down?” Said a voice behind you and you turned suddenly, clutching the windowsill to support yourself. Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, his curls slightly mussed.

“Mr. Holmes” You breathed, heart hammering unevenly in your chest. Your first thought was that your secret was out, and Enola would be made to marry a stupid man while you’ll be thrown on the streets. He walked languidly towards you, wearing a robe that stretched over his bulky frame. For a man so huge, he carried himself with a lot of grace. Stopping a few feet from you, his eyes followed the rope that dangled out the window and a smile tugged at his lips.

“I’d wondered why she looked so tired every day, and why you spent so much time doing her laundry. The mud must be difficult to get off, hmm?” He asked, his hand pulling out his pipe from his pocket that he deftly lit and popped in his mouth.

You didn’t answer him, watching him, deciphering him. He was a mystery to you because he was so open. Unlike others he didn’t wear a mask of polite diplomacy, his disdain for things was expressed in no uncertain terms and he rarely bothered hiding his true thoughts. While you could outsmart a liar, talk a stupid person into doing what you want without them realizing, you had a hard time reading Sherlock Holmes. He had little need to lie unless it was for a case and he was certainly not stupid.

He stared at you for a long time, smoke drifting from his pipe while you refused to cower under his gaze. His lips twitched in amusement, eyes raking over your form before finding yours and he took a step forward.

“You are good at hiding I must say. Almost perfect in fact, but these eyes, they give you away. Your tongue drips with honey while your eyes burn with fire and ice. If someone knows where to look, your game will be over before it begins.”

“And what are you looking for Mr. Holmes?” You asked.

He set his pipe down before coming close enough to brush his front against yours. You stiffened slightly, feeling his hand going around your waist.

“I’m looking for a reason.” He whispered, his hand catching hold of the rope behind you as he started pulling. You stayed between him and the window ledge, staring into his eyes, his knuckles grazing your back occasionally until he pulled in the entire rope. Letting it fall on the ground, he almost bumped into you when he leaned forward to shut the windowpanes behind you. His breath was on your face and you resisted the urge to dash away from him.

“You need to leave” You said at last. Sherlock shook his head, arms resting on either side of you now. He breathed deeply, taking you in. His blue eyes, one with the slightest tinge of brown gleamed at you. Only a faint light came from the candlestand in the corner now that the windows were closed, and you saw reflected in his eyes an emotion you were entirely unfamiliar with. Desire.

He leaned forward, his one errant curl tickling your forehead and you felt his breath on your mouth. Your hands shot out, pushing against his chest.

“Leave, now.” You said, sharp and commanding.

“Make me”

You gulped, the intimacy of a man not something you were used to. He was too large to even think of physically getting away. You must, like he said, make him go away.

“I can’t get you to leave, but if you stand at the end of the hall, I can convince you to come to me.”

His eyes lit with intrigue, a most sensual smile tugging at his lips. You were doing what he loved the most. Playing a game.

“And what if you cannot?” He asked. You met his eyes head on, not an ounce of fear in yours.

“Then you can have what you so clearly want.”

You could almost call his grin boyish, an excitement taking over his features as he finally pushed away from you. He cocked his head at you, appraising you as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. He nodded, turned around and walked out of the door and stood at the end of the hall. He spread his arms as if to say, your move.

Your feet carried you across the room, measured stride that gave away nothing.

“I think the deal was for you to make me come to you.” Sherlock remarked as he saw you walking forward.

“It is” You stated before quickly taking hold of the door and pulling it shut. You had a brief glimpse of the shock on his face, then heard his feet thundering as he ran towards you but by then you had locked the door and rested against it.

His fists hit the wood and for a moment you were convinced he would break it down. But then you heard his chuckle, like he was proud to have been played as such.

“I’ll come back for you” He said aloud, and his feet retreated while you sank down on the floor. Your heart was loud in your ears and hands slightly trembling. Maybe its time you brushed up on your jujitsu.

+++++

Sherlock let Enola leave every night, giving no impression he knew what she was up to during the day. She was far too happy (and sleepy) to give it much thought and the days went by as normal. Or well, maybe not for you.

If you thought he was looking at you before, it was nothing as compared to now. He was everywhere, watching you from the corners when you cooked and cleaned. You were glad for other people’s presence in the Manor, for you feared being alone with him. Each night, the moment Enola climbed down you would shut the door to her room, sleeping there. You couldn’t risk making the journey across to your own chambers. That was a risk you weren’t willing to take.

“Mr. Kennedy would be over for dinner tonight. Make the necessary arrangements” Mycroft told you at breakfast. You nodded, dreading the extra hours of cooking you’ll have to do. Thank god Mrs. Lane was still well enough to bear most of the burden. Sherlock’s eyes as usual were on you and you wondered how no one noticed.

“Do you still have mother’s favorite infusion?” He asked you and you nodded. Eudoria will not be happy with them taking liberties with her stuff, but you weren’t about to argue. “Get me some, please.”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes” You sped away, grateful to be away from his company. You always loved the storeroom where Eudoria kept her infusions. A sweet smell of herbs along with polish permeated the air and it warmed you from within. You tinkered with the numerous jars that littered the shelves, dust coating them for they haven’t been touched in months. You were rummaging in one of the upper shelves when you heard the door behind you shut and you turned to see Sherlock turning the key to lock it.

“Are you done running away from me?” He asked, putting the key in his jacket. The room was just a small storeroom, crammed with different knickknacks everywhere. Sherlock’s body seemed to take all the space in the room, and you felt claustrophobic. He only needed to take another step to close the distance between you and you stumbled into the shelf behind you, jars clinking against each other.

“What do you want?” You asked, feeling both irritated and anxious.

“You’re smart enough to figure that out by now.” He said and took that step forward, bringing you chest to chest. You wished you’d worn a corset which would have provided an extra layer of protection. All your training with Eudoria had not prepared you for her son. He smelled like the pipe he smoked and the rich musk of ink and parchment. You tried not to breath too deeply.

“Mr. Holmes, this is most inappropriate.” You chided and he breathed out a laugh. His face neared yours and his eyes held yours in a way that you couldn’t look away if you wanted to.

“You intrigue me like no other. The restraint you have…You’re a burning match and I keep creeping closer and though you threaten to burn me you’d much rather smother your flame. Why?”

His words heated you, a tingling starting in your belly as you shook from the force of him. His finger raised slowly, very slowly to your cheek and you turned your face right before he could touch.

“How will you get out this time? What’s your escape?”

He was so smug and amused you very nearly growled at him. Your eyes took in the room, trying to see how you can get out of here. He was blocking the only exit with the key in his jacket. As established previously, physically fighting him was not an option. You thought about it and finally turned to look at him.

“I propose a challenge” You said, and he grinned like it was just what he was waiting for. “You hide that key anywhere in this room while I shut my eyes. If I find it, you let me leave.”

He leaned even closer, close enough for his nose to graze your head.

“And what if you don’t?”

“Then you can have what you so clearly want.”

He pulled back and produced a handkerchief from his pocket that he offered to tie on your eyes. You took it and did it yourself. You’d rather he not touch you at all. You could hear the shuffling of his feat, slight movements to your left and then the clinking sound of metal hitting an object. He gave you the go ahead and you took off the blindfold.

You looked around carefully, examining every surface and box and jar. Your keen eyes judging what was moved from its position. One glass jar to the far right caught your eye and you almost went to pick it up before you stopped. You titled your head, looking at Sherlock who seemed to be observing you most intently. To his surprise, you stepped towards him and placed a hand on his chest, moving it until you reached the pocket in the inner lining of his jacket and found the key.

His eyes were wide, both aroused and impressed.

“How?” He asked and you smiled a little at his fascination.

“I almost went for the jar, that was the only one with fingerprints marking the dust layer. But then I noticed your jacket which had dust stain too. You dropped the key in there but put it back in your pocket, not wiping your dusty hands.” You explained.

His arms caged you before you could blink, holding your body to his and mouth at your ear.

“No, you said you’d let me leave!” You protested. His warmth was seeping inside you, smell overpowering your nostrils and you pushed.

“I have never wanted a woman more in my life. I’ll let you leave, but only because I know I will have you. Go now before I am tempted more than ever.” He released you and you unlocked the door, stumbling outside and running away without looking back.

+++++

Two months, that’s how long you held him off with the power of your brain alone. He would corner you and you would play a game of wits. Every time you had escaped, sometimes narrowly, but it all changed this night.

You didn’t know what was happening until Sherlock almost drove his fork into the tabletop. He was positively seething, eyes glaring at Mycroft’s colleague who was over for dinner. It was not until he turned those eyes on you did you understand what had him on edge. Mr. Shephardson had referred to you as ‘my dear’ and ‘sweet girl’ multiple times now, and with each new endearment Sherlock’s fist clenched harder until you worried he’ll dig his fingers in his own palm.

You shrugged away his glare and continued serving, smiling at the man old enough to be your father. It was not like you cloud go, just turn away and leave, it was your job to be kind and serve the guests. It was one of the longest dinners of your life, one that left you utterly uncomfortable and confused. The guests departed and you were left alone to clean the table. You had just started stacking the plates together when Sherlock marched towards you, a frown marring his handsome face.

“Ten minutes, my room. Don’t make me drag you” He warned and went away as quickly as he had come. You shivered slightly and moved your hands faster, collecting the dishes, and putting them in the kitchen for a wash. You had no idea what he wanted, but he was angry enough that you wouldn’t push his boundaries. You wiped the table next, legs jittery as you knew time was running out. Finally, you rearranged the chairs and put away your apron before climbing the stairs to make you way towards Sherlock’s room. You were halfway up when he came thundering down himself, almost colliding with you.

“I was just –” You started speaking but he cut you off by lifting you in his arms and making his way up. You bounced in his arms as he climbed the steps, his jaw clenched in anger.

“I told you I’ll drag you myself if you don’t make it on time.” He snarled and you were too shocked to make a noise until you were in his rooms and the door was shut and locked behind you. You had to admit you were afraid of him then, his chest heaving in anger as a vein pulsed in his temple. He stalked towards you, removing his jacket as he came and you nervously moved back.

“Mr. Holmes please –”

He cut you off again, voice sharp and so commanding your knees knocked together.

“Say my name. Now”

You gaped at him, unsure what was happening. Here you thought it would be another tedious game between you two, but the mischievous glint had disappeared from his eyes. They were dark like a thundering sky, boiling over with rolling clouds.

“Say my fucking name now!”

“Sherlock!” You yelped, your eyes wildly looking for a way out. He was not himself. This is not the man you wanted to be left alone with for even a minute. But he had different ideas and he crowded you against the wall, assuming his favorite position in front of you with his arms acting as a cage.

“Say it again.” He ordered right in your face, voice dark and slow.

“Sherlock” You whispered and saw some of his anger leave him. One of his hands reach out to tangle in your hair and pulled you forward, your lips a hairsbreadth away from his when you started struggling. “No, no Sherlock. Please don’t” you pleaded.

He was so close you could make out every detail of his face, you could taste his breath on your tongue.

“You had a jolly time smiling at that man tonight, yes?” He seethed and you shook your head. You didn’t know he’d get so angry and jealous.

“It is my job” You argued and his arm tightened around you, squeezing until you were sure you’d be bruised tomorrow.

“I am your job!” He said and pushed away from you. “Name your challenge. Tell me how you’ll escape from me today.”

From the look on his face, you didn’t think he’d let you leave anywhere. Your eyes shifted from one place to another, wondering what you could do to get away from here. Fear permeated the air, making you lightheaded. You finally spotted his small safe hidden in the corner of the room.

“If I can open that safe you let me leave.”

“And if you don’t?”

You gulped audibly before answering. It was a question frequently asked and just as frequently answered.

“Then you can have what you so clearly want”

He smiled a satisfactory smile, moving away to sit on his bed. You forced your legs to move, inspecting every inch of the safe. It was small in size, golden in colour and had a very distinctive keyhole. You surmised that the key must also be golden, small going by the size of the safe and if you looked at the keyhole carefully, it must be sleek too to fit inside.

You made a mental tally of where he could keep the key in the room. But before that, you thought about what Sherlock Holmes would keep in a safe. It must be very valuable going by how expensive the safe itself looked, and if it were valuable then he would not just leave the key laying around in his room. He had only just returned to the manor after a long absence, things had changed behind him. He was once again living with his brother who he hardly trusted. There was only one logical place he would keep the key then.

“Please stand up” You said to him and he did, coming to stand before you. You tried not to look in his eyes as you scanned his body, thinking where he might have put the key because you were sure it was on his person. He had removed his jacket, leaving him in his shirt and pants. You took in every part of him and finally plucked the pen from his pocket. On its cap was a golden clip that you broke away and took with triumph towards the safe.

You inserted the clip into the keyhole, and it entered smoothly and your grin widened. You threw a smug look at Sherlock over your shoulder and turned it, but it didn’t move. Frowning, you put more force into it and tried to turn it. It stayed stuck.

His laughter made you freeze, and you let the clip fall from your hands. You faced him ashen faced, eyes wide and fearful. He took his time coming to you, victory sparking in his eyes. You corrected your posture, hoping you have wiped away every ounce of fear from your face. You weren’t about to let him gloat over you.

“I’ve told you before, you can hide very well but your eyes are your undoing. You can’t hide your heart from me when it shines so bright from behind your eyes.”

His hand took yours and slowly slid it down his chest until it rested on his buckle.

“Right before your eyes, had you been daring enough to see.” He said and you saw on his belt buckle a golden key. You looked at him and saw heat in his eyes, heat and desire that scared you more than anything. You left behind your rational thinking and made a run for it, rattling his door before he came behind you and hauled you up by your waist, throwing your body on his bed.

“You can’t break the rules of the game. When you won, I let you leave, now that I won, I’ll take what I want.”

He climbed over you, straddling your lower half as his hands sank in your hair and finally pulled you into a kiss. His lips folded over yours, kneading yours gently before his tongue probed inside to taste you. You wiggled in his hold, his passion burning you as you tried to come to terms with the situation. He was not brutal in his ministrations and coaxed a response from you, your lips moving against his on their own. You let out a soft moan, which made him sag against you.

“I’ve waited so long to have you, to have you burn me in your fire. Tell me why, for I can’t figure it out. Tell me why you suppress the storm that I know howls inside you.”

His eyes were open, urging you to talk about a part of you that you buried under layers. His let his fingers massage your head, and you sobbed. Even pinned under him, held down with his weight, his words were heavier to bear. He wanted a reason. Your reason. Right now, in the position you were in, with your heart thumping away in your chest, you couldn’t keep it in.

“If I go out to live my life, your sister can’t live hers. I owe everything to her and Eudoria, and if I have to sacrifice all my dreams to make hers come true, I’ll do it over and over again.”

His lips were on yours before you were even done, hands working to rid you of your dress. You resisted, a protest on your tongue.

“Please, don’t. I can’t, not this way.” You beg and he pulls away but only to discard his own shirt.

“I will not wait any longer. I will make you mine, I’ll have you tonight. No questions asked.”

How he managed to remove the dress from your squirming body you didn’t know but you lay before him more exposed than any man or even woman had ever seen you. Parts of you hidden under layers of cloth for years had become bare before his gaze and he revered them with his hands and mouth. Your back arched once his mouth sucked on your nipple, causing a deep heat to pool between your thighs. You squeezed your legs closed but he pried them apart, his already huge body looking ginormous as he nestled between them.

“I am going to taste you and I will claim you. It will happen, no matter what.”

He made good on his promise, bringing you incomprehensible pleasure with his tongue on your most sensitive region, making slurping noises that could make a street woman blush. You don’t remember when you ceased struggling, when your hands pulled instead of pushed. You panted for him, ached for him.

When he entered you, it was a pain the likes of which you had never experienced before. The stretch was uncomfortable, your legs trembling as you cried. Sherlock shushed you, promising it will be better soon. With every thrust the pain lessened and when he started teasing the nub between your legs you finally moved past the pain to focus on the pleasure. You were sobbing in need, begging him for something you didn’t even know what. He knew. He saw in your eyes what your mouth couldn’t say and gave you what your body desired.

You shattered below him, falling apart in a million pieces and he gathered you back into his arms, putting you together one kiss at a time. He was nearing his limit, hips pumping into you and your eyes rolled.

“After tonight, no more escaping. You’ll be mine, completely.” He vowed and you felt the warmth of his seed fill you. You lay beneath him, sweaty and battered, tear stained face anguished at what just happened.

Sherlock pressed kisses along your throat and chest, marking you.

“You never have to smother your flames from now one. You can burn as bright as you want, you can soar as high as you want. I will make all your dreams come true. You won’t just be a housekeeper. You’ll be the mistress of this Manor. I’m going to keep you, forever.”

+++++

 taglist :

@shooting-star-love @what-is-your-wish @stanmysoul @sweeterthanthis

[mymelodyheart]

Starting Over Chapter 1 ~The Birthday Party~

James Fraser peered through his front windshield into the sunlight and wished he was back in his apartment in Edinburgh. If his older sister Jenny hadn't called earlier to drag him out of his blissful, mind-numbing slumber and reminded him of his nephew's birthday, he would have been still in bed. Instead of his usual routine of sleeping until past midday, eating junk food and washing it down with beer, playing Xbox and going back to sleep, he'd found himself putting on some fresh clothes and driving to Lallybroch. His sudden motivation had more to do with his nephew, wee Jamie. He wouldn't miss his birthday for the world, come rain or shine. Unfortunately, sunshine and children's parties seldom bode well for his mood while nursing a massive hangover.

It had been three months since he was last in Lallybroch - three months of avoiding his family and dodging questions about his future. He knew he'd hit his limit for grieving the untimely death of his career and feeling sorry for himself. It was time to face the world of adulting, and it was time for a change.  But what change? A job in the Fraser distillery?  It was his legacy and fallback plan, after all.

But he didn't need the money, and his brother-in-law, Ian Murray, was more than capable of overseeing its running. He considered going away to take an extended sabbatical and figure out what he wanted to do with life.

Not too long ago, he had been the nation's sports phenomenon until his sterling rugby career was prematurely cut short by a neck injury sustained during a Six Nations game against France. Later, it was discovered that he had a triple fracture of the vertebrae. Although he avoided any serious nerve damage and had worked with the best therapist in the country in an attempt to get back on the field, he'd been advised by his doctor and friend, Joe Abernathy to retire.

See it this way - you could have ended up in a wheelchair. Count your blessings, Jamie. You're still young, you have a fat bank account from your time in rugby and sponsorships, and the future is full of possibilities. How about going back to your roots? Like your family's distillery?

Jamie pushed himself out of his black BMW SUV with an annoyed grunt and grabbed the toy bicycle from the back seat of the car. He could hear the loud, shrill screams of children and smell burger meat grilling on the BBQ. Tugging on the collar of his T-shirt, he grimaced at the perspiration running down his back. It was a warm day, and already a headache was starting to grow. From his vantage point, he could see the flowers in the front of the manor house in full bloom and the path leading to the rear garden where the party was being held. Colourful birthday buntings were hung, and balloons decorated posts and hedges. Whether he wanted to be surrounded by people at that moment or not, coming home always hit him with a sense of nostalgia for a time when life was less complicated.

Tamping down the sudden urge to turn around and walk away, he thought of his wee nephew and kept moving. He wondered what kind of reception he would receive now that his identity had been stripped away. He'd always been a rugby player and the game ran in his veins. However, it appeared that the end of his career seemed to have cast a shadow over his every interaction. Ever since he retired, the topic of rugby had been delicately avoided anywhere he went. He thought if someone asked him about the weather or complimented on how good he looks one more time, he was going to implode.

Is this how it's going to be from now on? Pretending as though ten years of his rugby career never happened? What was the point of all the hard work then?

Jamie came to a stop when he reached the back of the house and took in the scene before him. A few adults were clustered around the makeshift buffet, and some congregated around the BBQ. There were probably around twenty children surrounding an entertainer who was dressed as a cartoon character from Paw Patrol.   Conscious of his damp shirt sticking to him, he felt sorry for whoever was in the mascot outfit on this sweltering day. Somehow it made the state of his mood, and the complexity of his life seemed insignificant compared to the person earning a living dressed as a dog. Disgusted with his wallowing and despondency, he pulled himself together and took in a huge fortifying breath and braced himself.

"Uncle Jamie! Uncle Jamie! Ye're here!"

Jamie's gaze landed on the small figure hurtling towards him, hands flapping in the air. Putting the toy bike on the ground, he crouched down and grinned, opening his arms to catch his nephew. His lousy mood and discomfort dissipated all at once. " A chuilein ," he breathed, gripping the boy's small frame and lifting him in the air. He smelled of lollies, vanilla buttercream and baby sweat.

Wee Jamie squealed with delight as he was spun around. "I knew ye'd come, uncle! Ma said ye have lots and lots to do." As soon as he was released, he eyed the shiny red bike and let out a gasp. "Is that my pressie, uncle?"

He laughed. "Aye, that it is. Want to try it?"

"Ma! Look what I got from uncle Jamie!" his namesake shouted at the top of his lungs as he excitedly got on the bike. 

Jamie watched his nephew pedal towards his mother to show off his latest acquisition. 

Jenny turned, smiled and then she was coming towards him.

"Aah, the prodigal son is back home." Her face was flushed with heat, and her expression showed relief. He had been expecting reproof or anything of that sort. But his sister seemed genuinely happy to see him.

Guilt prickled his nerves. "Jenny ...can we talk?"

"Not now lad. We have plenty of time for that later. I'm just glad ye could make it." She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek and stood back to get a better look at him, a platter dangling in one hand. "I need to get more buns in the kitchen. Can ye sort out the lass in the mascot costume for me? My purse is upstairs," she explained, jerking a thumb towards the children's entertainer.

"Aye, of course, I'll do that." There was a squeeze in his chest at the prospect of facing his whole family and explaining his disappearance. He knew it had to be done, and it was only a matter of time.  

..........

What have I gotten myself into? Argh, Geillis you owe me big time! 

Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp rolled on her back in the grass, gasping for air as half a dozen five-year-olds piled on top of her. The impact of hyper and sugar-high children nearly dislodged her mask. She wished she was dressed as a clown or some other cartoon character instead, and one that didn't require her to put on such a weighty headgear. Alas, the birthday boy was a Paw Patrol fan.

Under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed the company of children, but she felt like dying from heat and exhaustion. Sweat trickled down the nape of her neck, and the fusty smell of her mascot headgear was making her nauseous. Without looking at the mirror, she knew her hair was an untamed mass of frizz thanks to the humidity.

Surprisingly, she hadn't collapsed from fatigue after her back to back shift at the hospital. She had been up all night when she was called into trauma surgery during an emergency. Despite having very little sleep and her body crying out for a much-needed rest, she couldn't back out on her promise to help her best friend, Geillis. 

Geillis had just started her own business in children's party entertainment. The venture was still at its early stages, and because she was double-booked that day and didn't have enough money yet to hire extra staff, she had pleaded to help her do the Paw Patrol gig in Lallybroch. 

How could she say no? Claire was already guilt-ridden for the many times she had cancelled on their night outs. These days her life revolved around her job at the hospital, planning her wedding and Frank. It was the least she could do for her neglected friend and social life.

"Who's hungry?" a voice shouted from the designated BBQ area. "Burgers, hotdogs and chips are ready!"

Instantly she was relieved from the weight of tiny bodies holding her down. Sitting up, she adjusted her mask as the children abandoned her for food.

"Um, Geillis?" She looked up. It was Jenny Fraser, the mother of the birthday boy. Claire hadn't bothered correcting her and elaborating that she was a stand-in for her friend. After all, this was just one-off and favour for Geillis.

"Yes?"

"Listen, the other children's entertainer is here already, and the bairns are eating. I believe yer two hours are up. D'ye mind collecting yer fees from my brother? He's just arrived and..." Jenny shrugged, looking down at the empty platter she was holding. "...as ye can see my hands are full at the moment."

She stood up, and through the eyeholes of the dog mask, she glanced at the newcomer. 

Aah, bloody hell, it's James Fraser. The Highland's homegrown hero is back.  She wondered how she failed to make the connection. She was in Lallybroch, the childhood home of Scotland's rugby best and finest centre.

"Ah, of course, I don't mind."

Jenny gave her a grateful look and smiled. "And thank ye. I ken it's nae job for the faint-hearted keeping the wee bairns entertained especially on a hot day like this. Ye must be shattered. Not to worry, though, I promise to give a good review online for yer new business."

She bobbed her big doggie head and watched Jenny turn and approach her brother before disappearing into the house. 

After all these years, the sight of James Fraser could still make her heart kick into a gallop and the moisture in her mouth dry right up. What is it about this man that turned her into a lovesick teenager just by looking at him?

Easy now, Beauchamp. You're as good as married. Remember Frank?  The weight of the three-carat diamond engagement ring on her finger served as a reminder.  Think Frank! Frank! Frank! Frank!   But her head refused to obey, and she continued to stare.

The first and only time she exchanged words with James Fraser, he was half-naked in the men's locker room being treated for a hamstring injury during a game. Her friend, Joe Abernathy, was a Tournament Medical Manager for the team, and through him, she had been there to assist for her own selfish reason - to see a live rugby match, up-close. It hadn't been difficult for Joe to get her in since she was an intern from the Royal Infirmary Hospital, and was more than qualified to assist. 

She remembered only too well when she came face to face with the famous rugby player. He had been cocky as sin when she was caught staring awestruck instead of preparing the ice pack for his thigh. How could she not stare? Given his considerable height and athletic frame, he was one fine specimen of a man, gorgeous and bursting with character. 

"Like what ye see, love?" he asked in amusement, flexing his pecs to tease her.

Mortified at being called out, she felt the heat creep up her neck. Not one to be intimidated by the display of cheek, she swallowed her embarrassment and tilted her chin at him. "To be honest, I've seen better. Robbie Henshaw is more my type," she retorted, referring to another rugby player.

A ruddy eyebrow shot up. "A sassenach that fancies an Irish charm! Weel, that's funny. I had a feeling ye like looking at my arse."

Ooh, the arrogance!  "Sorry to give you the wrong impression Mr Fraser but, I thought I was looking at your face." Joe's snort and Jamie's frown sent her backing away to get the ice before he could respond. But by the time she returned, he was already surrounded by his manager and other paramedical crew, her presence and their exchange soon to be forgotten. It didn't come as a surprise since, in the grand scheme of things, she was just one of a myriad of faces he came across daily.

Later on, Joe teased her regarding the chaffing rejoinder she had launched at Jamie. "You should have seen his face after that comeback you did back there?"

"Sorry?"

"Come on, LJ ...stop pretending you don't know what I'm talking about. I saw sparks flying." LJ stood for Lady Jane, a nickname Joe had given her during her first year of internship at the Royal Infirmary Hospital. It all began when their mutual friends made fun of her voice, and posh English accent, jokingly pointing out that she sounded like she just had tea with the queen. The moniker remained ever since.

"Sparks? You must have mistaken it for my short fuse firing off."

Joe boomed with laughter as he walked away. "You definitely like the man ...no use denying it. Your mouth may be saying one thing, but your face tells another story."

"I most certainly do not!" 

"Oh, and LJ?" Joe paused and turned around, ignoring her vehement denial.

"Yeah?"

"Don't believe everything you read in the newspaper about Jamie. Most are just tabloid nonsense."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever."

Yes, it's true she had a crush on James Fraser and had religiously followed his career. But her infatuation was just that and nothing more, even though she was often teased by her colleagues in her early years of internship. She was realistic enough to admit he was way out of her league, especially when he had been photographed and linked to high profile women in the past and fawned over by over-eager fans. After the locker room incident, she crossed path with James Fraser a couple more times, and there was never any hint of recognition on his part. She simply put it down to her baseball cap concealing most of her face and her refusal to engage, in case the embarrassing episode of her ogling at him was brought up.

Over a year and a half ago, she'd watched him score try after try for the national team during the World Cup, along with everyone in the local pub she frequented. There had never been a doubt he was destined to become one of the all-time greats in the rugby world. But no one had seen the injury coming, especially Jamie. Claire could still remember the heartbreak in his eyes when he announced his retirement on live TV at the age of twenty-eight, despite the light-hearted joke about having more time to practice his golf swings. And just like that, he disappeared from the media circuit. 

After a while, rumours started to spread that he had gone off on a self-destructive bender. Joe Abernathy had confirmed the stories were true and he had tried to reach out to him, and so had the local community and his own family. Instead of being coaxed out into the light, James Fraser hid in his apartment, refusing to answer calls and emails. She thought what a waste if he ended up as a drunken slob as she'd never known him to be anything but a fiercely confident man even to a fault. Although she was a nobody to James Fraser, she had urged Joe multiple times to keep trying to reach out. Unfortunately, he didn't want the help and soon, even his staunchest fans began to lose interest. Except, maybe her.

Making her way towards him, she watched with interest as James Fraser smiled at his nephew whizzing about on his new toy bike. Russet coloured hair curled unruly over his brow and brushed the nape of his neck. He looked rather pale, and it was the first time she'd seen him with a beard. The uneven state of it told her the facial hair was a product of self-neglect rather than a style change. Her gaze dipped lower. With his feet braced apart, arms folded across his chest and at least his six-four height, he towered with an impressive bearing. Clad in faded black jeans that hung low on his hips and a white t-shirt that stretched over his muscular build, he looked like a modern Highland warrior.

"Hi there." 

Claire's thought bubble burst, and she quickly reeled in her dwindling focus and pulled it higher until she met his eyes. A pair of pale ice blue with piercing intensity momentarily froze her in place.  Right! What was it again I'm supposed to do? Oh yeah, collect the money, and get the hell out of here. Piece of cake.  "Hi." 

He gave her a forced smile as he fumbled at the back of his jean's pocket. "Ye've come to collect yer money. How much does my sister owe ye?" 

"That'll be seventy quid, please. And um, good to see you out and about, Mr Fraser."

He stopped and squinted at her as if attempting to see through her doggie disguise. "Ah, a sassenach!"

"Yes, I've been reminded often enough."

There was a moment of silence.

Puffing his cheeks, he dragged a hand through his hair and rapidly let out a lungful of air. "Christ, I didn't mean it that way. And please call me Jamie. Everyone else does. And nae need to be so formal!"

She nodded her big head. "Alright ...Jamie, it is then. And don't worry. I didn't take offence. I know you didn't mean anything by it."

He was about to pull a note out of his wallet, but he stopped. As if he was in search of the right words to say. "Ye have a beautiful voice. What's the word ...aye, husky. Kinda like a bedroom voice."

Her heart skipped a beat, and she searched his face. It seemed he was genuinely just attempting small talk. "Thank you."

"Would ye like a drink before ye go? It's a hot day. Ye must be parched."

"Ah, no, I'm quite alright. But thanks."

"Ye have a name?" He drew out a hundred-pound note from his wallet, pinching it between his fingers.

"Call me Chase. I'm one of the Paw Patrols." When he laughed out loud, she was grateful for the mask that hid her unexpected smile. 

"Weel, Chase I think ye sound bonnie." He took a careful step forward to peek through the eyehole. "Ye bonnie under there, Chase?"

Oh no, you don't!  She took two steps back.  This is getting bloody ridiculous.  In as much as Claire was enjoying the harmless blather with the handsome Scot, she knew she was running out of time. She had a couple of hours of nap to take, shower, and meet Frank for a dinner date. For the most part, he was affecting her in ways that no other man had made her feel. Including Frank. "I really need to go," she said hoarsely.

"Right. Just one request before ye go. I'll give ye this ..." He waved the hundred-pound note in front of her. "...and ye can keep the change if ye let me see yer face."

Claire felt a stab of exasperation.  Why does it matter what I look like?  She was exhausted, hot and bothered and all she wanted right there and then was to get out of the stuffy costume. "Why do you need to see my face?"

Suddenly he looked uncomfortable. "What I meant ..."

She didn't let him finish. "What if you don't like what you see? Do I have to give the change back? Don't you have enough girls fawning over you?"

His shame morphed into annoyance and then into smug. "Careful, Sassenach, ye're starting to sound a little jealous to me."

Ooh, he's back to his usual cocky self.  "Wot? Me? Jealous?" she fumed almost sputtering. 

"Aye, jealous." He looked like he enjoyed making her feel uncomfortable as a corner of his mouth lifted into a half-smile.

A cloud above her head darkened, lightning threatening to shoot at all sides. She knew it was the heat and exhaustion that was making her cranky and tried to take calming breaths. "You're presumptuous and rude."

"And ye're annoyed because I can see that the idea of girls fawning me irks ye."

That's it, I've had enough of this palaver.

Claire rolled her lips inward to plump them, then reached up and removed her mask. Gratification coursed through her when his jaw went slack, and his blue eyes turned a deeper shade.  That's right matey, I am not at all that bad!  As she took a step forward, he straightened his posture, a groan escaping from his throat. He saw the intention in her eyes and knew what was coming.

"Jealous, you say?" she hissed. Remembering the embarrassment Jamie had caused her during their initial meeting, she shoved him against the wall of the house, not caring if anyone was watching the spectacle she was creating. Surging up on her toes, she brought her face up close to his, their noses almost touching. "That's right, darling, I would rock your world."

Ah, what the heck ...I'm getting married soon, I might as well.  Not giving Jamie a chance to get a word in edgeways, she leaned even closer and merged their mouths together. To her astonishment, his lips parted, and the kiss hit the ground running in no time. One strong hand gripped her chin and pulled it down further, allowing him to slant his head and deepen the kiss more.  Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!  Shock exploded into her brain, and she swayed a little under the onslaught of heat. Jamie pushed his tongue deeper, making a low moaning sound, and she echoed it in kind. Then she felt his hand slide behind her neck as if he couldn't allow her to get away, and that's when she knew she was losing control.  What the hell are you doing Beauchamp? Remember Frank?

Claire pulled away and took a deep breath. With his mouth damp and parted, he too was trying to draw in as much air as he could, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. "Ye look familiar. Who the hell are ye?"

Swallowing the odd lump in her throat, she plucked the hundred-pound note out of his fingers. "I'm gone. I'll have a receipt sent over." She took a few steps, stopped and then turned around to look at him. "Oh, by the way, I sincerely hope you're done feeling bad about your rugby career. Circumstances mess everyone up once in a while. And I guess it's fair to say, you've been messed up really bad. But, please, don't lie down and play the victim. I know you're better than this. Look at this way, you've achieved more than anyone could in a lifetime. You did it, Jamie. You've already achieved what you set to do. And I wish you all the luck in the world." 

Taking advantage of the group of people approaching them, she hurried away.

"Hey ...wait, what's yer name?"

This time she didn't respond nor look back. With as much dignity as one could summon while dressed in a doggie costume, she ran as fast as she could.

[hollenka99]

Photographs

Summary: A selection of moments in Jackie Mann’s life, as told through photographs.

Upon a pillow laid on a table is a baby. He's asleep, having only been born a handful of days earlier. The hand resting by his cheek makes him appear dreamily fed up with all this attention. Behind the baby is a card declaring 'It's a Boy!' and vase full of flowers from the Aherns down the hall. It's not much in the way of celebrating his birth but it's more than his mother had anticipated. After generations of the family living in what was now Northern Ireland, he was the first to be born south of that border. Miss Coghlan only hoped she had made the right decision by moving away. And when she has the pictures developed, she captions this one

John Bartholomew Coghlan Born 10/07/1966 7:22pm --- John appeared to be caught off guard. In his hands were a wooden spoon and a small pan. He'd been banging them together, as two year olds had a habit of finding enjoyment doing, when he had been caught. His mouth was slightly agape in an expression that was a mix of startled and bewilderment. Seconds before, his mother had asked him what he was doing with humour in her voice. As she tucked the black and white photograph in a safe place, Aoife Coghlan smiled fondly, thinking to herself how her son was already a budding musician. There is no writing on the back except for 'November 1968'. --- The two boys looked like an absolute disgrace. It honestly made you wonder if they'd straight up rolled around in the dirt. The only reason John's mother had taken the photo was to help herself believe it had actually happened. Still the 7 year olds posed with their hands on the handlebars, mounted on their bicycles and a foot on the ground to steady themselves. The whole time they remained beaming, content with their day's worth of exploration and play. John had only received that bike for his birthday the prior month. Now look at the state of it! Dear Lord... On the back of the photograph, coloured this time, it is written: John and Dermot after riding their bikes in Ravensdale Forest, August 1973 --- Aoife couldn't have been prouder. The Aherns, whom they'd invited to witness this important moment in John's life, happily offered to take some photos of the mother and son duo. With his mother (dressed in the best of her Sunday best, obviously) placing a hand on his shoulder, John held his copy of the Bible up for the camera. He looked incredibly smart in his shirt and tie. In the background you could catch parts of other families celebrating the same occasion outside the church. This one was going to be catalogued as John's First Holy Communion - 13/06/1974 (Corpus Christi) --- John holds baby Bridget in his arm. Annette, her blonde hair in pigtails, is sitting on his lap. The siblings both have their gazes on the latest addition to their family. Seeing him with his two little sisters is enough to make anyone wonder how the boy is already 13. If his mother wasn't careful, he'd be preparing to leave home before she knew it. But for now it was her three children, together in one beautiful moment, and there wasn't anything more she could ask from the world. It may be grainy but what photo wasn't? It is filed away with September 1979 inked on the other side. --- Jackie had announced this was the year for change in his life. He was going to legally change his name as soon as his 18th birthday arrived in July. But first, Jackie Mann needed a look. Perhaps that was why he'd styled it into a mullet over the holidays and dyed it a vibrant green. None of his bandmates were going to be the ones to point it out but a mullet wasn't exactly the hairstyle you saw and thought 'punk rock'. Regardless, it was Jackie's hair and if he wanted that over a mohawk or anything else, then fine. Even with his arms crossed and back against the wall, it would need some work. Jotted down on the back is He claims it's here to stay, 3rd January 1984 --- It was clear Jackie felt fairly self conscious while wearing feminine clothing. More to the point, he didn't look comfortable if he knew others could see him in those garments. It was why he only wore it at home. Even so, he wasn't keen on Chris catching him in a dress. However, Jackie appeared to be too engrossed by dancing to whatever was playing on his Walkman when his friend returned from grabbing takeaway. The drummer remains oblivious with an absent minded smile as the moment is captured forever. This one gets titled Happy is a good look on him, 19th May 1984 --- The pub doesn't have particularly good lighting. It doesn't matter. You can at least still make out the scene. Jackie is drinking from his pint of Guinness and giving a thumbs up to the camera. In the corner is part of Matt's raised arm, in the middle of cheering. His friends had heavily encouraged him to choose the stout as the first alcoholic beverage of his adult life. He'd acted as if he was annoyed but ordered it regardless. Why the hell not? He'd been half considering doing so anyway. What the camera doesn't catch is the way he very visibly cringes in disgust seconds afterwards. Nor Stuart daring him to chug the whole pint to get out of buying rounds, Jackie stating he shouldn't have to buy rounds on his birthday in the first place then attempting the challenge despite it. Matt suggests the moment be dubbed 'Baby's first drink, 10th July 1984' --- The knife worked on the charred pieces of meat. In amongst all these restoration efforts, Chris' teasing and jokes caused him to have the blade pointed in his direction. This only triggers more of his offending behaviour. He rushes off to grab his camera. Jackie clutches the knife, swearing he was going to 'Psycho his ass in a minute'. This is the very moment preserved through the lens. The 18 year old repeats his threats of murder when he notices the latest addition of 'Jackie pretending he's not completely hopeless with turkey, 25th December 1984' to Chris' photo collection. --- Jackie's left arm was laid on the kitchen table and acted as a cushion for his head. The other hand was clutching a jar of pickles. With unkempt hair, no top and a pair of pajama bottoms not visible to the camera, he looked as terrible as he felt. The second picture was Jackie in a similar pose a minute later. He'd noticed Chris taking the first photograph, lifted his head a moment before having it drop down in the comfort of his arm. Chris, regretting the night before himself, had told him to smile. Instead Jackie's right arm was raised from the elbow and only one finger was not hidden. In the album, the two photographs are placed side by side. And below them is the caption Why 'cooling down' after Live Aid was a bad idea, 14th July 1985 --- In Jackie's arms, cradled like a baby, is a corgi. Her tail is blurred from wagging too much for the camera to catch it. Caoimhe's owner has his eyes clasped tight from laughter. On the other side of the camera, Jackie's new friend Nate watched as the dog did everything in her power to lick his face. The two men stay giggling throughout the whole thing. The more presentable results are put under Caoimhe 1st birthday, Apr '86 --- In the picture dated July 29 '86, Spencer is sat upon his big brother's shoulders. Pinned to his top is a badge declaring he is 5. He looks down and his face lights up as their eyes meet. Jackie has his hands firmly holding on to Spencer's. His eyes are directed skyward while his tongue pokes out. The brothers jointly revel in each other's company. The photograph could not have been taken sooner because a minute later Jackie is racing around the garden, much to Spencer's delight. --- 'Kissing at Stuart's birthday party, 9th October 1986' is pretty much what it says on the tin. Both of them are a little inebriated. Jackie is comfortably tipsy while Chris is gradually working his way towards plastered. Neither will admit to the other the feeling their relationship has seen better days, despite them both experiencing it. That didn't matter tonight. They were here to celebrate a friend turning 24 and damn it, they were going to do just that. It's a sweet moment where any grudges or frustrations are non-existent. Even better, it is still approximately an hour before Jackie will call it a night, say his goodbyes and leave for home. The party hasn't even reached the point where perhaps a dozen people (all intoxicated to varying degrees) join forces to sing 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow' as the cake is presented to Stuart. The pair are happy together and for a frozen moment in time, they will remain so. --- He knows that he should technically be turning 53 today but ah, screw it. He's been living in 2019 for more or less five months now. Marvin gifted him several Queen albums this morning which he hadn't even had the chance to listen to yet. The hero had disappeared off to the kitchen, leaving Henrik, Chase and Jameson at the table with Jackie. Joel hovered between the kitchen and the party like he had been ever since he arrived. Standing in the doorway, his roommate counted their guests down from three. Happy Birthday was sung as his cake travelled towards him. Layered chocolate with strawberries and cream inbetween. Of course Marvin had chosen to bake that one. A couple of candles, a 2 and a 1, were situated in the middle of the top layer. He extinguishes them with his breath to the sound of collective cheering. All the while, Joel was filming it on his mobile phone. His phone of all things. Even after all this time, Jackie was still wrapping his head around that. They ask him what his wish was. He chuckles and winks, reminding them it won't come true if he tells. The truth is, however, that he can't think of one. He isn't sure what he wants. And somehow the thought of birthday wishes returns to him that evening. Long after Chase has rushed back to work with a takeaway slice and the others have bid their own farewells, he's got his legs dangling off a roof by Marvin's side. They sit together, hands entwined, gazing at the skyline in the fading light of a summer evening. He'd love to return to 1986, to live his life in a linear chronological fashion the way everyone else got to. There are people he misses, those he never got to say a proper goodbye to and countless memories he could have made but won't now. That said, he's already become part of dozens of memories in the past few months that he was never meant to be involved in either. If he really had to wish for anything, it was to remain happy throughout life. And currently, he was doing a pretty good job of achieving that.

[cecilspeaks]

147 - The Protester

Hot singles in your area are staring into the forest and grinning absently. 

Welcome to Night Vale.

Astronomers are frantically trying to determine why a chunk of the moon is missing. Ragged and greedy like a slice removed from a pie by hungry hands rather than a civilized serving utensil, the gap in the moon has been baffling professional sky gazers for weeks. Fun fact: did you know a group of astronomers is called a commotion?

Astronomers believe the moon could be eroding, because people have stopped believing in it, like ancient Roman polytheism. Others have theorized that the moon was damaged by enemy ships in the ongoing Blood Space War. But people on the internet have countered that this is part of the mandala effect, and that that piece of the moon has always been missing and we’re collectively misremembering. Like how those beloved picture book bears that we all remember as the Berenstein Bears, have by all physical evidence always actually been spelled “The Dog Pound Boyzzzz”. Boyz with a Z. Because of the 2016 city ordinance that proclaimed that anything can be true if you say it loud enough, astronomers are forced to consider all sides.

I don’t know any astronomers, but I do know a scientist! My husband Carlos has been the leading scientific mind in Night Vale since we started dating, almost six years ago. Carlos says that he has been studying and interesting meteorite he found out in the sand wastes and scrublands beyond Night Vale. He believes this particular rock is a piece of the moon. Standing before a giant wall of blinking lights, flickering screens and intermittent beeps, Carlos determined that this piece of the moon broke off only one month ago. But this is impossible, because no one can remember seeing the moon breaking apart in the sky. Well, maybe we were all asleep when it happened, I told Carlos as I dabbed away a small crumb from a cheese Danish that had gotten stuck in his beard. Oh, fun fact: Carlos grew a beard! And I have never liked beards on men, but now – I do. It’s got two thin silver racing stripes down the chin, and the hair is so soft. We’ve been married over two years and every day, I fall more in love.

Oh right, the moon, OK good God, always with the moon. [mutters] Yeah, yeah… Carlos has been studying an unusual number of empty homes and businesses about town. He noticed that the houses on either side of us are completely empty, but he didn’t remember them being empty before. He remembers us having neighbors, but he couldn’t name a single thing about them. He believes this might be related to the damaged moon. Whatever happened a month ago to the moon immediately caused us all to forget it, because something in our timeline changed. Carlos said: “Perhaps we are not forgetting people and events, perhaps they never existed at all.” His eyes were cloudy with pensive thought, and I touched his furry cheek and said: “You’ll save us, hon. I know you will.” He smiled and asked if I’d be willing to reach out to archeology professor Harrison Kip again. Carlos, uh, had been communicating with Kip about this very issue, but now emails to Harrison keep bouncing back, and his phone number is no longer in the phone company’s database of working numbers. I laughed and said: “Carlos, I don’t know who Harrison Kip is!” Carlos looked worried, and said he wasn’t sure he did either. But he felt like he should.

Protestors have organized a sit in in front of city hall, demanding an end to the Blood Space War. The city council, seeing the crowd of about 150 people gathered around the front entrance of their building, took immediate action. They announced they would be taking a long planned family vacation to the Badlands National Park in South Dakota, until this whole protest thing runs its course. “We don’t believe South Dakota actually exists,” the single-bodied, multi-voiced council said. “When you look at a map, it seems like it exists, like it’s just right there when you look at it and it’s between two other identical states, so it would make more sense for it to be there than not. Anyway, this feels like a great time to take the kids to see Mount Rushmore.” As the city council said this, several small childlike heads emerged from the city council’s singular body and screamed in happy unison. Or terrified unison. Mm, it’s hard to get an emotional reading on screams.

The organizer of the protest is 20-year-old Night Vale community college student, Basimah Bishara, whose father Lieutenant Fakir Bishara returned home from the Blood Space War three years ago. Basimah greeted her father’s return with joy, but that joy has since been replaced by confusion and pain. Let’s hear Basimah’s story in her own words.

Basimah: Time no longer works correctly for my father. I understand time does not work correctly for many people in Night Vale, but it had always worked correctly for him before the war. In December 2015, he returned home after 11 years of serving our city, our country, our planet in a war that still makes no sense to me. I was six when he volunteered for service, he was 30. 11 years later when he returned home, I was 17. My father was 19. He did not remember joining in the war nor having a daughter nor meeting his wife. He is a teenager, like I was. I no longer am a teenager, but my father still is. He has stayed 19 years old. Time no longer works correctly for him.

My mother Tahira raised me. She expressed reticence about the band I started, the music we played. She grounded me when my grades slipped and shouted at me when I told her I had a girlfriend. But she came to love Marina and more, my mother came to understand as both as people, as women. Not as rivers to be damned or levied.

My father’s return has been especially hard on her, because she is 45 and her husband is a 19-year-old stranger. You probably know what it’s like to have a father, to have a man much older than you who changed your diapers or watched your diapers being changed. Who taught you to speak or ride a bike, who helped you develop as a human from an animal from a larva from the simplest, squirming wad of meat into an adult. That father will always be a father, not a friend, not an equal, a father. You probably do not know what it’s like to see a father at your age, to talk with your father when he is also barely an adult. To have your father lonely and inquisitive think of you as his only friend in the world, while you look to him for guidance and love. But he is incapable of both, at least not in the way you need to be guided and loved.

It took two years for Fakir to open up about the war and it still makes no sense to him nor me. The Blood Space War requires constant shifts through time, through worm holes to change lost battles into won battles, to undo what has already been undone thousands, millions of times over. The future does not look like a blank page, it looks like a tattered sheet of paper, grayed and frayed from countless transcriptions and erasures of history. Battles are won and then undone through time travel. We lose our lives and then regain them by traveling backwards and fighting again. We are winning the war by perpetuating the war. Last month, the Polonians attacked our earth, I am sure of it. The only evidence is our broken moon. I believe the general undid this attack with time travel and this has changed our reality, changed who was born, who ever lived in the first place. People are disappearing because they will have never existed.

People think we’re crazy for protesting. I’m 20 and my father is still 19. I’m not crazy. My mother Tahira is not crazy. We are angry.

Our next protest is scheduled this afternoon at the corner of Earl and Somerset by the Dog Park near the Ralphs.

Cecil: Not sure what Basimah was referring to. That’s an empty lot by the Ralphs. There was word for a dog park to be built there many years ago, but it never materialized.

[clears throat] Let’s have a look now at local news. Earth sciences professor Simone Rigideau announced today that she is scrapping all text books and lesson plans at the community college in favor of organized prayer to a god named Huntokar. Several students and parents argued against such an extreme divergence from core curriculum in favor of French religious practices, but college president Sarah Sultan supported her staff member by saying: “Cut Simone some slack. She doesn’t even teach classes. She’s a transient who lived in a storage closet inside the earth sciences building for 20 years. The only reason she has the title of professor is because of antiquated squatter’s rights laws.” Rigideau donned rabbit furs and an old bicycle frame wraught into the shape of antlers, and began spray paintin the Fibonacci sequence on the cars in the college parking lot, all the while singing a ballad about clocks.

The intergalactic military headquarters released their first quarter earnings statmenet this week. Investors were displeased to see that each of the board members of the privately own space defense contractor had purchased a 125-foot yachts and NFL franchises. But those fears were quickly allayed by the announcement of layoffs of more than 5,000 employees. Stock prices for the intergalactic military soared to an all time high this afternoon, at 490 dollars a share. Senior strategic advisor Jameson Archibald said the intergalactic military has no actual earned income. 100 per cent of their gross is from venture capital. Archibald said: “Some investors keep asking how we plan to monetize our military, which is a stupid question, man! I mean, look at this Patek Philippe watch I bought. It’s encrusted with 10 pounds of diamonds, and the watch face was made using an actual piece of the Sistine Chapel. We are doing fine.” Archibald added that the intergalactic military is developing an app and a subscription service that allows people to engage in celestial war fare any time they want for only 12,99 a month.

Alright, listeners, I heard back from Basimah, and she said I was right. There is no dog park. Of course I was right. If I knew there was a dog park being built in this town, I would have reported it immediately. Carlos and I have a dog. His name is Aubergine because he’s purple and European, and Auby is adorable and we love him dearly. I mean, I wasn’t into the idea of having to care for a dog, but Carlos strongly urged this case one morning over breakfast when he said, “I think we should get a dog”, and 20 minutes later, we were leaving the SPCA with our adopted pet. [clears throat]

Basimah said she was positive there was a dog park next to the Ralphs, but when she arrived at the corner of Earl and Somerset, it was all empty lots. To be honest, I don’t remember her mentioning a Ralphs before, because I would have corrected her. There’s never been a Ralphs affiliate in Night Vale. This is what Basimah had to say. Um, hang on, let me just insert the tape I used to record her. And there we go.

Basimah: If a person never exists, did they disappear? If you never knew them, can you miss them? My father spends most of his days playing basketball with friends he made at the rec center. He is 19 years old and trying to escape a decade of inescapable drama from warfare. Asked him who my mother was. I grew up with only my uncle Omar and did not know my parents until my father returned from war. Fakir did not remember my mother. He did not remember his marriage or my birth, because it has not happened yet in his timeline. Asked what if mother didn’t exist at all. What if the general’s time traveling has altered our lives so much that my mother was never born and you can never meet her. My father, the teenager said: “If I never met a woman, I do not know I will not miss her. But I’ll meet another woman.” I asked: “What if I was never born?” My dad said: “Basi?” He hid his tears and then he hugged me, but it was not the hug of a father and daughter. It was the hug of a son and mother. He buried his head into my shoulder and sobbed, repeating: “Basi! Basi!” And I comforted his heaving head with my palm. I said: “Father, Fakir. I think I shall no longer exist soon. [voice fades] I think I-

Oh OK, sorry for the dead air, listeners, I was playing a recording of an interview I did. Wait, nope. I just checked, there’s no tape in the player at all. I thought I had been talking with… Ugh. Aah! Who have I been talking to? Maybe it was my husband Carlos reporting on his findings about the damage done to our moon or, mh, or maybe it was nothing at all. [clears throat] Well, let us forget that we forgot, and go now To the weather.

[Shake” by Wednesday’s Wolves https://www.wednesdayswolves.com]

We have an update on the Blood Space War, Night Vale. John Peters says his brother has returned home again. When he left a month ago, James Peters was 22 years old. But he is now in his seventies, which is the age he should be. John held his brother tightly, crying in gratitude and relief that his own family could return to some kind of normalcy. James at first was heartened to see John again, to see his home again, and to learn that he and the general had thwarted the Polonian attack on our planet. But his tearful smile drifted slowly downward, an evening shadow overtaken by night. Upon James’ face now was the sudden knowledge that he had made a grave error. James looked around Night Vale seeing empty lots and homes, abandoned buildings and sparse streets. According to James, thousands of people have gone missing from Night Vale, because they never existed or never moved here in the first place. The general had leapt in time to successfully stop the Polonians from ever reaching Earth, but the change in the timeline caused Night Vale to change too.

Listeners, this may seem strange, but perhaps there are people you once knew, family you once lived with, places you were in, all of which are gone, and without your knowing. I have tried hard to think of any memory of any experience or person I have lost in the last month, but I can think of none. I told James Peters that perhaps the change in timeline did not matter if no one knew what they had lost, if no one noticed any change. James said: “Cecil, I just don’t know. I don’t know. Maybe if we had a scientific perspective on this, we could better understand how this is affecting us as a community.” And I said I didn’t know any scientists, not personally anyway. There’s the strange woman who lives in the storage closet at the community college, I suppose we could ask her.

The important thing is that we are safe, and that another veteran has returned home, and it is another beautiful day in Night Vale.

Stay tuned next for “Conspiring to Love”, our new relationship advice show, which as a lifelong bachelor sounds like something I should check out.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: “Nothing lasts forever” is a phrase with two meanings, and they’re both true.

[7deadlycinderellas]

The Starks at War

(aka, I am a huge ww2 nerd, and you all will suffer for it)

Ao3 link

Truthfully, it must be said, that Winterfell had seen better days.

The once huge estate no longer provided any income of it's own. The grounds were cut when the council bought off the land to put a road through behind the house. The house was still grand, the gardens still it’s Lady’s pride and joy. The Lord of the house now owned a hand tool factory down the road, and the Lady oversaw a staff of only a cook and two maids (plus the children’s tutors of course, and Old Nan, who nursed the youngest). Even the stable of horses had been replaced by a motorcar.

The Starks themselves too, had known loss. Eddard Stark, only a second son, had not known he would inherit, until the loss of his brother in the Great War. His fiery sister Lyanna too, lost her life only a few years later, poisoned by the munitions factory where she worked to serve her country.

But it was clean, and well kept, and the Lord and Lady kept up appearances.

And the Stark children, it must be said, loved the place. The summer times they all spent on their families lands may well have been paradise to all of them.

Robb, the eldest of them, got his driving license that summer. Ned Stark spent most of the summer in London, leaving Robb to take the car down to the village where it attracted the attention of men and women alike. He would be going to university come autumn, and was appreciating his final months of freedom.

A word must be also spared for the children’s cousin Jon. Raised as their brother after his mother’s untimely death, he was often spoken about in hushed tones for the truth of his illegitimate birth. Though the Starks had planned to provide for his education as they had for their own children, his own pride led to him deciding against university, and spending his summer working for the newspaper office in the village.

Sansa, the eldest daughter, had returned home from boarding school. She had come bursting with stories of her classmates, who came from families older and more important than the Starks, who lived on huge country estates and gave her stories of grand parties and great romances. And if she spent most of her summer in the window seat of the parlour, reading paperbacks and writing letters, she was no less happy for it.

Arya Stark’s summer holidays were spent much the same as the rest of her year, though without her being scolded for trying to dodge her lessons.  Earlier that year, she had received a bicycle for her birthday, and it carried her more days than not into the village. Far less touched by her mother’s concerns of propriety, Arya had many friends there, and carried back with her dime novels and packs of sweets. On her other days, she climbed over the rock wall marking the end of their estate into the land owned by their neighbors, the Reeds, such as it was, and joined the two children there in climbing the trees and swimming in the pond that was all that remained of their land.

In fact, it was Arya and the older Reed girl, Meera, who had a special project that summer: to get Arya’s younger brother Bran out of the house more.

Before the coming storm, it would have been said that the greatest tragedy to befall Winterfell that generation would have been Brandon Stark’s fall. An active and athletic child, at the age of ten, Bran had taken a bad fall from one of the manor’s windows. The injury had truly in the grand scheme of things, not been terrible. Bran could still bend at the hips and partially straighten his right knee, but both legs were left incredibly weak, and the left one nearly completely numb.

That had been two years ago, and the boy had resigned himself to spending most of his summer days sitting in his room reading or listening to plays on the wireless. Sometimes he would sit with Old Nan and Rickon, and listen to their stories, but he felt far too old for it now.

Neither Arya or Meera could stand for this.

So, one warm day in July, the two girls approached him when he was in the parlor, reading a book.

Both of them have their arms crossed, and Bran isn’t sure what’s going on.

“Come with us, we’re going swimming.”

Bran looks his sister up and down. She might have been wearing cast off work trousers of Jon’s and an old jersey with her hair in rough plaits, but she looks completely serious and at that moment, has a definite air of authority.

“I’m reading.”

Arya looks at him like he’s grown a second head.

“You can do that outside. Come one, you’ve been inside nearly the whole year, you look like a fish’s belly.”

And she isn’t wrong, so Bran decides to give in.

Admittedly, being in the sun again is nice. The window can only let in so much. The day is rather hot, and the water will be nice. The stone path leading out from the house is easy enough for him to push the wheels of his wheelchair on, though when they cut off onto the grass, it takes more effort.

“What are you reading now?” Meera asks him cheerfully, “Burroughs again?”

The last time Meera had come by, Bran had been finishing the Land that Time Forgot. He had enjoyed it, but ultimately preferred Conan Doyle’s take on a lost prehistoric world.

He shakes his head.

“Wells this time.”

“Island of Doctor Moreau?” Arya interjects, “If so, give it back, I didn’t finish.”

“War of the Worlds. It’s that one that was on the radio in America last year and made everyone think it was real.”

Arya wrinkles her nose. “Jon said that was bunk, made up to make newspaper seem better than radio.”

“I suppose Jon might know, working at the paper.” Jon had often told them that the men who ran the news office were a bunch of stodgy, stuffed shirts, who seemed to think they knew more than him simply by virtue of his age.

“Well it’s a good book either way.” Bran insists.

They’ve reached the end of the Starks land, marked with a low stone wall just above knee high. It’s easy to just step over. Just one more of the easy things rendered impossible to Bran now.

Arya looks at Meera,

“You take the top, I’ll get his feet. “

And suddenly, Meera steps up onto the wall and grasps Bran under the arms and hoists him in time with Arya lifting him up by his pasty, atrophied legs.

“Did you two practice this?” Bran asks grouchily, feeling rather like a slab of meat.

“You’re not that much different than moving a log.”

That’s not really any better, Bran thinks, when Arya sets him on the ground and moves to drag his chair over and help him back into it. He wishes the back of the device wasn’t so high. If it were lower, he might be able to drag himself over the wall like he does from the window seat. But he was already lucky that it was light weight and metal and not one of the huge wooden monstrosities he had seen when he woke in the hospital after his fall.

When they reach the edge of the pond, Bran slides himself out of his chair carefully, settling himself under one of the tall trees close to the water’s edge. He pulls off his shoes and socks, letting his lower legs float into the water, even though only righty appreciated it. Arya had been right, it was a good enough place to read a book.

The pond was large for a pond, feeding into one of the streams that led to the canals through the south. Good fish could still often be fished from it, and it was more than deep enough in the middle for swimming to be a bit dangerous.

Arya seemingly paid no heed to this, as she stripped off to the swimming costume she had on under her trousers beside the tree. She then climbed one of the branches that hung over the water to its end, and did a cannonball.

Meera goes back to the house and returns with a pole and line. She rolls up her trouser legs before taking a seat on a log near Bran and casting out her line.

“What’s happening now?” She asks Bran, gesturing at the book in his hand.

“A bunch of ships with people on them are fleeing the Martian tripods, so one of the Navy’s ships rams it so it the people can get away.’

“Do you think they’ll make it?”

Arya pops her head up out of the water,

“Doubt it, the Martians have heat rays.”

“Don’t give it away!” Bran says petulantly. This was another of the books he’d filched from Arya’s shelf, that consisted nearly entirely of science fiction and pulp adventures, to her governess’s despair. Arya had once told him they had contained all the adventures she was never going to get to have.

“Just saying, the narrator is just a journalist, and the tripods are enormous.”

That’s what made the story so good, Bran thought. It shouldn’t be very long, yet there’s still half a book left.

Not too much later, Meera’s brother Jojen sticks his head out the house.

“Mum asked if you all want sandwiches.”

“Tell her yes,” Meera calls back, and Jojen disappears inside.

Arya swims up to the edge and crawls out of the water onto the shore.

“Isn’t he coming out too?”

Meera’s gazing back at the house with a distant look in her eye.

“He had another seizure this morning, and was out of it for a while. Mum’s taking him to the doctor’s tomorrow to see if his medicine needs adjusting.”

Ah. Though most in the village had come to understand Jojen’s condition, Bran had come to feel kinship with the other boy’s vulnerability. Lady Reed had been a school teacher before she’d wed, and taught him at home before the doctor’s had been able to keep from having the fits anymore. Him and his sister both attended the village school now.  

Jojen does join them when he returns with lunch, sitting between Bran and Meera on the dirt.

“What are you going to do now that you’re done with school?” Arya asks Meera idly, still chewing on a tough bit of green.

“Get a job I suppose. Father says one of the sailing clubs down at the marina needs someone to handle registrations and paperwork. Though I’m not eighteen until November.”

“That would just drive me mad. “ Arya responds, “All day, just seeing all the boats go in an out but being stuck in a little box.”

Meera shugs, “I don’t think I’d mind.”

“Not holding out to get swept up by some handsome Duke at a ball somewhere?” Jojen asks with a smirk.

Bran hides his face. He’s always known Meera was pretty- even if the other boys in the village didn’t appreciate her- but in the past year looking at her has made him feel like he was taking another long fall.

Meera laughs him off, “If the boys weren’t interested in me at school, they won’t be interested at the balls I won’t go to.”

The balls and derbies and garden parties that make up the London social season. They had never been something that interested Bran or Arya in the least. Mother occasionally spoke of the ones she had attended as a girl, and Robb had gone to the Windsor horse show as a guest of a school friend, but Father had expressed more than a bit of disdain at the opulence in the wake of the slump. The world was changing, he said, and they ought keep up.

It was not something the Reeds would have ever been able to take part in. While they maintained what remained of their family’s land, and kept the title, the only thing resembling a fortune they had was Howland Reed’s Navy pension and his earnings from his current role as the harbourmaster.

“Sansa sure won’t shut up about it though,” Arya comments.

God above, that was true.

Sansa had pled to be allowed to go to boarding school for her last few years of secondary education, and Ned and Catelyn had reluctantly agreed. While they indeed missed their eldest daughter, her education was important to them, and Cat in particular had recognized that Sansa, a social butterfly, would blossom surrounded by other girls of her station.

And blossom she had.

Sansa had left for school with a neat red braid, a pressed uniform, and a head full of dreams. She returned home with her hair pinned up, a purse full of smuggled make up, and dozens of tales of party invitations on the weekends.

Right now, she was at the table in the dining room with her mother. Having finished her lunch, she was writing to Margaery Tyrell, her house’s head girl, and one of the closest friends she had made during the year.

“Have you gone into the village to visit Jeyne yet?” Catelyn asked.

She had not. Jeyne Poole was the daughter of a man Ned had once employed who now ran a shop in town. Jeyne had before this year, been Sansa’s dearest friend.

“No, Mother. It’s just- I worry we won’t have anything in common anymore having been apart for a whole year.”

This was a half truth. It is what Sansa thought when she pondered her magical year away at school and tried to fit. Giggly Jeyne, who was so frightened of mice and snakes, and dreamed of one day being a film star, just seemed so far away from the sophistication she had come to know.

“You should go see,” Catelyn says, smiling, but firmly. “Pack a picnic and sit somewhere. I’m glad you’re so happy at school, but you musn’t forget your old friends, or where you came from. Winterfell may not be as grand as where your school friends live, but it is still your home.”

Sansa tried not to wrinkle her nose, but she takes her mother’s advice. The next day, Cook helps her pack a basket and she dons a straw hat and walks to the village and finds Jeyne getting her hair set in the beauty shop, and they share lunch on a bench in the park.

“At least without you around, there were a lot more boys paying attention to me,” Jeyne tells her, taking a sip from her bottle of cordial.

Sansa laughs.

“Oh forget about these village boys. I met so many lovely young men at school.”

Sansa tells her about Margaery’s brother Loras, with his golden curls, who was planning to study at Cambridge. Of Joffrey Baratheon, who had such a lovely face and was of such a good family. Even of Joffrey’s uncle Jamie, who was captain of football at their school, and such a good player, his feats were still spoken of to this day. He had joined the army after graduation, and the girls at the school whispered breathily of his exploits.

“Oh it sounds so wonderful,” Jeyne sighs, “I wish I could move to London, that’s where all the fancy people live. I would love to go to a ball or a tea party, instead I’m stuck here.”

Sansa purses her lips. The girls she went to school with were girls with estates, and titles. Little Myrcella Baratheon was even the daughter of a Duke. Truly, she did not believe any of them would invite a girl such as Jeyne to any of their occasions, but she can’t tell her that.

The potential awkwardness of the discussion is brought to an end by the honk of a car horn coming down the street.

Robb sticks his head out of the window and waves to them.

Jeyne hastily fixes her hat while waving back.

“How is your brother doing now? Any of those high-class ladies catch his eye?”

“Robb still has university to finish, I don’t imagine he’ll think of marrying at least until he’s graduated. I think he’s just having fun now, he’s probably driving out to visit Theon.”

Theon had been raised among the Stark’s as a child. Son of another man who Ned had known in the service, he had fostered the boy as both a gesture of goodwill, and a protection from the harsh reality that his life would be up in the industrial north. Now nearly twenty, Theon had moved out of Winterfell and taken a job at the dockyard.

He had already gone out there today though, in fact he was actually on his way home when he drove past Sansa and Jeyne.

A bit down the road, he also passed Arya.

“Want a lift?” He asks, head stuck out the window.

Arya waves him off.

“I still want to go by the newsstand, I told Bran I’d bring him the newest Strange Tales.”

Robb pulled on past her, and Arya stepped back on her bike and kept going.

She’d only gone out today because Jon had forgotten his lunch, but it was a good enough excuse.

Gendry had worked the newsstand for Mr. Dondarrion since he had left school two years ago. Initially, he had tried to dodge Arya as she pawed through the stacks, interrogating him about the contents of all the pulps. He seemed to have gotten more used to her in recent times though, and often would offer her recommendations.

After plucking Strange Tales, she turns to him.

“Anything else good?”

After a moment��s thought, Gendry passes her a copy of Astounding Science Fiction.

“There’s one in there about an alien. Incredible. “

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

When he rings her up, and takes her pocket money, he asks.

“So how’s it all go for the Starks up upon the hill?”

Arya makes a face.

“There’s no hill, the land here is flat.”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

He had always been like this, ever since he found out her father was Lord Stark. It used to make him wary of her, now he seemed just to take the opportunity to tease her.

She shrugs.

“Most of the same. Sansa chattering on about school, me trying to drag Bran out more. Robb keeps driving places and still won’t teach me.”

“I’m with you, I’d love to learn to drive. Thought about going down to the next town, see if I can find a job working on them.”

Arya’s stomach twists at the thought of him not being in the village anymore.

“You won’t do it will you?”

Gendry makes a soft noise, and tugs his cap a little lower on his head. He puts his elbows on the counter and rests his chin on his hands.

“I don’t know. It would be a great opportunity. A chance to leave,” he gestures at the quiet street in front of him, “all of this.”

Arya’s in a bad mood the entire ride home. She tries not to agree with Gendry. The village was tiny. The shops, a newsstand, the post office, the newspaper, the church. That was mostly it. She’d often had the same sort of thoughts herself.

Much of the summer passes in the same fashion.

Bran turns thirteen in August. When asked what he wants for his birthday, he says,

“I just want Father home, he’s always gone for it. “

“Alas your father still has social obligations in London.”

Catelyn too, wished he could return, but some courtesies must be observed, no matter how much she missed her husband.

Bran sighs, he really should have known better by now.

“A new sketchbook would be good too.”

He gets the book, and spends much of the remains of the month by the pond with Meera and Jojen. He draws planes that he’s seen in magazines, and newspapers, or the few that fly overhead.

“I wish I could be a pilot.” He tells Jojen one day.

“I used to want to be one too.” Jojen admits.

“I guess neither of us are ever going to fly.”

It wasn’t fair, he thought, that the both of them were stuck grounded.

One day, Sansa peeks her head into Arya’s room.

“Can you come to Jeyne’s with me today?”

“Why?” Arya asks, confused. Sansa’s sudden appearance in her room was unusual enough. The two girls were not close, and Arya had often been pleased that they didn’t have to share a room like some of the girls she knew in the village.

“I’m going to cut my hair.”

That was a bit surprising. Sansa had always been so proud of her long, smooth, Tully red hair, so much like Mother’s.

“Why do you need me for that?”

“I’m worried I might chicken out.”

Well that at least made sense.

Jeyne’s aunt Ellyn did hair out of the family’s parlour. When Sansa was sitting in the chair, with Ellyn washing, combing, then snipping at her long hair, Arya would have swore her sister was in pain. But, Sansa insisted that long hair was terribly old fashioned, and she’d even seen pictures of Lady Lannister, Duchess of Casterly Rock, with her hair bobbed. When Ellyn’s done, Sansa shakes her head in amazement,

“My head feels so light!”

Looking at her sister, Arya has a queer notion.

“Can you do mine too?”

Both are a touch worried when they come back home that night. Sansa rides on the handlebars of Arya’s bike, like she had done with Robb when they were young children, and Arya felt for once like they might really be sisters.

When Catelyn sees them, she reaches out to touch the shorn ends of Sansa’s hair.

“I can show you how to set it properly later.”

Then she moves on to Arya’s.

“Did they use the hedge clippers on yours?”

But the cut proves very practical the next week, when Catelyn enlists her to help her dig up and move several of the rose bushes in the garden. It stayed out of her face, and reduced the sweat on her neck.

Ned returns to Winterfell near the end of the month. The only one not home when he comes is Jon, who’s working late.

When Jon returns home, only Ned is still in the parlour.

Happy to see his uncle, Jon moves to embrace him.

“Any particular reason your superiors kept you from my homecoming?”

Jon laughs, but he looks a bit uneasy.

“We had to run an extra edition. Thorne got word in last minute, Hitler has invaded Poland.”

Ned sighs deeply.

He stays up later than the others, alone in his study.

It would be a lie if he said he hadn’t felt the waves coming in in the past few years. Ned had served in the Navy during the Great War, and though he had had more than enough of war, he knew what he heard.

Jon stayed up that night too, switching through channels on the wireless, nearly all dead. He was in a unique position compared to the rest of the family, and wasn’t sure what he should say, if anything.

The next day is chaos, with Sansa packing to return to school, Bran and Arya having to be coerced into restarting their lessons, and Robb preparing to leave for university. Ned and Jon barely had time to think about anything.

September 3 was set to be their last breakfast all together. Sansa was nibbling at her eggs, which she swore the school cooks could not make as good. Arya was shoveling down her porridge so she would have enough energy to make a break for it after. Bran appeared to be attempting to demonstrate something to Robb using bit of his bacon as his models. Rickon had somehow already gotten jam smeared on him.

And Cat was watching Ned, with a smile on her face.

Jon didn’t usually turn on the wireless during breakfast, but he’d had an impulse that day. One that turned out to be prudent.

A hand reaches out and turns the volume nod, and the voice of the Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain is head:

“I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.”

The speech continues, but one by one, every face at the table freezes.

Ned feels something deep in his gut begin to ache. He hopes he can remember this breakfast as it is.

[cave-of-the-owl-witch]

Nobody Will Believe You

Edit 12/12/20: I’ve done some minor rewrites in regards to Shadow’s species. All other aspects of the story remain the same.

((In the holiday rush, I completely forgot to post that Three Meat story I wrote for class! I’m still not 100% happy with it, but this is what I ended up turning in for my final grade. Story below the cut because it’s really pecking long.))

Sawyer idly kicked a rock as they trudged down the street, hands firmly in the pockets of their hoodie, hardly seeming to care as it went skittering along down the sidewalk. They sighed and watched their breath form a damp cloud in front of them, noting that they should have probably been wearing something a bit thicker on a day like this. Not that it was in the cards any time soon; if they had the money to spend, they wouldn’t have been walking back to their apartment in the first place. The thing that nobody wants to admit about a “serviceable old car” is that it’s old.

The wind picked up, cold and harsh, seeming to Sawyer to be almost mocking them as they pulled their hood up over their long, sandy hair. The wind still cut through, biting at their ears and nose, but it was better than nothing.  

At least it’s not raining, they caught themself thinking. Their pace slowed for a moment as they waited for the sky to open up on them out of spite. It didn’t, and they continued walking with a shake of their head.

You’re being silly. What is this, a cartoon? they chided. Still, they were definitely having one of those days. Well... one of those weeks, to be perfectly honest. Their hours had been cut at work, they were barely making rent as it was, and now they had this unexpected car repair on top of that; they hated to admit it, but it was looking like they’d have to call their aunt to ask for help. Again. Ugh, would she even be willing to help them this time?

They kicked another rock and it ricocheted off the side of a brick wall, disappearing into the alley with an odd clanging sound. Sawyer looked up from their shoes and stared down between the buildings, fully expecting to see the grimy dumpster and the fire escapes, and even the rusted out, abandoned bicycle was not a surprise. They were not expecting to see something sparkly poking out of a puddle, half buried beneath some wayward autumn leaves that had blown over from across the street.

They looked to their left down the street, and then to the right, but there didn’t appear to be anyone around. The buildings on either side of the alley didn’t show any signs of life either, their windows dark and the signs in the doors flipped so they read “Sorry, we’re closed”. Whatever was in the puddle, whoever had lost it seemed to be long gone.  

Still, Sawyer hesitated. This wasn’t exactly a bad part of town, but their mom had always told them that nothing good ever happens in an alleyway. But the thing in the puddle looked to be pretty big—much larger than just a penny, or even a lost watch—and curiosity was beginning to outweigh common sense. They knew it was probably just some random piece of junk, but what if it wasn’t? What if it was something they could return for a reward, or even pawn off to help cover those bills? Sawyer felt guilty for thinking such things, but they did need the money, and if it meant not having to call their aunt...

They glanced up and down the street again, then ducked into the alley; if nothing else, at least it would be a momentary reprieve from the wind. They knelt beside the puddle, careful not to get their shoes any wetter than they already were. Now that they were up close, they could see that the sparkle that had caught their eye was the handle of some sort of knife. The muddy water did little to dull the gleam of gold, but what really caught Sawyer’s eye was what they could only guess was a large sapphire embedded in the pommel. Their heart fluttered in their chest, and they hardly dared to breathe as they brushed the leaves aside to reveal the shiny, steel stiletto blade.

Gingerly, they picked it up and let the water drip down the tip before wiping off the rest on their jeans. It was cold and heavy in their hand, and whether or not it was real gold and sapphire, it was definitely real metal, and the blade itself looked sharp; somehow, they doubted this was a simple prop.  

They turned it over in their hand a couple more times, looking for an inscription or something that might tell them who the blade belonged to, but all they found was the intricate braided detail of the handle, and some etched filigree on the blade. Honestly, it looked like something that belonged in a museum.

Watch it still only get me like twenty quid, they thought, letting out a short, humorless laugh. Not having anywhere better to put it, they slid it under their belt; it fit snugly, and the crossguard kept it from sliding down too far.  

As they turned to leave, they heard something further down the alley. Their muscles tensed and they looked back over their shoulder, half expecting someone to step out of the shadows and confront them for taking the dagger, but there was nobody there. Sawyer held their breath and listened. It sounded like... voices? Voices, and a strange squelching sound.

The reasonable part of their brain was urging them to just go. Go, and don’t look back. Nothing good ever happens in an alley, remember? Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with you.

The louder, less cautious side of their brain countered, You just found that dagger, didn’t you? And that counts as “something good”. Maybe it belongs to one of those voices. Besides, if it turns out to be trouble, you’re fast and now you’re armed. There’s nothing to worry about.

...Maybe if I’m quiet about it, the reasonable side conceded. Sawyer was never exactly known for making wise decisions.

They slowly walked further into the alley, making extra sure to avoid the little puddles and bits of trash that dotted the cracked asphalt. Halfway down, there was a high chain link fence with a weathered sign that read, “Do Not Enter”. It was held to a gate with a bit of rusted wire, but the gate itself didn’t even appear to be locked; it was held closed with a simple curved latch. The latch, however, also appeared to be rusted, and Sawyer briefly considered dropping the whole idea.

That is, until they heard one of the voices again. It was deep and low, and although they still couldn’t make out what was being said, it renewed their curiosity. They tried the latch, carefully wiggling it up and down until some of the rust flaked off and they were able to force it up just enough to clear the side of the fence. It stuck fast in its new position, refusing to move again one way or the other.  

Taking a deep breath, they slowly pulled the gate open and stepped through.

The alley continued for another fifty-or-so feet, then abruptly turned to the left. There was another dumpster, and a stack of old crates piled right up to the landing of one of the fire escapes. There had to be some kind of violation there...

Violation or no, it was awfully convenient, as it meant they could hide behind the stack from whoever was on the other side. Heck, maybe they could even climb up onto the fire escape and watch from above.

As they got closer, they could finally hear the strangers’ conversation.  

“I know,” said the deep voice, “but we cannot stay here much longer. Every minute we do is another minute that we risk discovery.”

“But Meaty,” whined the other voice. It was high and feminine, with a distinct valley girl bent. “It’s, like, more than just my favorite; my granny gave it to me!”

“Do not try to gain my sympathy with lies; I was there when you won it in a game of poker. I will buy you two more just like it if we can please just get moving!”

While they were arguing, Sawyer had managed to pull themself up onto one of the crates, and was in the process of trying to get up onto another without being seen nor heard. Their head poked out over the top of the crate, but they still couldn’t see who was speaking; it looked like they would have to go all the way to the fire escape after all.

“No, you won’t, because there’s not another like it! And I so doubt you would be willing to shell out the coinage to have them custom made!”

There was a rumbling sigh, accompanied by... a gurgle? “There are literally thousands like it, you are just being stubborn.”

“I’m not leaving until I find it!”

As Sawyer stepped over the guard rail, their foot slipped on the wet grate. For a heart-pounding moment they thought they were about to faceplant onto the fire escape, but they managed to catch themself on the far rail at the last second. The dagger, however, clanged against the metal bars.

“Wait, like. What was that?” the female voice hissed.

A chill ran down Sawyer’s spine. Whoever was below them had definitely heard that.

“I told you this would happen!” the deep voice rumbled back. Though it was trying to be quiet, the voice still carried.

“Shut up! I’ll just... find whatever it is and deal with it.”

“Shadow-creature,” the other cautioned.

“Chillax, I’m not going to hurt anybody. Much.”

This was bad. Sawyer knew they had to get out of there immediately. They crouched down and made themself small, finally daring to get a peek at the strangers if only so they could know they weren’t about to walk right into them.

What they saw... didn’t make even a bit of sense.

Taking up nearly the entire width of the alley was a large... tube? It was pale tan with deeper tan spots, and appeared to be wearing a scarf and top hat which were splotched with aqua blue, lime green, purple, and magenta. It raised its front end and swiveled as if it was searching for something, revealing that the end of the tube was open. Inside was a glistening mass of brown, red, green, and yellow; if they didn’t know better, Sawyer would say it looked like a massive burrito.

A few feet away from the “burrito” was a creature about the size of a child, with deep grey fur that blended easily into the gloom of the alley. This contrasted sharply with its claws, which appeared to have been painted traffic cone orange. It had long, fur-tipped ears and a wide face, with a wider mouth beneath its black button nose, and catlike eyes that glinted in the dark. Not just catlike, in fact-- it looked every bit like a bipedal feline. The creature was on high alert, tensed as if to pounce.

But that can’t be right! Those have got to be costumes, or—or maybe animatronics! they tried to reason. Never mind why anyone would be in an alley dressed as a burrito and a bootleg Thundercat. These people were clearly weirdos.

If they were fast, maybe Sawyer would be able to go back the way they came? They thanked their lucky stars that nobody ever looked up and crept back over the railing, taking extra care with their footing this time; they didn’t want to know what weirdos like those two would do if they were caught. Below, they heard,

“...Hold up, I smell... gold. Meaty, that’s, like, totally got to be my dagger! There’s a pesky little sneak thief around!”

Once again, Sawyer froze, all too aware that they had nowhere to hide.

“Shadow-creature,” the burrito warned, more sternly than before. It went completely ignored.

“If you come out now, I promise to take it easy on you!” the shrill creature yowled, a fuzzy paw cupped around its mouth as it called into the alley. At last, it turned and spotted them.

“Aha! Up there! C’mere, you—”

With a grunt and a muttered curse, Sawyer jumped off the crates and hit the ground running, pitching forward and catching themself on one hand as they nearly fell again. Their hood flopped back and their ponytail trailed out behind them.

Shadow was right behind them, bouncing along on nimble legs, but Sawyer’s longer stride kept them well ahead of her. She screeched and called out words that the youth didn’t understand. They were almost back to the gate when they heard her shout,

“Hey! Let go of me, you lummox! This is so not cool!”

Sawyer turned just in time to see the burrito speeding toward them like a subway car, Shadow wrapped in some kind of leafy tendril. Another such tendril shot out of the burrito’s opening and caught them around the waist, lifting them as easily as one would a ragdoll. They yelled in surprise, so close now that they could smell the cooked meat, the spices, and the cheese.

“Three Meat, I swear I’ll—” Shadow’s protest was cut off by a third tendril, and she glowered first at the burrito, then at Sawyer.

Sawyer yelled again. The fence was mere feet away, and Three Meat was moving too fast to slow down before they hit it; in fact, he seemed to be picking up even more speed.

They closed their eyes and braced for impact, but it never came. Instead, they heard a sound not unlike the warbling of laminated paper, and their skin prickled as if they had been hit with snowballs from every direction at once. The inside of their mouth tasted like they had just licked a battery. Beside them, they could hear muffled, angry noises coming from Shadow. It lasted only an instant, and then it suddenly felt much warmer than before. Sawyer opened their eyes as Three Meat slid to a halt in a forest clearing.

This... was not anywhere near where they had just been. In fact, Sawyer wasn’t so sure this was anywhere near where anyone had been. The trees around them had pale violet leaves that glowed with a soft bioluminescence, and what they could see of the sky appeared to be a pale tangerine color.

“Wha?” they gasped, shortly before being dropped unceremoniously on the forest floor.

“I’m going to clobber you both!” Shadow shrieked, having been released as well. Sawyer barely had time to react before sharp claws were scrabbling at their belt, trying to retrieve the dagger. She pulled it free and leveled it at them menacingly. “I’ll teach you to steal from me, you stupid hu—ack!”

The leafy tendrils once again made an appearance as Three Meat grabbed her by the back of her shirt and held her aloft. Sawyer could see now that they appeared to be shreds of lettuce, though the head they came from would have had to be the size of a shed.

“For the last time, Shadow-creature, you will calm yourself!” he bellowed. His voice seemed to shake the trees, sending a flock of birds screeching into the skies. Shadow looked genuinely startled for a moment, then began to sulk.

“I—I didn’t steal anything!” Sawyer managed at last. “I found it, in a puddle in the alley!”

“As if! Like, do you really think I’m that stupid?!” the cat spat back.

Sweet mother of something, I’m talking to a cat. A cat, and a burrito in a stupid hat.

“You would have seen the human coming and you know it, Shadow-creature. Accept your mistake and let things be,” the burrito rumbled.

Shadow’s ears twitched, but she relented, tucking the dagger away and crossing her arms irritably. The burrito set her down and turned to address Sawyer.

“Human. You have seen things you should not have seen, and heard things you should not have heard. What are we to do with you?”

“I vote we knock him out and, like, leave him on the side of the road somewhere. Let the human police deal with him.”

“Your vote has been counted and summarily ignored, Shadow-creature.”

“Them,” Sawyer muttered. Now that they were more or less safe, their fear was quickly fading in favor of anger.

“Sorry?” Three Meat asked.

“What was that, human?” Shadow sneered.

“Not ‘him’. Them. And my name is Sawyer.”

Shadow shrugged. “Whatever. You humans all smell the same anyway.”

Three Meat cuffed her upside the head with his lettuce, which then retreated back into the folds of his tortilla. “Do not be rude! My apologies for my friend’s behavior, Sawyer-creature. I am Three Meat Burrito, and as I am sure you have no doubt gathered, the feisty one is called Shadow.”

“A pleasure,” they drawled sarcastically. “So, if your ‘friend’ is done trying to stab me or knock me out or whatever, do you mind telling me where we are and what in the hell is going on?”

“You are upset, Sawyer-creature.”

“Yeah, of course I’m upset!” Sawyer snapped. “I’ve been shouted at, manhandled, accused of theft, and from the looks of things, kidnapped by—by a pair of monster movie rejects! Forgive me for being just a little upset!” They were shaking now. They were angry and scared, nothing made sense, and they just wanted to go home and forget anything had ever happened in the first place. Begging their aunt for rent money would be a blessing compared to this.

“Who are you calling a reject, punk?!”

“This is not the time, Shadow-creature. One more outburst and I will leave you on the side of the road.”

The cat began to sulk again, sitting cross-legged on the ground with her back against a tree.

“I understand your frustrations, Sawyer-creature, but yelling and name-calling will not help anyone. Let us discuss things calmly and rationally.”

“There’s nothing ‘rational’ about this! This is mad, you know? Completely mad! Because I’m in the middle of a forest somewhere talking to a cat and a burrito!”

Three Meat sighed another gurgling sigh. “You humans always get so hung up on the fact that I am a burrito.”

“Because burritos aren’t supposed to talk! Or be huge! Or wear hats and scarves! Either I’m having a mental breakdown, or everything I know about how the world works is flat out wrong!” Poor Sawyer was on the verge of tears.

“Everything humans know about how the world works is wrong, and if I am not mistaken, you are finding that out all the time. There was a time when humans thought their world was flat, or that diseases were spread by foul odors, but now they know better. There was a time, Sawyer-creature, when you thought burritos could not talk, or be huge, or wear hats and scarves... but now you know better. It really is not something you need be upset about.”

They stared at him as if he had insulted their mother. How dare he tell them what they should or should not be upset about! It was his fault they were in this mess in the first place!

...Except it’s not. You were the one who picked up the dagger, Sawyer, and you were the one who went poking your nose wear it didn’t belong. There’s no one to blame but yourself.

The human seemed to deflate, and they suddenly felt very small.

“Just... just take me home, okay?”

“Gladly. In another half hour.”

“What? But why?”

“Because that is when I will be able to open another portal. Magic like that requires a fair bit of power, and it is wise to rest in between.”

They supposed that made sense. They hadn’t considered that a burrito could get tired in the first place, but then, a lot had happened that day that they hadn’t considered.

“So... what do we do until then?” they asked.

“That is a very good question,” the burrito admitted. “That is something I admire about you humans, is that you are always full of questions.”

“...Right. And I don’t suppose that burritos are full of answers?”

“How do you mean?”

“I still don’t know where we are or what’s going on. And while we’re on the subject, what were you two even doing in that alley, anyway?”

Three Meat made a low rumbling sound, shifting his weight with a soft squelch. “We are in Scotland, and I brought us here because it was the easiest point of access when I opened the portal; I did not want to smash anyone, nor leave any trace that we had been there by knocking down that fence.”

Sawyer gave him a look. “This is not Scotland. My aunt lives in Scotland. I have been to Scotland, and Scotland does not have glowing trees.”

“A lot of planets have a Scotland,” Three Meat said nonchalantly. “As for what we were doing in that alley... the less you know about it, Sawyer-creature, the safer you will be.”

“Bull.”

“Which part? The part about how a lot of planets have a Scotland, or the part about how you will be safer not knowing what we were doing?”

They kind of wanted to say “both”, but they were beginning to come around to the idea that maybe the world—no, the universe—was stranger than they thought. “The part about how I’ll be safer. That’s almost as cliché as ‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you’.”

The burrito laughed. “Perhaps, but that is the truth.”

Shadow twitched an ear and looked back towards the pair, having finally taken a moment to calm down. “Actually, Meaty... the kid’s been around us for a hot minute. Don’t you think there’s, like, a chance they’ll be in danger anyway? I mean, they’ve, like, probably started to smell like us already.”

Sawyer considered arguing that they weren’t a kid, but thought better of it; they wanted answers, and weren’t willing to risk derailing the conversation. Instead, they asked,

“Why would I be in danger for smelling like you? Other than hungry dogs or something, I mean.”

Shadow shook her head. “Not that kind of smell; your smell is like your energy, y’know? A sort of, like, vibe that can be tracked and stuff. It’s kinda like... your you-ness. And now your you-ness smells like somebody who totally travels through portals and hangs out with people like us. Which is super bad. Damning, even.”

“Do not be so dramatic,” Three Meat sighed in exasperation. “Although... you may have a point.”

The burrito went quiet for a moment.

“...We could give them a means to contact us. Just in case.”

“And by ‘us’, you mean you, right?”

“Naturally. I am the muscle. And the transportation.”

The cat snorted. “Fer shur, big guy.”

“Then it is decided. Sawyer-creature, I offer you my protection; it is only right, as I am the one who has put you in this situation,” Three Meat said, reaching into his hat with a lettuce tendril. It went much deeper than should have logically been possible, and he pulled out a smooth, pale blue stone. It had a sort of iridescence to it, and it was strung on a woven green cord. Etched into its surface were markings that Sawyer didn’t understand.

“But... protection from what?” Their voice faltered as they began to feel overwhelmed again; if things like Three Meat and Shadow existed, they couldn’t imagine what sorts of things might be after them.  

“The Greys. Children of chaos, they typically travel in packs and sometimes pretend to be human... and sometimes not. They are incredibly powerful, and incredibly dangerous. There is one in particular I have been tracking for some time now, and as you can imagine, he is less than happy about that; lately he has been sending his underlings to try and throw us off.”

“And that rock will keep them away or something?”

“Unfortunately, no. However, if you hold it in your left hand and whisper my name, I will be able to find you no matter where you are in the universe. I urge you, though, to only use it in an emergency.”  

As he spoke, the burrito slipped the cord over Sawyer’s head. They held the stone in their hand, running a thumb over its surface. It almost looked like something they could pick up in one of those weird new age shops.

“...Thanks. But how will I know it’s an emergency? What should I look for?” The way Three Meat made things sound, it was hard not to picture teams of ninja-like assassins.

“Anything strange or out of the ordinary.”

“Like the two of you?”

“Exactly!” Shadow chirped.

“The Greys thrive on mayhem and confusion, Sawyer-creature, and will do things as small as filling your shoes with something foul to things as dire as transforming people into bread, or unleashing terrible monsters on unsuspecting citizens. That is what makes them so insidious; their antics can begin in plain sight, but go unnoticed until the problem is too big to be contained.”

“That’s... horrifying,” Sawyer breathed.

“Indeed.”

“But they’re totally easy to spot, if you, like, know what to look for,” Shadow added. “I mean, we call them Greys because they’re grey. So like, even when they’re pretending to be something else, their colors are always wrong, like they’re not bright enough. And when they’re not pretending, they’re like even more obvious because they don’t even have faces! They try to hide it behind huge sunglasses, and the kicker is that it usually works! I guess most people are, like, too busy to look too closely at them or something, so they just scoot on past until they find someone to mess with.”

Under different circumstances, Sawyer would think a description like that was just somebody taking the mickey; Three Meat really had them going with the “mysterious forces of chaos” angle, but Shadow’s “they don’t have faces” bit was just too much. Then a flower on the other side of the clearing blinked an eye, and they decided the two of them were absolutely telling the truth.

“Right. Great. That’s lovely. Anything else I should know?”

“They can like, totally turn into this grody goo and slither through cracks between walls and floors and stuff, and they bleed black when you cut them. They also just kind of, like... melt away when they take too much damage? I’m not sure you can actually kill them.”

“Of course. That makes perfect sense,” they said dryly.

“There is a bit of a learning curve when the Greys are involved,” Three Meat admitted, “which is why we have offered our help, should you meet them. But let us hope Shadow-creature is wrong about your smell, and they leave you alone after all.”

Sawyer took one more look at the stone before tucking it under their shirt with a sigh; it seemed they now had yet another thing to worry about. They glanced around the strange, alien forest that the burrito called “Scotland”, and then at the burrito himself.  

“...Can I go home now? Today has been just so many kinds of weird.”

“Of course, if you are sure you are ready. Do you have any more questions?” he asked.

Sawyer still had plenty of questions, but wasn’t so sure they could handle the answers—not without a hot meal and a good night’s sleep, at any rate. Besides, if they were lucky, they would never need to know the answers... right?

“I’m sure.”

“Then it shall be done.”

Three Meat slithered a few feet away. Once he had enough space, he reared up, his front end glowing with energy, and then slammed back down. Some debris was knocked off of him by the impact, and out from the shockwave opened a hole in thin air with that same laminated paper sound. Sawyer had had their eyes closed the first time, but was now able to appreciate how truly impressive it was as the edges of the hole glowed and crackled.  

Through the hole they could see the street they had been walking on earlier. The sun had nearly set by now, and the frigid wind blew out of their familiar world and into the foreign one they were currently standing in.

“So... that’s it, then? I just go through?”

“Yes, Sawyer-creature. You just go through.”

“Oh. I sort of thought there would be more to it than that...”

“Not at all. Although if it were easy to do, then everyone would do it.”

“Yeah... no kidding. I suppose I’m off, then. Thanks for the rock. And the philosophy lesson. And for not killing me.”

“Any time, kid,” Shadow said with a grin. “Just, like, from now on, remember the first rule of adventuring; never pick up a strange dagger unless you know who it belongs to and what it does.”

“That’s the first rule of adventuring?”

“Well. That, or ‘don’t drink the weird glowing liquid’. Either way.”

For the first time since passing the gate, Sawyer laughed.

“I... guess I’ll see you. Or maybe not; I’ll probably be in trouble if I ever see you again, huh?”

“That is a fair assumption, Sawyer-creature. All the same... stay out of trouble. And farewell.”

“Yeah. Farewell, Three Meat. Shadow.”

They gave the pair an awkward wave, then turned and stepped through the portal and were met with the same odd sensation as before, as well as that battery taste. As they looked back over their shoulder, they saw that the portal was already closing.

“Oh, and Sawyer-creature? Do not bother telling anyone about us. Nobody will believe you.”

And with that, the hole in reality swirled shut like water spinning down a drainpipe. The cold wind blew, and this time, the rain came with it.

Typical, Sawyer thought as they once again brought their hood up over their ears and jammed a hand into their pocket. Their other hand reached up to the stone; a reminder that today had been exceedingly atypical. And as they thought about it, they found they were surprisingly okay with that.

This can go one of three ways, they reasoned. One, nothing happens and life goes back to normal. Two, you get taken out by some weird, grey chaos thing and you don’t have to worry about your bills anymore. Or three, that burrito comes back and you go on a crazy adventure, and you still don’t have to worry about your bills.

The way they saw it, there wasn’t exactly a downside. Well. Dying would be less than ideal, but what’s wrong with a little dark humor now and then?

They were thoroughly soaked by the time they got back to their apartment, but they didn’t really care; the plan was to change into pajamas, make some instant noodles for dinner, and go straight to bed anyway.

Sawyer did exactly that, feeling a little surprised at how... uneventful it all seemed compared to the rest of the day. They found themself half wishing they would turn around and see the burrito, or the cat, or even one of the mysterious Greys. As opposed to the idea as they had been initially, they were almost excited to think that such things could and did exist. Their imagination ran wild, like a little kid’s, and a couple times they thought that maybe the red kettle didn’t look as red as it should, or that perhaps the plant in the hall seemed almost sinister. Sawyer stopped themself just short of jamming their fork into the milk carton to see if the liquid ran black instead of white.

As they crawled into bed, they put the stone on their nightstand, rolling over to look at it once they had settled in beneath the covers. Part of them wanted to try it right now, to see if Three Meat would really come, but part of them felt like that would be... what? A breach of trust? Or at the very least a misuse of power. Then there was another part of them that felt childish for even believing it would work; for all they knew, the stone would be gone when they woke up the next morning.

The blankets were warm, however, and were simply perfect after walking home in the cold and wet, and the mattress was so soft on their aching muscles; they weren’t exactly used to running and jumping and being picked up. Soon, their thoughts became hazy and Sawyer drifted off to sleep, met with images of grinning cats and fashion-challenged burritos. The rain continued pounding outside, but Sawyer was safe and warm, even as the occasional flash of lightning lit up the night and washed everything in grey.

[heloisedc]

Pygmalion Relations

Hair

Wandering in the public square, a lit lantern in hand in the middle of the day, […] A garden more inviting than Eden would […] meet my eye.[1]

Once you arrived, I studied you and was pleased with what I found.[2]

I went to see him the next morning, and received an invitation to dine there, which I accepted.[3]

He was of utter beauty, grazing perfection. The reproduction of the image of the Vitruvian man […][4] He was transparent but impenetrable.[5]

The situation of this house was beautiful, though chosen for convenience.[6] So far as this technic expression of size and power are concerned, I look on the hall as nearly perfect, and were this the highest or even a high class of beauty we need not go further[7] In this sense, it came closest to the idea of perfection, which is the starting point and goal of all art.[8]

His face was distorted[9] And his nose was misshapen, too. Not much, to be sure […].[10] But the perfect proportion and symmetry of his body and frame rendered him beautiful. His skin texture was perfect, the individual hairs on head and body had been lovingly and intricately manufactured and placed.[11]

Oh, how beautiful and stately wast thou on the high couch reclining in the hall![12] He had given great attention to realistic detail, rendering each feature with painstaking precision, whether or not it could in actuality be so seen within the image as a whole.[13] The dishes gave as much pleasure to my imagination as to my palate; sometimes the little piece of nature from which they had been extracted, the rugged holy water stoup of the oyster in which lingered a few drops of brackish water, or the gnarled stem, the yellowed branches of a bunch of grapes, still enveloped them, inedible, poetic and distant as a landscape, evoking as we dined successive images of a siesta in the shade of a vine or of an excursion on the sea […]. [14]

This dinner, although without preparation, was splendid.[15] And The evening was extremely calm and beautiful.[16]

After scaling a ruinous staircase I was shown a bed chamber,[17] where I was invited to stay the night.

Brain

After some passing of time, we had gotten to know each other, and found that we were perfect for each other. I gave him all that I could, while he did the same for me.

It was evidently a case of “love at first sight” […][18]

I had done everything that I could for him I had already banished the shadow of the negative […].[19]

I had learnt that There is the care of the body to consider, health regimens, physical exercises without overexertion, the carefully measured satisfaction of needs.[20]

We would often spend the evenings in the living room, admiring each other.

Mouth

Everything happens, then, during the seconds of complete veiling. Hardly had it begun than a strange light, yellow and tawny, resembling nothing else, neither the evening nor the dawn, invaded the environment; the glory of orange light intercepted by the walls of my abode disappeared, giving way to a somber and magic bath […].[21]

The variant was the surprise bath, where I was taken down the corridors to the ground floor, and arrived in a square room with a vaulted ceiling, where a large bath had been constructed; I was then tipped backwards into the water. [22] Mild water? I found suds forming on my body and I rubbed hastily here, there, everywhere, judging it to be the wash cycle and knowing it would not last long. Then came the rinse cycle. Ah, warm.  Well, perhaps not warm, but not quite as cold, and definitely feeling warm to my thoroughly chilled body.[23]

If a man is covered by an eruption you will mix flour of malt little by little in oil, you will apply (it) and he will recover; if he is still not cured, you will apply hot simtum and he will recover; if he is still not cured, you will apply the warm residue and he will recover.[24] If we employ extracts, they must have been recently prepared and preserved with great care.[25] Oiling out, making out, polishing, scraping, etc.[26] This new development came from the perfecting of the arts that imitate the human body.[27] When he awoke, he looked at his body and found it clean as virgin silver, […] whereat he rejoiced exceedingly and his breast expanded with gladness.[28]

Stomach

Now for his diet: for lunch honey, for dinner a biscuit and vegetables, meat infrequently.... In this way his body kept the same condition, as if on a straight line, without being sometimes healthy, sometimes sick, and without growing heavier Even outside the strictly Pythagorean context, regimen was regularly defined with reference to these two associated dimensions of good health maintenance and proper care of the soul.[29]

You can imagine my surprise when I had discovered a tremendous thing, it seemed to me.[30] The layout of a modern kitchen, […] designed to streamline all processes, from food storage and food preparation, to cooking on the stove and serving the finished meal on the dining room table, to dishwashing and the storage of cutlery and dishes.[31] The Greeks were not wrong in showing us the immortals constantly feasting, drinking ambrosia, and laughing endlessly.[32]

And there were always drugs around—most notably, the jars of white crosses and other uppers that he kept in the fridge next to his protein fortified milkshakes.[33]

I experience food beyond the meal not only while consuming it but also in the selection of certain products over others in meal planning and preparation.[34]

In the succeeding month, our health improved [35] even beyond what I had thought was the limit.

Muscle

The most striking interior volume is the central, double height hall that at once evokes memories of medieval great halls and is bathed with light from huge windows. […][36] Everything is mirror […] [37] It contained all sorts of apparatus: an exercise bicycle, wall bars, a rowing machine, a massage machine etc.[38] I begin by taking a mirror, look at my shoulders, examine my loins and thighs.

Entrance of the gymnast in gymnopedy, entrance of the gymnosophists, entrance of the professor of gymnastics.[39] How magnificent. By gymnastic exercises it was intended to harden his body, to sharpen his courage, and to prepare him for the fatigues and dangers […].[40]

The double ecstasy of the muscular effort in the thighs and calves, a powerful, almost metallic leap, a pause in the air that seems eternal, during which the body assumes positions and performs.[41] That there is absolutely no imperfection, is indeed, […], a proof of his being wanting in the highest qualities of architecture; […] and may well be studied for the excellence he displays in methods of levelling stones, for the precision of his inlaying, and other such qualities […].[42]

For almost nobody, except he be trained from the start and equipped with complete reason, can develop to perfect proportions, understanding when he should do certain things, and to what extent, and in whose company, and how, and why.[43]

No sculptor can possibly produce a first class work of art here on Gaia without a well-crafted Participation and the ones I produce of this particular type are considered excellent[…][44] We seem never to be altogether prepared for the resulting distress. If we do not literally shake, as I did […], we may experience an internal shudder that is the subjective equivalent of the overt trembling that occurred […]. While my physical shaking […] was observable by anyone standing near me, the inner shudder at my own bodily pain may not be visible to others even though it is felt intensely by myself, and felt as foreign to me. Some part of my body has become alien to me, split off from a coherent and unitary sense of self.[45]

He clearly abused himself, but in so doing rendered a stature I had never before had the blessing to see. Ideal form of excellence![46] But For what purpose?[47] He seemed beautiful and strong because he was not like me. I had found a new fascination for this incredible man, a man who seemed to have the ability to do anything.

My eyes alighted by chance on the massive mirror that hung opposite and I let out a cry: our reflections in its golden frame were like a picture of extraordinary beauty. It was so strange and fantastic […].[48]

I had found the strong man I needed and was as happy with him as it is possible to be on this funny ball of clay.[49] I had opened myself up to him.

We were now mutually bound together, the lighter being restrained by the heavier, so that he cannot fly off; while, on the contrary, from the lighter tending upwards, the heavier is so suspended, that I cannot fall down.[50] But there remain a double door, behind which I had never been allowed to go. A secret he was hiding from me.

So these two beings lived in this manner, high aloft, with all that improbability which is in nature; neither at the nadir nor at the zenith, between man and seraphim, above the mire, below the ether, in the clouds; hardly flesh and blood, soul and ecstasy from head to foot; already too sublime to walk the earth, still too heavily charged with humanity to disappear in the blue, suspended like atoms which are waiting to be precipitated; apparently beyond the bounds of destiny; ignorant of that rut; yesterday, to day, tomorrow; amazed, rapturous, floating, soaring; at times so light that they could take their flight out into the infinite; almost prepared to soar away to all eternity.[51]

 Heart

Here the day has come; here the week of the lectistemium had begun.[52]

The physical effort was small, but the mental effort of trying to control without controlling was enormously difficult.[53] His only aim, his only possible aim, was to please me.[54]

I believed, however, that the soul could achieve temporary separation from the body in an ecstatic trance.[55] Is it truly possible to think without arriving at beauty, without penetrating the secret place where life bubbles up, without the transfiguration of the body?[56]

Prepared?[57]

A single locus of sexuality was acknowledged in social space as well as at the heart of every household, but it was a utilitarian and fertile one: the […] bedroom. [58]

At the sight of him, I felt myself bewildered — every sense was absorbed in ecstasy.[59]

Then begins the body to body of discourse with and against silence.[60]

 Air fills the thorax; ten liquids circulate through the vessels and pores; fire sets the heart, the genitals and the brain ablaze; the humus models the human.[61]

The glorious light makes us drunk with joy and our sense of wonder has no limits. This pleasure is truly divine! What pure happiness we feel in the bottom of our hearts at this spectacle! What ecstasy! No, we cannot possibly give expression to it! At this season nature’s work is done; everything is the image of perfection; everything has acquired a clearly defined form that is full blown, accurate and pure. Outlines are clear and distinct; their maturity gives them noble, majestic proportions; their bright, vivid colours have acquired all their brilliance.[62] Then the engine was started, the machine ran along the ground, gathered speed, until finally, all of a sudden, at right angles, I rose slowly, […] as it were static ecstasy of a horizontal speed suddenly transformed into a majestic, vertical ascent.[63]

Now, drawn out from his body, his sinews formed a bundle of dark, shiny stalks, not unlike the bundle of lightning bolts that lay beside him, although these were bright and smoking.[64] Now between the dry head, more than dead, almost abstract, empty and dessicated, suitably objectivized, wholly exterior, pierced, visible, nameable, articulated, analyzable, between the skull and the rest of the world, a circumstantial halo of light, like the ones worn by the great saints, replaces, at bone level, the lining of flesh, fat, muscle, organs, skin, veins, tendons, hair, radiance, charm, beauty, glory. Thus the body thinks. The body thinks therefore shines.[65]

the body becomes an architectural structure, moving masonry, a ship; the skeleton becomes a firm framework, with tie beams and rafters; the muscles form the wall and partitions.[66]

Moments are points of rupture —ephemeral, euphoric, revelatory of the total, radical, sometimes revolutionary possibilities latent in everyday life.[67] Everything that I can see in this body produces in me ecstatic wonder.[68]

Then, having risen to so high a pitch, having been sustained with so much vigour, the chant, mingled with a murmur of supplication in the midst of ecstasy, seemed at times to stop altogether like a spring that has ceased to flow.[69] This music makes me cry because I am not like it, not something complete, which turns toward the lost sweetness of life like a distant quotation. Happiness can only be thought of as something lost, as a beautiful alien. It cannot be anything more than a premonition that we approach with tears in our eyes without ever reaching it. [70]

I was absolutely in a state of ecstasy, and, involuntary, sinking on my knees, I passionately extended my arms towards him, certain he could not hear, and having no conception that he could see me; but there was a fireplace at the end of the room that betrayed all my proceedings.[71] And when I got into the open air, I heard distinctly, as the night was still, the distant sound of a door unlocking.[72]

When the door in front of him finally opened, he stared straight into a hallway, [73] which seemed to stretch out into the infinite. At the end of this couloir, a door.

I prudently walked towards it.

Womb

As I opened the door, I heard a sort of echo in the roof; it sounded like voices and it began to shake my Roman courage.[74] I entered and was taken aback by The blackness, […] the vast emptiness stretching out infinitely.[75] Deep, dark, dank, dismal silence.[76] the infinite void of space[77] But is that emptiness not also the ultimate plenitude?[78]

The darkness embraced him lovingly.[79]

There are beauties that are more palpable and explicable, and they are hidden and secret beauties.[80] I walked into the vastness, the door closing behind me. I almost slipped after taking a step Because the ground was wet.[81]

His hands were stroking my body anxiously, but with care and love. And it did touch me in somewhat the same way; it also brought close to me things of the kind which we not only see with our eyes but feel also in our hearts.[82]

I felt my way along the moist walls, until I let go and walked freely. My feet touched something, laying on the floor. Something that felt like A small bit of steel.[83]

That was the little thing, or the beginning of the little thing, that was soon to become the big thing.[84]

[…] the ‘first chaos’, the absence of order in perfect order, the absence of all relation.[85]

Thus, the creation began. A primordial action, statuary repatriates mass— strange, inevitable, ceaselessly returning, equilibrium and content of the world, first object—by unifying it, like a thing; by individuating it, like a body; by localizing or marking a space by its means; by stabilizing mass like a dead thing or body; by therefore stopping time; by giving mass limits it cannot leave, by defining it or even by inventing the act of defining.[86]

Through this technique, […] a new object was being formed; slowly, it superseded the mechanical body, the body composed of solids and assigned movements, the image of which had for so long haunted those who dreamt of disciplinary perfection.[87]

It shall be perfect therefore, as its Father which is in heaven is perfect.[88]

 After Twelve years, three months, and four days,[89] it’s complete![90]

Finally, all the parts that have contributed to the perfection of the work which we admire[91] came together, forming the one, most sublime, most charming, most graceful, most splendid, most touching being.[92]

[…] more safely guarded by its walls, more superb in palaces, more ornamented in respect to temples, more beautiful by virtue of its buildings, more illustrious in its porticoes, more splendid in its piazzas[93]

In an ecstasy of joy, […], we reiterated, stroking and patting it as though it were a horse that had just come first past the post: “You’re the most beautiful being we know, do you hear?”[94]

[1] Wollstonecraft, Complete Works

[2] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[3] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau

[4] Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968

[5] Hugo, Les Miserables

[6] Wollstonecraft, Complete Works

[7] Fergusson, An Historical Inquiry into the True Principles of Beauty in Art

[8] Mallgrave, Architectural Theory

[9] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[10] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[11] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[12] Seneca, Complete Works

[13] Chilvers, A Dictionary of Modern and Contemporary Art Oxfor

[14] Proust, In Search of Lost Time Vol III The Guermantes Way

[15] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau

[16] Wollstonecraft, Complete Works

[17] Wollstonecraft, Complete Works

[18] Darwin, The Descent of Man and Selection in Relation to Sex

[19] Deleuze, Difference and Repetition

[20] Foucault, The History of Sexuality Volume 3

[21] Serres, Biogea

[22] Foucault, History of Madness

[23] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[24] Serres, History of Scientific Thought

[25] Laennec, A Treatise on the Diseases of the Chest and on Mediate Auscultation

[26] Gombrich, Art and Illusion

[27] Younes, The Historical Dictionary of Architecture of Quatremere De Quincy

[28] The Book of the Thousand and One Nights

[29] Foucault, The History of Sexuality Volume 2

[30] Serres, Hermes Literature Science Philosophy

[31] Teige, The Minimum Dwelling

[32] Serres, The Parasite

[33] Davis, High Weirdness

[34] Zimring, Encyclopedia of Consumption and Waste

[35] Laennec, A Treatise on the Diseases of the Chest and on Mediate Auscultation

[36] Cruickshank, A History of Architecture in 100 Buildings

[37] Deleuze, Cinema 2 The Time Image

[38] Bourdieu, Distinction

[39] Serres, Genesis

[40] Smith, An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations

[41] Serres, The Five Senses

[42] Ruskin, The Stones of Venice

[43] Seneca, Complete Works

[44] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[45] Casey, The World on Edge

[46] Wollstonecraft, Complete Works

[47] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[48] Deleuze, Masochism Coldness and Cruelty Venus in Furs

[49] Deleuze, Masochism Coldness and Cruelty Venus in Furs

[50] Pliny, Natural History Volume 1

[51] Hugo, Les Miserables

[52] Serres, Rome

[53] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[54] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[55] Schmitt, The Cambridge History of Renaissance Philosophy

[56] Serres, The Five Senses

[57] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[58] Foucault, The History of Sexuality Volume 1

[59] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau

[60] Serres, Hominescence

[61] Serres, Biogea

[62] Mallgrave, Architectural Theory

[63] Proust, In Search of Lost Time Vol V The Captive The Fugitive

[64] Calasso, The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony

[65] Serres, Statues

[66] Serres, The Five Senses

[67] Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968

[68] de Montaigne, The Complete Essays

[69] Proust, In Search of Lost Time Vol III The Guermantes Way

[70] Sloterdijk, Critique of Cynical Reason

[71] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau

[72] The Book of the Thousand and One Nights Supplementary Nights

[73] Kafka, The Trial

[74] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau

[75] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[76] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[77] Serres, The Birth of Physics

[78] Foucault, History of Madness

[79] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[80] Harrison Wood Gaiger, Art in Theory 1648 1815

[81] Hugo, Les Miserables

[82] Proust, In Search of Lost Time Vol III The Guermantes Way

[83] Hugo, Les Miserables

[84] Zizek, Less Than Nothing

[85] Serres, The Birth of Physics

[86] Serres, Statues

[87] Foucault, Discipline and Punish

[88] Tyndale, Doctrinal Treatises

[89] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[90] Hovestadt Buehlmann, Quantum City

[91] Harrison Wood Gaiger, Art in Theory 1648 1815

[92] Frankl, The Gothic

[93] Smith, Architecture in the Culture of Early Humanism

[94] Proust, In Search of Lost Time Vol III The Guermantes Way

[stardustshua-blog]

Dauntless Seventeen (Seungcheol, Soonyoung, Minghao)

Part 2.

Minghao was alone inside the train, trying to contact his boss. He sent a calling signal thru his headset, waiting for a voice.

“Hello. Have you left your headquarters already?” The voice said.

“Yes. I’m on my way now.” Minghao replied.

“Good.” The voice replied.

The weaponry expert was sharpening a self-destructing kunai. It was a gift from the man he’s taking orders from. To make his job easier. “I’m expecting our agreement to be effective as soon as next week.” He nonchalantly said.

“Oh, yes of course, my dear soldier. You’ll receive your gifts on Sunday. I’ll have it delivered by the bridge. And I’ll be contacting Mr. Chwe as soon as you finish the job to ask him to grant your special request. As promised.” The voice on the line assured Minghao.

“Be sure it happens this time, Jeonghan. I’m tired of waiting.” Minghao was on his feet; he ended the call and jumped off the train as soon as he reached the section of Chicago near Abnegation’s plain, dull houses.

Three abnegation people, dead. One thrown off the river, one discovered by the train tracks, one found near a garbage can. And another Abnegation corpse to be discovered, presumably, tomorrow morning.

He didn’t mind the guilt. He sometimes feels the emotion, right after the person he killed lies on the ground, with blood leaking through their necks. Just that moment, and the uncomfortable feeling is gone. When he leaves the body, the guilt disappears and he’s back to being the perfect assassin again.

In the past, he requested power as payment. Higher ranking in Dauntless. Weapons. Jeonghan was a generous superior anyways. He always sends Minghao good meat, high-quality clothes and even access to Dauntless’ most lethal weaponries. It was as if Jeonghan was the leader of Dauntless itself, despite being from the Erudite faction. There were times that he wanted to ask him how Jeonghan does it. But in the end, Minghao just keep his mouth shut.

This time though, he wanted something different.

“Really?” Jeonghan amused.

Minghao was in the Erudite leader’s office. After his patrolling near the outskirts of Chicago, he directly went to Erudite’s headquarters. He had something in mind.

“Yes. I was contented with my current position and I have enjoyed it for some time. But I think I need a change of environment.”

“A high-ranking Dauntless official to an Amity patrol guard?” Jeonghan had a smirk in his face. “Tell me, my soldier. What’s in Amity?”

Minghao was walking the streets of Abnegation sector now. As expected, no Dauntless police was on patrol. Even after 2 years of working under Jeonghan, Minghao is still amused by what that guy from Erudite can do. His job is almost too easy because of his help. Maybe that’s why he needed me, he thought. Jeonghan can do almost everything, but he needed a killing machine. After walking for two blocks, he turned right and saw a man holding a bag of trash. He began to walk towards the Abnegation man.

How lucky he was, Minghao thought. The man was his target.

“Hello there! How is your patrol going?” The man greeted him.

Minghao continued to walk casually towards Doni Park, one of Abnegation’s leaders. Doni apparently made the million-dollar food support for the factionless possible. Which was really inefficient for Jeonghan’s part. “Hello. Patrol’s fine, just a bit lonely tonight. My other patrol worker ditched me.”

The man frowned. “That sucks. Take care though, the Abnegation sector isn’t the safest place at night.” Minghao just nodded. Poor man, he thought. If he only knew.

The man then proceeded to walk towards the huge garbage dump across the street, while Minghao continued to follow him. Doni noticed the patrol guard following his tracks and looked back. “Uh, is there anything I can help you with?”

That’s when Minghao grabbed his kunai from his left hip and pushed the man against the wall of an Abnegation house. The kunai was now directed at Doni’s throat. The Abnegation man gasped in horror. “So it was… you.” Before Doni could even scream, Minghao slit the Abnegation leader’s throat already, and then swiftly avoided the man’s body that dropped to the side.

“Yes. It’s me.” Minghao replied to the body of Doni Park, blood leaking through the man’s throat. Minghao wasted no time and immediately left for the ruins part of Chicago.

He barely felt the guilt now, for the visualization of his reward was too strong.

It’s a face of a young Amity girl, lingering in his mind.

It was the exact day before he went to Jeonghan’s office. He was in the outskirts of Chicago, trying to follow up if his inferiors were doing their duty. He was riding his motorcycle when he noticed two Factionless people who were following a girl in a loose, pale red dress. Their backs were in the soldier’s view. The girl was carrying a bag on the side, which seemed to be containing fruits. The two factionless people—a guy and a girl were whispering to each other, while continuing to take strides in the direction of the girl in the red dress. Minghao was supposed to turn his bicycle to the other direction but when the factionless guy got so close to the Amity girl and started to pull the Amity girl’s hair, Minghao immediately twisted the gas handle and went straight to the thieves’ direction.

The factionless people must have heard his bicycle that they turned around, with the guy letting go of the Amity girl’s hair. The factionless girl was holding the bag so protectively in her arms. Minghao removed his helmet and got out of his bicycle.

“If I were you, I’d drop that bag now.” He warned the two factionless. The Amity girl was on her knees, crying, with her hand in her head, trying to ease the pain of her aching scalp.

The two factionless were actively taking steps back away from the guy in pure black, with evident fear in their faces. “If w-we drop this bag. Would you l-let us go?” The factionless male tried to negotiate.

“Of course.” Minghao agreed.

Just as the girl dropped the bag, Minghao sprinted to get a hold of the guy’s collar and punched him from there. A blow on the face. The factionless male was on the ground now, groaning with pain. Minghao was about to deliver another blow when a voice from behind cried, “Stop!”

Minghao freezed and looked behind. The Amity girl was still on the ground, sitting. “Please stop now.” The two factionless people took the opportunity and ran away. Minghao let them go.

He then walked to the Amity girl, kneeling beside her. “Are you alright?”

“I’m okay. I’m fine.” The Amity girl smiled. “Scalp. Just hurts a little.” Minghao helped the girl get up and gather her bag. “Thank you for your kindness.” The Amity girl said.

She was about to continue walking towards her destination when Minghao said, “Wait.” The Amity girl looked back at the guy in black. “I can’t let you walk alone again. Those factionless might run after you. Ride with me.”

The girl knew that she cannot say no so she just obliged.

The bike was a bit too tall so Minghao needed to lift her up by the waist to let her sit. When Minghao was also on the motorcycle, he said, “Your arms. Around my waist. If you don’t want to fall out of this bike.”

Minghao was able to send the Amity girl to the central part of the city, where she made her delivery. “Thank you so much.” She smiled at him. Minghao just nodded.

At dusk, in Jeonghan’s office, he replied to his superior’s question.

“In Amity? Oh nothing much. I developed a liking for fruits.” He replied. And a chance to see more of this girl with a pretty smile, he thought, with a glint in his eyes.

[crapfutures]

I ain’t seen the sunshine

... since I don’t know when

- Johnny Cash, Folsom Prison Blues

We don’t normally write about our travels at Crap Futures, but last week’s trip to Longyearbyen, Svalbard seems worth a mention. The archipelago lies between Norway and the North Pole, far above Iceland, and at 78 degrees north Longyearbyen is the world’s northernmost settlement. There are 30% more polar bears than humans. There are northern lights, apparently. We did not see the northern lights, or any other natural light, during the six days we were there. The conference we attended was called, in all caps, REMOTE.

If you ever get a chance to visit Svalbard, even in January, take it. Despite the 24-hour darkness of polar night, drawn like a heavy curtain over Longyearbyen from October to February, the people we met there were lively and happy, even slightly giddy, drunk on the melting together of night and day. School children wearing reflective vests built snow forts under stark electric lights. People rode past on bicycles even in -20 degree temperatures, or on snowmobiles with rifle mounts. Huskies were tied up outside shops, and you had to check your gun at the door. It all had a Wild West feel about it.

The day after we arrived a mother polar bear and her two cubs wandered into town and were gently escorted out again in the most Scandinavian way, only to return the following day. The three bears also showed up at our dogsledding camp outside Longyearbyen, news that was conveyed to us by a man with a gun as we warmed ourselves with coffee and brandy in the lodge. (By law you can only leave the city limits with a high-powered rifle, or a guide who carries one.) The exchange between the man with the gun and our guide, who also had a rifle but carried it discreetly and put it in a locker at the camp, went as follows:

‘These people have all signed the waiver.’

‘Ah good, they’ve signed the waiver.’ (The waiver stipulated that if we were eaten by a bear it was not the company’s fault.) 

‘Look – they’re in Philip’s camp, near his tent.’

‘Is Philip there?’

‘Ja, I think so.’

‘Yesterday they scared them away and said everything was okay, but they came right back.’

‘Ja, they must be hungry. They came up here maybe because of the meat.’ 

Then they turned to us and said: ‘So stay with the boss, okay?’

The scary thing about bears wandering into settlements – aside from the obvious menace of a large white bear hiding in a blizzard during the polar night – is the suggestion that something is going seriously wrong with nature; that hungry bears are a visible sign of climate change. Rising temperatures in the Arctic mean melting sea ice, which in turn makes it harder to find food (in the form of seals), and the whole sea ice ecosystem starts to collapse. The desperate mother bear – for what bear in its right mind would go near a place full of dozens of barking dogs, shouting humans, and vehicles – was likely trying to find enough food to feed her cubs.

The Arctic weather was generally cold and clear, with soft, drifting snow, but again, dark. The surrounding mountains and fjord could be glimpsed only in dim outline. The effect of day after day of total darkness is hard to describe. It wasn’t far to reach the end of the road in any direction, and the end of the streetlights – after which there was only an abyss, like falling off the map. Gale force winds whipped up unexpectedly, turning a walk to the pub into a blind life-or-death journey in which your colleagues suddenly disappeared and you were walking down an endless icy road, alone. This made one pub on the edge of town feel a bit locked in, like Minnie’s Haberdashery in The Hateful Eight. On the other hand there was the hygge factor: everywhere indoors, for example, in restaurants and pubs and shops, people padded around in woolly socks; we even presented in socks, which certainly gave the conference room a cosy vibe.

At the conference itself we met Owe Ronström, ethnologist and musician, a warm and generous soul from the island of Gotland in the Baltic Sea, who gave the keynote (and showed us Don Martin cartoons of desert islands). We sat drinking wine from the Nordpolet late into the night with colleagues like our subversive friend Kirsten Marie Raahauge, from the Design school at the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts. We talked about anticipation and wish fulfilment, needs and desires, the late Zygmunt Bauman and our own beloved Borgmann, as well as more topical questions: What is the best (peaceful) defense against polar bears? What are you supposed to do with brown cheese? How long can a human survive without sunlight? Is it healthy to jump into the snow after a jacuzzi? Credit must go to the organisers, Adam Grydehøj and Yaso Nadarajah, for keeping things running smoothly and losing not a single delegate.

We’ve been to larger events in the past year, but none so remote or intimate. Bringing together an eclectic mix of Island Studies researchers, the presentation topics ranged from medieval Norse-Sámi relations to intercorporeality and islandness to cultural identity and animal husbandry on the Estonian island of Ruhnu (pop. 97). For our part, we spoke about designing energy solutions for Madeira, ending with a video of our first prototype that James cut together on the plane. (We’ll post the video along with the latest project news in the next week or so.)

The theme of our panel was ‘Remote Island Sustainability’, and our talk was about ‘Promise in the Periphery’ – so how did Madeira fit in? In many ways Madeira is not remote or peripheral at all: it is the second wealthiest region in Portugal, it has decent air links to the rest of Europe, a centuries old tourism industry, and historically it was a major stopping point on transatlantic journeys. Nevertheless, it is peripheral in the sense of dependence; that – for example – much of its energy is still imported, along with much of its food and other goods – more than need be the case, given its natural attributes. Why is this? The constraints of infrastructure make it easier and cheaper to buy into the larger grid than to find local solutions. But is it easier and cheaper? What are the real costs of ignoring the local?

Judith Schalansky has a useful description of islands as ‘footnotes to the mainland’: ‘expendable to an extent, but also disproportionately more interesting’. Similarly, after her recent trip to Svalbard, Rebecca Solnit wrote: ‘More than anyplace I’ve ever been, [Svalbard] imposes a dependency…. Which is also an independency, from the rest of the world.’ Being peripheral should not be viewed as an obstacle, but as an advantage and an opportunity.

We’re exploring ideas of dependency and independency in relation to energy – taking the shape of a speculative design approach to energy generation, infrastructure and behaviour in Madeira. In our work we’re seeking to exploit remoteness and peripherality as drivers of creativity, possibility, resilience. In particular we aim to challenge the traditional radial model of centrally generated electricity, with the aim of allowing communities to reclaim ownership of energy generation and storage. We want to create new ecologies of energy relationships among islanders.

Darwin called the Galapagos Islands ‘a little world within itself’. The insulated species he found there – the tortoises and finches – give us an analogy for tailoring solutions to island-specific challenges. Bespoke innovation requires you to see the island as a whole, as a unique, self-contained site. Unlike the finches of the Galapagos, however, we intend that our bespoke energy solutions for Madeira will fly abroad, to be adapted to other Macaronesian Islands – in the case of one of our projects – and places further afield, as in the case of another project we’re developing.

The first line of the Madeiran anthem – Do vale à montanha e do mar à serra (‘From the valley to the mountain and from the sea to the highlands’) – gives a sense of how extreme this landscape is. The highest point, Pico Ruivo, is almost 2km above sea level, and it gets snow in the winter when it is still 20 degrees at the coast (and in the sea).

As a recent BBC documentary on Svalbard states: ‘This is not a place for normal.’ We found this to be true – certainly after a week in the dark – but we also found the potential for experimentation, both in the case of Svalbard and our own remote island. We saw the sun again at last as we flew back to Oslo via Tromsø. That night we re-entered the world just in time to watch Trump’s ‘American carnage’ inauguration speech on CNN. Suddenly the remote expanse of Svalbard looked far less like a hostile and frozen wasteland, far more like an oasis in the midst of a greater apocalypse.

[ruffsficstuffplace]

The Keeper of the Grove (Part 29)

When Weiss recalled her first time in the Job Gauntlet, her memories played out like a movie montage.

First Scene.

The participants sat in rows of tables, claws deftly working tools and manually-operated machines, cutting, bending, shaping, and sewing fabric and leather into clothes, armour, and bags.

The proctor walked up to the first desk, nodded as the young Fae held up a simple pouch-in-the-making. She patted him on the head, signed his card, and moved onto the second desk.

An older Fae proudly held up a dress fresh off the sewing machine, a beautiful pattern of colourful threads woven into the front and back. The proctor hummed, congratulated them and signed her card with a flourish, and moved onto the third.

She stopped as she saw Weiss with her cheek pressed against the table, her arm shooting out perpendicular to her sewing machine, the sleeve of her dress accidentally sewn into the fabric she was working on.

Weiss smiled sheepishly up at her, the proctor frowned and calmly pulled out a seam ripper.

Penny crossed out <Leather/Cloth Maker> as Weiss had her clothes repaired.

Second Scene.

The participants stood at the foot of long, great tables, strewn with plates, bowls, cups, and glasses of all sizes. They were all handed trays, upon which the proctor blew a whistle and off they went, clearing their assigned table as quickly as they could.

The sounds of stacking plates and the clatter of cups and bowls filled the room, before a loud, heavy “THUD!” rang out in the hall. Everyone stopped, looked around for the source of the noise, before someone noticed that Weiss had mysteriously disappeared from sight.

The proctor came over to Weiss, casually removed the loaded tray crushing her hands with one hand, and helped her up with the other.

Penny crossed out <Server> as Weiss got her hands examined by a Mender.

Third Scene.

The participants stood over their own cauldrons, intentionally assigned highly unstable solutions, an abundance of ingredients with which to try and stabilize it, and the barest minimum of instructions. The proctor blew their whistle and all the stoves underneath turned on, the liquid inside quickly boiling and bubbling.

After exactly one minute, the stoves were turned off, and the proctor began to check each individual cauldron.

The first had a sweating, panting, but proud Fae hunched over a blue fluid that was calm as a lake on a windless day.

The second had a Fae standing with a surprised look on their face face, now painted in several splotches of random colours from the explosion just moments before.

The third had both Weiss and the proctor peering into the cauldron; the solution had turned an ominous purple, and was still bubbling despite the lack of direct heat.

Then gooey tendrils reached out for them, and they started screaming.

Penny crossed out <Potion Maker> as Weiss, her proctor, and a small team of armed Watchers tried to reverse-engineer her creation, while a team of other Makers autopsied the remains of the original, their brows furrowed and their heads being scratched in confusion.

Fourth Scene.

The participants were in the Guild’s barn, dirt-packed floors, plants and trees growing at a carefully controlled pace, animals walking about in their respective pens and habitats. The participants were only allowed to handle the Valley’s most common domestic creatures:

“Thunder Wolves,” extremely large predators capable of generating and weaponizing electricity using their fur; “Cows,” which were actually giant horned bovines even bigger than Zwei, several times heavier and stronger, but almost completely docile; “Chickens,” like the non-Valley variety except 6 feet tall and infinitely more aggressive and angry; and “Sheep,” who could walk on two or four legs as they pleased, were rather intelligent, and happened to grow wool at an incredibly accelerated pace and sometimes with very exotic, useful qualities depending on their diet, and exposure to certain types of magic and elements.

Because of her qualifications and her performance at earlier tests, Weiss was only cleared for either milking the cows or shoveling manure for use as fertilizer and fuel. As the stench was already nearly overwhelming her as is, she opted for the former.

Her proctor was saying that milking the cows was one of the easiest and safest jobs as a Tender, so long as you knew exactly what you were doing and were careful to never grab their udders incorrectly. To emphasize the point, she had a model of said udders on a rack that every one in line had to grab, to correct their form before they risked getting it wrong on an actual cow.

Weiss wondered what exactly would happen, until the Fae in front of her did it wrong, upon which the beast screamed, panicked, and accidentally stomped him into a crater as she ran off.

The Tenders chased the rampaging animal before it destroyed any more of the barn, hurt the other animals or participants, or worse yet, started a stampede, damage that could easily spread to the rest of the Guild and the area around it.

A group of Menders that were on-hand rushed to the unfortunate victim, wielding what looked like shovels, giant tongs, and a bicycle pump.

Penny looked down at Weiss schedule, debated preemptively crossing out <Animal Tender> as Weiss handed her milk bucket back to her proctor, and went to go look for a shovel.

Fifth Scene.

The participants were in a combination of a kitchen and a laboratory, as the line between the culinary arts and experimental science was very thin for the Fae, even if the facility had a clear split down the middle.

As fetching ingredients could be easily done by trained animals, Fae workers had to go one step above and show that they were capable of cooking, creating, and solving problems as they arose, with or without supervision, so the test was a mix of seeing how fast you could gather ingredients from a communal storage area, then making something out of it as best as you could with limited time.

One of the proctors blew a whistle, and they were off once more, fighting each other over ingredients, sometimes stealing from the others' baskets, and a few pocketing food for later. Weiss stood just behind the crush, trying to figure out a game plan; like Candela, the ingredients were super fresh and maintained by a magical field, but unlike Candela, she didn't have the luxury of a screen popping up and showing her potential recipes and uses, and Penny was only allowed to warn her about dangerous combinations of ingredients or ones best left to professional chefs.

With the ransacked bins and shelves before her, Weiss just grabbed the most familiar looking ingredients and hauled them away. “Chicken” eggs normally weren't the size of a human baby, but everything else was almost exactly the same.

If it was any consolation, there were more than enough knives, tools, and cooking stations for everyone.

Stoves and ovens were fired up, the air was filled with flying slices of vegetables, meats, and fruits as they were cut with incredible speed, force, and precision, before they were fried, boiled, blanched, baked, roasted, smoked, or what have you. It was anarchy—delicious, delicious anarchy as no one was exactly going light on the fragrant herbs and spices, the premade soup stocks, and especially the boar bacon, and Penny had to shout over the chaos to remind Weiss that she'd best not taste test anything lest she risk suffering for it for the rest of the day.

At the tail end of the exam, some participants were focused on plating, arrangement, and last-minute touches to improve the presentation—culinary standards were universal too, it seemed, if with a much bigger focus on aroma for the Fae. The rest were trying to think of some last-minute gimmick that could work, cooking up something to replace their original plan, or trying to discretely get a free meal on the Guild's tab.

Then, a horn sounded, loud and bellowing, followed by a high-pitched whistle for those that didn't stop at the first. Weiss was glad she couldn't hear it as it had pretty much every Fae in the room cringing in pain.

The participants prepared three plates total, one for each judge: a purely vegetarian meal, for the herbivorous Llama Judge; a mostly meat meal, for the carnivorous Hyena Judge; and a mix of both, for the omnivorous Hedgehog Judge.

The first table had a young feline Fae who had made an artful arrangement of shredded, sliced, and pared vegetables and meat using his hands and special bladed caps to protect his claws. The food was very basic, the cuts messy and clumsy at times, but the presentation showed promise and enthusiasm, so the judges passed him on all three accounts; one even gave him a much appreciated pat on the head.

The second table had a middle-aged Fae who smiled and bowed as she presented three separate bowls of noodle soup made with three separate stocks. The judges took up chopsticks or drank directly from their bowl, and all three didn't stop until they had consumed everything. Two of them thanked her profusely while the third offered her a job at one of their restaurants on the spot.

They went to the third table. Weiss had made three variations of the one dish: egg omelets. The three judges smiled politely and ate them anyway; they didn't exactly start gagging or turn green, but they weren't exactly impressed, either.

<Decent enough, but it lacks something for distinct flavour,> said the Llama Judge.

<Yep, it lacks that kick, kind like an alpha for the ingredients, but at least you know how to balance out your flavours well, kid!> said the Hyena Judge.

<Agreed, perhaps you should have used boar bacon?> the Hedgehog Judge offered.

The Hyena Judge drooled a little. <Mmm, boar bacon... multi-paste of food, kid, you should always remember that,> she said as she wiped up her mouth.

<Indeed, few foods that can't be improved with boar bacon,> the Hedgehog Judge nodded.

<Oh goodness, yes! It's my one animal product, aside from eggs and milk,> the Llama Judge said, humming.

After Penny translated and summarized, Weiss asked back, “But wasn't one of the meals supposed to be purely vegetarian?”

The Llama smiled. <That's when you use boar bacon salt!> she said, pointing at her and winking. <Why didn't you, by the way?>

"I didn't know it existed...” Weiss muttered.

The Hyena Judge winced. <Oooh, now ain't that the saddest thing I've ever heard in a while...> She patted her on the shoulder. <Cheer up, kid! There's probably another job out there for you—always something that needs getting done wherever there's Fae out and about,> she laughed as they left for the next table.

Penny crossed out <Food Maker,> the last job on her schedule, and Weiss was very glad the proctor who needed to sign her card was on the way out of the lab.

Weiss turned in her fully signed schedule, waited with the other participants to get her evaluation. Her name was called, she walked up to the counter and received a freshly printed and stapled stack of papers. She couldn't understand the words, but the attached table with her tests on one column and all X's on the next, and the charts having all her levels at the lowest possible with the symbols being a Fae bent over and panting for breath, another scratching their head in confusion, and a third helplessly holding up raw materials were not encouraging.

She hadn't it over to Penny. “Give me as close to an exact translation as you possibly can,” she muttered as they walked out of the Trader's Guild.

Penny frowned. “Are you sure, Weiss? It'll take a lot longer--”

“Just do it.”

“Okay...”

Weiss sat on a bench outside as Penny did her work.

It was a beautiful, sunny day still, about 2 in the afternoon. Lunch time for the Bastion, it seemed, as hordes of Fae were clocking off from their jobs, heading out to eat at the many restaurants, street vendors, and take-out places that littered the area around the Guild, enjoying their packed lunches outside, or going back home through the Tubes, other means of transportation, or just hoofing it.

It took Penny five minutes to translate the letter, and she insisted that Weiss keep sitting as she began to read it:

“We of the Trader's Guild regret to inform you that you are completely, absolutely unqualified for any job we can offer you. You are physically unfit for manual labour; you are illiterate, and effectively uneducated; and have no salable practical skills whatsoever.

“We sincerely hope you can stay in Keeper Ruby Rose's good graces, or that you are fine with sleeping in the homeless shelter and eating rock bread and meat paste for the rest of your life, because unless you can vastly improve your physical fitness and capabilities to at least the normal levels of an adult Fae, become literate in Actaeon at an adult level and cram 12 years worth of basic education into your head, and/or develop talents and skills that oftentimes take years of intense, daily practice to master, those are your only two options to keep on living and surviving from day to day.

“Should you have need for work or Shinies, hopefully while you train and/or educate yourself, we suggest you try your luck with the Watchers, sell your body as a paid test subject with the Makers and Menders, or develop an entertaining act that folks will want to pay to see.

“For whatever it's worth, we are truly, honestly, from the very bottom of our hearts sorry for you, you poor, unfortunate soul, you, and wish you only the best in all your future endeavours.”

Penny put the letter down, frowned as she saw Weiss' teary eyes and shaking body. “Weiss…?”

She sniffed. “Do you have triple chocolate cake shakes here...?

Penny consulted the Codex. “There's a shop nearby that sells an exact replica of the famous Fiorina's recipe, yes.”

“How much is it?” Weiss said as she pulled out her pouch of Shinies, started counting the glimmering, carved rocks she'd gotten for participating in the Job Gauntlet for the first time.

“49 Shinies for a Small.”

Weiss carefully counted her money and noted the value on the faces. She had 45. She looked up. “Do you guys haggle here?” she asked.

Penny looked uneasy. “We do, but it's not likely to happen, given your position as both an outsider, and being associated with your father and his expeditions.”

Weiss nodded. “Okay.”

Then, she burst into tears.

Penny stashed the letter into one of her arm's compartments then hugged Weiss.

“There, there...” she whispered as she patted her on the back.

[biofunmy]

A Balkans Cycling Trip: Great Scenery! Ice-Cold Beer! And Bats and Land Mines?

My four friends and I rolled our bikes to a bar one sunny afternoon near the town of Zitomislici on the banks of the emerald green Neretva River in rural Bosnia. We stopped at Neretvansky Gusar, as the bar is called, to restock our water supply. There was only one problem: “I only have ice-cold beer,” apologized the longhaired proprietor, Nikola Bevanda, who prefers the nickname “Svabo,” slang for “The German.”

We looked at each other, and simultaneously dropped our bikes. A few minutes later, cans of cold beer in front of us on the outdoor picnic table, Svabo appeared, a half-empty bottle of off-brand Canadian whisky in hand, and the impromptu party was officially on. “It’s all rock ‘n’ roll,” he said. “That’s my life’s motto.”

Little did we know at the time that “rock ‘n’ roll” would be our motto, too — only much more literally — for this bike ride. It was the beginning of a three-day, two-wheeled journey through Bosnia. My four friends and I were pedaling the Ciro Trail, a two-year-old bike path that follows an old railway line from Mostar in Bosnia and Herzegovina to Dubrovnik in Croatia. When I’d heard the 100-mile trail is flanked by fields still littered with land mines, past abandoned villages, lifeless since the Balkan conflict of the early 1990s, and old railway stations, some of which have been converted to hotels and restaurants, I knew I had to do it.

The combination of recent history and Bosnia’s stunning natural beauty was appealing. As I told people about the upcoming trip, some friends were so intrigued they invited themselves along: Kim Barker, a reporter for The New York Times; Caroline Trefler, a guidebook editor; and the brothers Vedran and Darko Perojevic, owners and chefs of the Dubrovnik restaurant Azur. Ms. Barker and Ms. Trefler arrived fully prepared for the ride with proper equipment. The brothers Perojevic, having lugged fold-up electric bikes to Mostar for the ride, were decidedly less so. And I, the organizer of the trip, could have packed more than a few T-shirts, a baseball cap and swimming trunks. One aspect that helped, though, is that Ms. Barker, Ms. Trefler and I rented bikes from the Dubrovnik-based tour operator, Epic Croatia, which offers reasonably priced mountain bike rentals and a transfer (with the bikes) to Mostar so we could do the trail just one way.

And so here we were, one hour into the ride, and already off the bikes, imbibing Svabo’s ice-cold beer and taking turns wading into the cold Neretva River. It may have appeared counterproductive, but not racing through the trail was the point of it: We’d hop off the bikes when the spirit, or a beer-selling bar owner, inspired us to do so.

After a tour of the interior of the bar — the walls were crammed with a seemingly incongruent set of images of everyone from Jimi Hendrix to Marilyn Monroe to the Virgin Mary to the famously mustachioed Croatian crooner Miso Kovac — we were ready to recommence the bike ride. As we rode off, Svabo yelled, “Remember: it’s all rock ‘n’ roll.”

We were cruising through the town of Surmanci when we hit the brakes for an outdoor market. We were about four miles from the town of Medjugorje, where in 1981 six children claimed to have had a vision of the Virgin Mary, and the town has since been a major stop on the pilgrimage route. Surmanci was close enough to the holy village to get into the act of selling pilgrimage souvenirs. Women called to us to part with our money for beaded bracelets, images of the Virgin, and wooden crosses. “Lady!” they yelled repeatedly at our female companions. “Lady!” Kim bought a few knickknacks to give to friends back home. And she also acquired the nickname “Lady” for the rest of the trip.

After sleeping in the comfortable but no-frills Motel Jelcic in the unremarkable town of Capljina that night, we began day two by pedaling past sleepy villages and across rusty iron-lattice train bridges. The path would often gently curve along a mountainside, revealing its former self as a train line.

The first train chugged out of Dubrovnik toward Mostar on July 15, 1901 to great fanfare. Dignitaries from the Austro-Hungarian Empire, rulers of this domain at the time, as well as officials from Dubrovnik, Mostar and other cities, were seated in carriages as the train was met with cheering crowds in each small town and village. For the first time, parts of the interior of Bosnia and Herzegovina were no longer isolated. But in 1976, the rail line was deemed no longer financially feasible by the then-ruling Yugoslavian government and shut down.

These days it’s mostly foot-powered vehicles that chug along the trail, thanks to an effort by local bicycling clubs on both sides of the border to do something with this unused stretch of trail, and to help bring tourists to a part of Europe few outsiders see. About five miles into the day’s ride, we came to a fork. The signposts indicated we could take the easier paved route or power through the uphill gravel trail that directly follows the old rail line. We opted for the latter and were rewarded with views of Hutovo Blato, a 29-square-mile nature reserve that is mostly made up of marshland and tall, dark green, pyramid-shaped mountains, part of the Dinaric Alps. Pedaling mostly uphill and on tennis-ball-size chunks of white limestone was the “rock” portion to the previous day’s “roll.” It wasn’t easy but we stopped frequently to admire the surroundings.

At one point, we encountered 20-foot-tall walls of white limestone. Someone with a sense of humor had spray-painted on the stone “Beware of bloody vampires” in Bosnian. Vedran translated it and we all chuckled and shrugged. But then a few miles later, we got the “joke.” As we turned a corner, an ominous black passageway awaited us. Vedran and Darko led the way, pushing their bikes into the erstwhile train tunnel before completely disappearing into the blackness.

About halfway through the tunnel, still completely black save for Caroline’s flashlight, we began hearing a cacophony of high-pitched, squeaky, chirping noises. And it wasn’t our bicycles. We all paused. I could feel my heartbeat speeding up. What kind of army of creatures were awaiting us? Caroline pointed her flashlight up to the ceiling and we all screamed at the sight: hundreds of bats swirling just over our heads. We’d roused them from their sleep and they didn’t seem happy. Vedran was trying to play it cool, as we pushed our bikes faster through soft bat guano. My tire inadvertently rubbed against his calf and he let out a loud, panicked scream. We all laughed, lightening the mood. After we trudged through the 400-foot tunnel, we took a breather, relieved that none of us had been converted to vampires. Or so we hoped. Back on the bikes, we crossed the iron Stangerova Cuprija bridge.

There were nine more bat-filled train tunnels to go, but at least they offered a relief from the overwhelming heat. Any time clouds eclipsed the sun, offering a brief respite from its rays, it felt like an event. We encountered a German cyclist, fully decked out like he was on the Tour de France, going the opposite way, and our ragtag group peppered him with questions: How many more tunnels are there? When does the trail become paved again? And from Vedran: “When is the next place we can get beer?” The German looked at us a bit derisively and said, “About 25 more miles, I guess.”

A couple of hours (and those 25 miles) later, we cruised into Ravno and checked into our hotel, Stanica Ravno, a former railway station that opened as a hotel last year. The first thing we did, naturally, was plunk down at the outdoor restaurant and order a round of beers.

That night, our last in Bosnia before crossing the border, we feasted on grilled meat and sipped local wine at the hotel restaurant, happy our adventure with the bats was over. The following day we began by having coffee at Gostinica Zavala, a former train station that is now a restaurant. Inside was a black-and-white photo of the day the Ciro Train first pulled through the village of Zavala in 1901. The railway was flanked with hundreds of people cheering as the train chugged by. We cheered that the path in front of us was mostly paved and relatively flat.

Darko would occasionally stop to pick things off trees and plants on the side of the trail — sour cherries, hibiscus, mulberries, oregano — and offer it to us. A perk of traveling with a chef. We followed the long, gentle curve that stretched along the side of Popova Polje, one of the largest valleys in Bosnia. Here the road signs began to change from the Latin alphabet to the Cyrillic. We were now entering Republika Srpska, a quasi-autonomous strip of Bosnian-Serb land that was the result of a compromise that ended the Bosnian War at the Dayton Accords in 1995.

Just after passing through the village of Hum, a haunting hodgepodge of grazing cows and abandoned 19th-century buildings, many of which were in a state of disrepair (and where apparently about 10 people still reside), we began seeing ominous signs on the side of the trail brandished with a skull and crossbones and the word “MINE” written in Cyrillic. Then we came upon a group of guys, some wearing what looked like bulletproof jackets, standing around smoking and chatting. It turns out they were part of a Bosnian team from Norwegian People’s Aid, an N.G.O .that locates and defuses land mines.

The group’s leader, Nerven Stonic, said, “We’re trying to rid this area of land mines with the hope to open it up to tourism — making it better for people like you to ride through.” That’s when Vedran asked if they had any water. “If we did,” Mr. Stonic said, “we’d certainly offer it to you.” Vedran responded, “How about an ice-cold beer?” Mr. Stonic laughed and said, “That would be great, but in our line of work, it would be seriously questionable if we drank alcohol on the job.”

The guys picked up their metal detectors and went back to work and we picked up our bikes and pedaled the last five or so miles before reaching the Bosnian-Croatian border. In the now-abandoned town of Uskopje, we went by the old railway station, now populated by cows. They watched us bike by, seemingly unfazed by our presence, and then, in the town of Ivanica, we reached the border, experiencing that odd feeling of being on a bike sandwiched between revving automobiles.

After a quick stamp of our passports, we coasted down a steep paved path that delivered us right into Gruz Harbor in Dubrovnik. We sailed past the former railway station, where the Ciro Train first made its inaugural journey, and right into the bar at the new craft brewery, The Dubrovnik Beer Company, where we had one last celebratory ice-cold beer. “It’s all rock ‘n’ roll,” we said, and clinked our pint glasses.

Sahred From Source link Travel

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[davidddiep]

15 Best Ways to Honor Earth Day 2019 in Las Vegas

Don’t like the neighborhood you live in?

No problem. Worst comes to worst, you can always move…

But no matter where you live, you’ll still be on planet Earth.

And until we’ve figured out how to colonize Mars or invent lightspeed travel so that we can set up shop on one of those “Goldilocks” planets we keep hearing about on the news…

…this here earth is the only home we’ve got.

So let’s treat her right!

April 22 is Earth Day

It’s the day that we’re meant to honor our planet and reflect on the many different ways we can protect our environment.

We’ve come up with the 15 best ways to honor Earth Day 2019 here in Las Vegas.

Some of these you can do no matter what day it is. Others are Earth Day-specific.

Let’s get started!

1. Don’t Use Your Car

Just for one day.

“But what about work?”

“What about that really important thing I was supposed to go to?”

“What about this, and this and that?”

We get it.

For some of you, the idea of not using your car for one day seems like cruel and unusual punishment.

But it’s just one day.

Here’s some perspective:

The city of Paris held a car-free day back in 2015. People still got around using bicycles, skateboards, and their own two feet.

The result? The group AirParif noted that the city reduced its smog level by nearly 50%!

It might be a while before Vegas does something like that.

A long, LONG while.

But you can still do your small part by not using your car for one day.

Instead, you can

Use a rideshare service

Ride a bike

Use public transportation

Walk

Just try it. As an experiment. See what happens.

Who knows? You might even enjoy it!

2. Don’t Eat Meat

Again: just for one day!

Why? Because scientists are arguing that a vegetarian/vegan diet may be healthier for the planet.

So if you really want to show Mother Earth some love, put the sausages and double-bacon cheeseburgers on pause for one day.

Experiment with life as a vegetarian; see how it treats ya!

If you need inspiration or tips, check out Meatless Mondays.

3. Reduce Your Tap Water Usage

Water conservation is a big deal in Las Vegas for obvious reasons.

But there are little things you can do each day to help conserve one of our most precious natural resources.

If you have sprinklers, run them between midnight and sunrise to help reduce water evaporation. This should be done during the months of May through October.

You can find other sprinkler tips here.

Also, be mindful of your water usage inside your home.

For example, don’t leave the faucet running unless you’re using the water.

If you wet your hands so that you can get them nice and soapy, be sure to turn the water off while you’re applying the soap. Then turn the water back on when you’re ready to rinse.

Yes, it’s an extra step, but that extra step can prevent a lot of waste over time!  

4. Go For a Hike at Red Rock Canyon

Okay, we’ve listed enough things to cut back on.

Now let’s focus on the things you can enjoy.

(Earth is meant to be enjoyed, after all!)

Red Rock Canyon has got mountains, trees, wildlife, and 26 nature trails that you can explore until your heart’s content.

For you truly adventurous types, you can also go rock climbing and paragliding.

5. Visit the Springs Preserve

The Springs Preserve has an award-winning botanical garden that contains thousands of Mojave Desert and desert-adapted plants.

You can also walk, bike, or take a train ride down a series of trails in order to check out native habitats and archaeological sites.

The Springs Preserve is also the home of the Nevada State Museum.

Which is ALSO the home of the Nevada state fossil (yes, there is such a thing!): the Ichthyosaur Shonisaurus popularis.

Few things are more sobering than looking at the fossil of an extinct species.

Who knows? That could be us one day!

All the more reason to take care of our planet, right?

Not just for our sake, but for future generations.

6. Volunteer at Vegas Roots Community Garden

Vegas Roots is a non-profit organization and community garden operating on four acres of property in downtown Las Vegas.

First started in 2010, it still remains Vegas’s first and only urban farm.

And they could use some volunteers.

Come down to the garden for a walkthrough visit, and then check out the times that you can volunteer.

You can also sign up for their Adopt a Plot program, where you get an assigned plot and can grow your own vegetables.

Don’t have a green thumb? Not to worry. You can also buy vegetables directly from the garden.  

7. Recycle Your Essence Bags

You know the custom-made Essence shopping bags that you get from us when you purchase a product?

You can re-use them! Just bring one with you next time you come in for your visit, and we’ll use that instead.

If you’re a frequent customer and have a bunch of bags saved up at home, give some away to your friends. That way, you’ll be sharing the wealth and helping us reduce waste. Teamwork!

8. Try a GLP Product

Have you heard of Green Life Productions?

They’re one of our cultivators, and they’ve made a name for themselves by growing 100% organic cannabis flower.

On top of that, they have a recycling program. Bring seven empty GLP containers to our dispensary, and you’ll get a free GLP pre-roll, shirt, or hat!

9. Plant a Bee Garden

There’s no easy way to say it: our bees are disappearing – a phenomenon called colony collapse disorder.

This is a huge problem for the planet.

And not just because bees are cool to look at and we’ll miss having them around. Nor because it’ll suck not having honey as an alternative to sugar.

Bees are pollinators. They help to transfer pollen from one flower to another. This simple act fertilizes plants so that they can reproduce by growing fruits and seeds.

Which means food for us.

Pollinators are responsible for 30% of the world’s crops and 90% of our wild plants.

Examples of crops that are dependent on bees include apples, peaches, apricots, cherries, grapes, tomatoes, almonds, mustard, broccoli, cauliflower, brussel sprouts, cabbage…the list is long.

According to the Natural Resources Defense Council, four main reasons for the loss of bees are climate change, pesticide use on farms, habitat loss, and parasites.

Now for the good news: there is something you can do to help alleviate the habitat loss problem.

Plant a bee garden.

No, that doesn’t mean you grow your own bees.

It means creating a garden that’s bee-friendly.

For example, if you have a lawn, you can replace part or all of it with flowering plants. This will provide food and habitat for bees, butterflies, and other pollinators.

10. Plan a Camping Trip

When you live in a city, it’s easy to forget how much we depend on the earth for our basic survival needs: oxygen, water, food, shelter, not to mention beautiful scenery to look at.

Camping helps us to get back in touch with our earliest roots as human beings. It reminds us that everything we’ve built rests on the bedrock of nature.

Remembering this fact also helps us remember to take better care of nature.

So whether you go to Red Rock, Mt. Charleston, Lake Tahoe or even your own backyard, it doesn’t matter.

Just try to get out of your normal setting and spend a night in nature.

11. Watch Our Planet On Netflix

If you don’t have the time, resources, or inclination to go camping, there’s always the next best thing: watch nature documentaries!

There’s a new nature docu-series available to watch on Netflix called Our Planet. It was made by the creator of Planet Earth and Blue Planet.

Our Planet features amazing footage of some of Earth’s most beautiful environments and wildlife. It also discusses how climate change is affecting life on our planet.

Here’s the trailer:

12. Earth Day at the Las Vegas Natural History Museum

From 10:00 am to 3:00 pm on April 22, the Las Vegas Natural History Museum will be hosting a bunch of activities to celebrate Earth Day, including science exhibits run by Jenny Baliff, the “Science Mom.” Bring your kids!

13. 2019 Earth Day 5K & 10K Virtual Run Las Vegas

Virtual runs are pretty popular right now, and on Earth Day, you can participate in one yourself.

The cost is $20, and at least 15% of the entry fee will be donated to Wild Earth Allies, an organization devoted to protecting wildlife and habitats.

Where is this race held? Anywhere you want. That’s what makes it a virtual race!

You can run or walk in a park, the streets, your local track field, or even the treadmill at your gym. Literally anywhere!

You do the race on your own, record your time, and then submit it to the race organizers to get your Earth Day medal!

14. UNLV Earth Day Fair

If you’re going to be on or near the UNLV campus, be sure to swing by the Earth Day Fair.

Starting at 10:00 am on April 22, the UNLV Student Sustainability Council will be hosting a series of events such as yoga on the lawn, a drum circle, an art gallery viewing, and free food!

The fair is free and open to the public.

15. Use Cannabis to Help You Become More Earth Conscious

Cannabis is many things to many people.

But most of us can agree that cannabis has a way of stimulating the mind and forcing us to think outside of the box.

And under the right circumstances, cannabis can help us come to new insights about ourselves and even help us foster new changes and habits in our lives.

So smoke a bowl or eat an edible, find a spot out in nature, and just sit and observe. Take in the sights, sounds, and smells. Try to remember that nature isn’t something that’s separate from you.

We all come from the Earth. We’re part of it, and it’s a part of us. The better we know and understand the earth, the better we know and understand ourselves.

And if you need to stock up on cannabis…

Essence is Still Offering Special Deals Every Single Day For the Remainder of April!

Come visit us at any of our three locations – Las Vegas Strip, Tropicana West, Henderson – and take advantage of our specials!

Happy Earth Day!

The post 15 Best Ways to Honor Earth Day 2019 in Las Vegas appeared first on Essence Cannabis Dispensary.

[saltsale1-blog]

SEAPORT WANDERING

A little inside baseball before I begin — this is the first longform post I am doing after the Forgotten New York revamp, and I’m going to have to get used to the new WordPress “dashboard,” the module where I type all my posts. WordPress can’t leave well enough alone and moved everything around, so I’ll need to gradually reacquaint myself with where everything I used happens to be. Now, when I use WordPress, it has so many different controls, I think it’s like using Lieutenant Sulu’s console to order a ham sandwich, it’s so overstuffed. I learn software, but not quickly. When i began using WordPress in 2011, it took about two months for me to really get used to it and I was getting pretty frustrated. Back in 1992, I taught myself the publishing program, QuarkXPress, as well as Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator, and learned enough to land jobs as a mechanical artist, burnishing my resume as a proofreader and copy editor. I’m well out of practice with QuarkXPress and InDesign now, though.

In December I scouted around Manhattan between the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges, but after that I wandered into the Seaport. I haven’t been there much since Hurricane Sandy struck in October 2012 and especially, since the Seaport’s redevelopment plans were announced that involved tearing down the Pier 17 building and putting new retail/housing/restaurants there. I’d go to the Pier 17 food mall if I wanted something affordable for lunch, and would go to the same place for tuna salad and fries, cost me less than $10. A new food court is supposed to open in the historic Tin Building, but I think the old $10 lunches are out.

Here is Gold Street at Frankfort, under one of the ramps connecting the Brooklyn Bridge to the FDR Drive. I’ve always had a fascination for this lower Manhattan route, since it twists and turns a bit, no doubt to get around hills or creeks that have since disappeared. Back in 2006, I walked much of it, but its lower reaches are now mostly invisible as they are hidden under street and sidewalk scaffolding that is seemingly permanent. Interestingly “Gold” doesn’t refer to the precious metal, but to the Dutch word for the yellow celandine flower,  which is gouwe in Dutch, and the Netherlanders called the area Gouwenberg, which over time evolved to simply Gold after the 1664 British takeover.

North of Fulton Street, Gold Street shucks off its scaffolding, gains some lanes, and becomes less interesting. Traffic follows it under the Brooklyn Bridge to Madison Street and St. James Place.

Frankfort Street, meanwhile, is named for Frankfurt, Germany, the home town of 17th Century rebel Jacob Leisler, the only NY Governor to meet his end on a noose. It also means the street has something in common with tube-shaped lunch meat.

Why show this driveway on Frankfort Street between Gold and Pearl Streets, between the NYC Housing Preservation and Development headquarters on Gold Street and the west end of the Southbridge Towers housing development? It’s the north end of Cliff Street, which today runs only from Fulton to Beekman Streets, but used to run all the way to the Brooklyn Bridge. Check out the NYC Municipal Archives for photos of buildings along the entire length of Cliff Street in 1940.

Sadly, the Bridge Cafe at Dover and Water Streets, which billed itself as NYC’s oldest continuously-operating business that served drinks, closed after Hurricane Sandy damaged it on October 2012, and it’s never reopened. Though a neon sign in the shape of a bridge shines in the window like a candle burning to let travelers know they’re welcome, there’s currently no sign of any restoration at present. I looked inside, and found a motorcycle parked amidst where the tables and chairs used to be. The last time any reopening was mentioned was in 2016.

The cafe was built on the water’s edge, as Water Street marked the original shoreline. It was originally listed as a “grocery and wine and porter bottler”; in that era, groceries sold wines and spirits and were issued liquor licenses. Here’s a look at the building in 1940, when the Bridge was called McCormick’s.

A couple of doors away from the Bridge Cafe at 273 Water Street is the Captain Joseph Rose House, originally built between 1773 and 1781 and rebuilt in 1998. It’s the 3rd-oldest building in Manhattan after St. Paul’s Chapel on Broadway and the Morris-Jumel Mansion on Edgecombe and 162nd in East Harlem. Capt. Rose, a mahogany merchant, moved out in 1791 and was an apothecary and shoe store by 1812.

Things turned south after 1812, though, as Water Street became the province of cheap hotels and brothels. It became a dance house populated by what the local rags called “the most depraved and infamous population on the entire New York Island.” By 1868 it was the site of Kit Burns’ Dog-Pit or, to its patrons, Sportsman’s Hall. Burns, a member of the Dead Rabbits gang, held bareknuckle boxing matches and ratfighting and dogfighting matches here. These dogs, mostly terriers, were sometimes starved for several days beforehand. Burns had two of his favorite dogs stuffed and mounted over the bar. The first, a black and tan colored terrier named Jack, reportedly set an American record by killing 100 rats in 6 minutes and 40 seconds. The other dog, Hunky, was a champion fighting dog “that expired after his last great victory.” The building, shortly after, became a shelter for “fallen women.”

Nearby Rose Street was named for the owner.

Water Street, looking south through the landmarked Seaport District. The street’s Belgian blocks have been carefully maintained, unlike other parts of the district as we will see a bit later. The tall building seen in the distance is One Seaport Plaza, or the Prudential-Bache Building, a 1984 skyscraper.

I was attracted to #270 Water, across the street from the Rose House, since some of the painted sign (the readable portion says “Williams,” likely a former proprietor). Here’s the description from the Seaport Landmarks Preservation Commission report:

Bear in mind, this page won’t be a comprehensive look at the Seaport. I didn’t photograph every historic building, as it wasn’t my aim on this walk. That kind of study would have taken me a lot longer, as would this page. I’m mentioning it now in case you don’t see your favorite particular spot mentioned here. I will say that an indispensable, though not completely comprehensive, guide to the area is Ellen Fletcher’s Walking Around in South Street, published by the South Street Seaport Museum; contact the Museum at (212) 748-8600 or visit the Seaport website.

This building was constructed in 1808 for flour merchant David Lydig. He had gone into business on Peck Slip in 1789 and owned a fleet of Hudson River sloops that delivered flour to his South Street wharf. Bakers were attracted to the block with a handy flour merchant nearby. Anticipating the completion of the Erie Canal, which would enable flour to be delivered from western farmlands at a cheaper rate, he sold his sloops at a profit  and retired.

Way up in the Morris Park section of the Bronx, the subject of a SpliceToday post, there’s a Lydig Avenue named for the family of merchants that included Philip and his son, David, who ran a mill in the West Farms section. David’s son Philip sold much of the property now home to Bronx Park.

The restaurant on the ground floor had been Mexican Radio, named for a 1982 Wall of Voodoo hit, but now it’s the Cowgirl SeaHorse.

Merchant Jasper Ward had speculatively purchased this property in 1800 while the East River still occupied the site, and built on it after it was landfilled and became the corner of 151 South Street and Peck Slip. Once part of a row of three buildings, it largely resembles its original appearance. The adjoining building on Peck Slip was built in 1807 for flour merchant David Lydig (see above).

Peck Slip, looking west from South Street. The street owes its great width to the fact that it once featured a short canal, or slip, in which boats were docked. The slip was built in 1755 by merchant Benjamin Peck. It was filled in by 1817. Many lower Manhattan streets were once slips in which ships were berthed, and carry the name “slip” to this day.

At the very end of the street, we see #8 Spruce Street, formerly the tallest residential building in NYC, since surpassed. It’s now known as New York By Gehry, after its architect, Frank Gehry; it’s his first major building in NYC after many years. The tower contains only rental units (898 in total), something of a rarity in New York’s Financial District. It contains a public elementary school, which the Department of Education owns, and is made of reinforced concrete. It is 76 stories and 870 feet high.

I like the building, even though many Forgotten NY fans don’t seem to like anything built later than 1950. I say that in jest, not in anger. I do like that Manhattan is dynamic, but so many of the new towers going up in places that never had them before like Hudson Yards and Hunter’s Point are plain glass boxes. #8 Spruce is new and different.

Unfortunately, Peck Slip used to be a vast plain of Belgian blocks, one of my favorite “plains” of Belgian blocks in the city. However, the city has paved over the center of the slip with asphalt, leaving just thin strips of bricks on both sides, and placed bollards and planters around the central section. This appears to be the prelude to an ambitious plan to position a public park down the center of the slip, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it stays as is for awhile.

The Department of Transportation has always been uncomfortable with traditional Belgian-blocked streets. If you look at the Municipal Archives photos linked above, you notice that a great many more streets used to be block-paved; well into the 1980s I was noticing even main route still had them in spots. However, vehicle axles and bicycles don’t play well with them. In recent months, the city has “tamed” the formerly huge Belgian blocked plaza at Gansevoort Street and 9th Avenue in the Meatpacking but putting elevated curbs around it, and in Brooklyn, DUMBO’s brick streets and exposed former railroad tracks are under fire and their days may be numbered.

The Paris Café occupies the ground floor of a 5-story brick building at 119 South Street and Peck Slip. The handsome structure was built in 1873 and was purchased 10 years later by liquor merchant Henry Mayer and converted to a hotel and a boardinghouse. Some of the frequent guests were inventor Thomas Alva Edison, sharpshooter Annie Oakley, gourmand “Diamond Jim” Brady, and Teddy Roosevelt when he was police commissioner. Meyer opened the Paris Café in 1883 and while the hotel is long gone, the Paris is still going strong. It’s one of the last survivors of the old Seaport restaurant district that formerly boasted Sloppy Louie’s and Carmine’s. I have only been in once, with ForgottenFan Lisa Jarrett, who used to work around the corner at a coffee place on Water Street; regretfully, I did not get any photos, but they are easily found. It looked like this in 1940.

South Street in the old Fish Market area

The Fulton Fish Market, NYC’s primary seafood wholesale market, moved to Hunts Point in the Bronx in 2005, after a tenure here of over 170 years. Old pictures of South Street show sloops, square-riggers, clipper ships and many other classes of vessels docked right next to the street, which formerly abutted the East River. Today, at the Seaport’s Pier 17, you can board sailing ships like the Wavertree (built in 1885) the Peking (1911) and the lightship Ambrose, and even train for sailing on the Pioneer (1885), Lettie G. Howard (1893) and W.O. Decker (1930).

I was usually in the Seaport area during the day, when the Seaport catered to the tourist trade when the mall along Fulton Street opened in 1983. Fulton Street and Pier 17 catered almost exclusively to the tourist trade, and still does especially in the summer. But before 2005, I could walk around the area during the day and breathe in the heady aroma of raw fish. Overnights, South Street was full of trucks and wholesale merchants, where restaurants and fish markets all over town would come and purchase fish which would be prepared in restaurants and sold to the public. I never witnessed it but it was a chaotic, bustling scene, totally New York City in the vibe department. The market is now way up in the Bronx.

The restaurant Fish Market, named for you know what, attempts to reclaim the old market atmosphere. It appears to be a dive bar, but has some Malaysian delicacies on the menu. The awning on South Street used to feature a number of signs of fish wholesalers, and the signage here is clearly imitative.

Around the corner, #40 Peck Slip is one of a trio of buildings on the south side of the street that were constructed as warehouses for merchant brothers William and John Mott, and according to the LPC report, they go back as far as 1813, but heavily altered since then, with fourth floors built in the 1870s.

This row, 220-226 Front, between Beekman and Peck Slip, is even older, with this stretch of brick buildings going back to around 1800. When the property was purchased by the builders, it was purely on speculation as Front Street was still in the East River and had yet to be built on landfill. The row is occupied by Jack’s Coffee, Van Leeuwen Ice Cream (“Gilded Age” was a previous tenant) and Jeremy’s Ale House, where the bras are hung over the bar and the patrons are hung over. (I remember winding up here after a Seaport tour I gave despite having a splitting toothache; nevertheless, I found the fish and chips quite good.)

225 Front, currently Barbalu, an Italian restaurant, shows traces of its fish wholesaler past as the word “salmon” is clearly visible. Many area buildings bear such traces.

A look west on Front Street toward historic Schermerhorn Row on Fulton Street. Most New Yorkers reflexively pronounce this “Skimmerhorn” but the pronunciation makes no sense to me, unless it’s an accurate rendering of the original Dutch pronunciation. Beyond it you can see the odd-looking eastern wall of 161 Front Street, a Fairfield Inn hotel. To me it looks like the renovated exterior of 2 Columbus Circle uptown, the Museum of Arts and Design. Several more boring glassy towers have sprung up downtown the past couple of decades.

133 Beekman or 208 Front Street is actually one of the newer buildings in the Seaport. It was constructed as a loft in 1914.

Formerly Carmine’s Seafood, 140 Beekman (at Front) was constructed in 1824, the same year that Beekman Street itself was built. The old Carmine’s is now occupied by the V Bar. The ground floor has undergone considerable renovation but the upper floors still look they way they did when first built.

146-148 Beekman boasts the same painted sign for Meyer & Johnson fish wholesalers that it did in 1940, and probably awhile before that. “Finnan haddie” is smoked haddock, originally produced near Findon, Scotland. The delicacypops up in the lyrics of the Cole Porter classic “My Heart Belongs to Daddy,” popularized by Mary Martin, Eartha Kitt and Marilyn Monroe, among many others.

Here’s what the block looked like in 1940. A clothing boutique occupies the ground floor these days, and a flower shop is at 142 Beekman, next door.

19 Fulton Street at Front was newly constructed for the Fulton Street mall, opening in 1983. Yet it tries to copy the design of the James Bogardus cast iron front building, way over on Manhattan’s Lower West Side, now part of Independence Plaza. When blocks of buildings there were razed or relocated in the 1970s and 1980s to make way for the rental towers, The Bogardus Building, designed by the father of cast iron architecture, was dismantled and put in storage to be rebuilt elsewhere. However the dismantled pieces were stolen and never recovered. Hence, the city made a relatively close carbon copy and built it here.

So, this is the first longform page I have done under my new template, which was built by Adam Kizer of Villing & Company, who did an outstanding job with it. This will be FNY’s template for hopefully the next ten years and beyond, and I hope you’ll enjoy it.

Check out the ForgottenBook, take a look at the gift shop, and as always, “comment…as you see fit.”

1/13/19

Source: http://forgotten-ny.com/2019/01/seaport-wandering/

[antoniaexu]

A Bowl of Small Wontons

Every summer when I was young, as my family boarded our plane in San Francisco, my aunt stood 6,000 miles away in her kitchen in Shanghai, anticipating our arrival and dealing with her excitement in the best way she knew how: by preparing food. The week before we flew over, she had already texted my mother, asking us to send her a “menu” of Shanghainese delicacies we wanted to eat: like “vegetarian chicken” tossed with shiitake mushroom (xianggu suji), soy sauce braised pork chop (hongshao paigu), stir-fried rice cakes with spicy mustard root (zhacai chao niangao), or fried yellow croaker (xiao huangyu). That my aunt would painstakingly prepare them all, no matter the time and energy required, was a given. It’s my job, she asserted in response to our protests — which, understandably, quickly faltered at the mere thought of the mouthwatering dishes awaiting us.

Invariably, one of those dishes was wontons. Wontons (huntun) are a type of Chinese dumpling, most often placed in broth and sometimes accompanied by noodles, depending on regional preference. They traditionally contain a mixture of meat (chicken, pork) and sometimes vegetables (Chinese ji vegetable, cabbage, spinach) in a flour wrapper, which is then folded into various forms: a “monk’s cap,” a “coin purse,” a triangle, and on. They are one of those distinct dishes that can somehow remain tasty even in the hands of a mediocre chef. But wontons did not seem as exotic as the other, unique Shanghainese fare revolving in our minds, which explained why we sometimes forgot to add them to my aunt’s list.

Yet even when we did, she would buy them anyway, sending my uncle or peddling out on the bicycle herself, evading the unforgiving summer sun, to fetch a few bags from the local market. She was preparing for what I forgot was the inevitable: that, kept up by jetlag and the excitement of living in a different country, I would grow hungry at night, the unwelcome gurgles of an empty stomach emerging right before what should have been my bedtime. Still steaming from the shower, I would lie on the cool bamboo bedcover, trying to ward off my hunger to no avail. Just as the emptiness was becoming unbearable, a serendipitous knock would arrive on the door, and I would turn to see my aunt peering down at me with a knowing smile. Mimicking the local food peddlers, she would proceed to ask me what my “order of the night” was: perhaps egg fried rice, barley porridge, or ice cream? But, usually, what the question boiled down to was:

Large or small wontons?

There is a key distinction. Shanghainese cuisine, which belongs to the larger Su cuisine family in China, has two specialties of wonton. “Large” wontons more resemble the typical ones found sprinkled in Chinese restaurants across America. As the name suggests, each are the healthy size of around three inches, stuffed with meat and vegetables. Attention is placed on the filling’s flavor and texture. “Small” wontons, on the other hand, resemble a diminutive wad of tissue. To make them, you take a small scoop of minced pork, dab it in the middle of a wrapper, and then pinch the sheet around the meat, letting any excess wrapper trail behind. The wonton is thus mostly wrapper (pi): one finds that the soup clings more easily to the small wonton pi’s folds, making the experience like eating a hybrid of soup noodles and juicy dumplings all in one. The lesser proportion of filling also means small wonton are substantial enough to satisfy without rendering one uncomfortably stuffed. In short, they were the perfect breakfast, or, more often for me, late night meal.

I can’t remember my first experience trying small wonton in Shanghai; but at some point, they became a regular fixture in my aunt’s fridge. She didn’t make them herself, both because it was too time-consuming but also because she had tried and been unsuccessful. The small wonton had ended up sadly deformed, the pi sticky, the meat tough. Something which appeared so simple was surprisingly complex to create. So my aunt assiduously hunted around for a local vendor. I eventually visited the one she deemed worthy: a small stand in a row of twenty, where women in gloves and aprons deftly patted filling into wrapper, swiftly pressing down the ends and tossing the finished wonton into a pile. Stuff, fold, toss, repeat; they didn’t even look at their hands. Methodical, impersonal.

But my aunt, and by extension her cooking, is neither of those things. She is passionate and powerful, a personality that immediately brightens any situation. She laughs with her whole body. In fact, her body seemed to be constantly in motion whenever we visited: if not downing three cups of overly sweet coffee, then furiously chopping in the kitchen, or sprinting around sweeping up the room. Take a break! I’d say. Have some tea with me. And she’d turn and consider this for a while, before eventually joining me. I gradually understood that her hesitation emerged not from reluctance but from anxiety — that not enough was being done during the finite time we would be in Shanghai. While I sat sipping tea, enjoying the air conditioning caressing my neck, she was preoccupied with thoughts of the days hurtling by. I believe my aunt worried it was all too easy for us to forget her. For when we returned home, my parents became busy with work; I buried myself in school; and images of her, and Shanghai, would fade.

But food has a remarkable way of producing memories impossible to forget. So cooking became my aunt’s way of creating links that would guide us from wherever we were all the way back to her. The baby of her family, she had actually learned to cook late. Moreover, in deprived 1970s China, there was nothing to cook: the vegetables were half rotten, the fish nothing but bones. Cooking back then demanded the conjuring of the magnificent out of the sparse. It was only after my mother, the natural chef, went to America that my aunt took up the task of cooking for the whole family. Her skills, if not wholly innate, were forged from years of relentless practice. This effort came across in her cooking, which more than subtlety contained feeling. Her cooking was hearty in flavor, in helpings, and in expressions of warmth.

Whenever we visited, my mother would offer to help cook. But most of the time, my aunt said no. You should rest, she said, even though she was the one endlessly working. And if I offered, she would just look at me and amusedly shake her head. The dinner table overflowed with eagerness. Each meal would contain a wide spread of entrees, soups, and sides, all from our requested “menu,” and far more than we could finish. Yet even so, there would still be comforting seconds and thirds — just in case. So even if there were moments when, in her haste, the dishes ended up a little imperfect (the rice burnt, or the meat sliced too thick), how could we not still smile? For even in those moments — especially then — what shone through was her sincere desire to create and care for us. It was the most generous ingredient in her dishes.

But wontons were one of the foods she never failed to get right. In her hands, the mass-produced market wontons were transformed into the magnificent, a work unquestionably hers each time. After she finished cooking, a layer of sweat firmly affixed to her brow, my aunt would carefully walk into the bedroom with a tray, despite my mother’s protests. She’ll spill it. Let her eat in the kitchen. But my aunt would cheerfully ignore her, placing the tray in front of my crossed legs, her eyes twinkling. The tray held four things: a slightly chipped blue and white porcelain bowl; next to the bowl, a matching spoon; underneath the spoon, a neatly folded white napkin. Lastly, in the right corner sat a pepper grinder — white pepper, not black, because its distinct sharp fragrance balanced the earthiness of the meat. I looked at the comforting tableau in front of me, and then inevitably was drawn to at the bowl.

For the fragrance of the small wontons, shining in the dark brown soup, was incomparable. This was my aunt’s own invention: a smoky broth that consisted of fresh scallions, soy sauce and sesame oil blended with boiling water. Simple, but brimming with flavor. The soup gleamed at me as I reached for the grinder, scattering some pepper atop the wonton heap. Then, lifting the spoon, I carefully tasted the soup, and slid a slippery wonton into my mouth. How good the dish was was a revelation each time. I relished the clarity of the broth, the salty richness in the bits of pork, and how the pi’s texture always had “ngaw duh”: a Shanghainese term for a springy quality, hovering between dissolving tissue paper and rubber bands. I would take my time savoring, swallowing, and feeling joy and gratitude well up within me.

The whole time, my aunt would stand watching me, still wearing her apron. Happy to see me happy. Usually that late at night, she would be sleeping — she naturally woke up at five every morning, accustomed to going downstairs to make breakfast and take care of my grandparents. Yet she would still stay leaning against the door, a broad, sleepy smile hanging on her face. I, selfishly hungry but also self-conscious from the attention, fixated completely on the soup. Within a few minutes, the heat from the wontons would make me start to sweat, and during the process of eating, I would often stop at least three or four times to breathe and reflect, breathe and appreciate. But even with such breaks, the wontons disappeared far too quickly.

Do you want another bowl? My aunt would ask. I wanted to shake my head no. But more often, I nodded yes, persuaded by the wontons’ allure and my aunt’s keenness. So she would rush back to the kitchen, even as the hands on the clock inched to the right, and I began feeling guilty for the request. I worried about forcing my aunt to work; I worried, too, that I was greedy for taking so much food for myself — what about everyone else? But I sensed my aunt would say it didn’t matter. After all, it was the only time of the year I could eat small wonton, and the only time she could make me some. And over the years, I came to realize that nobody else in the house really ate the small wontons. They were waiting for me alone, waiting as my aunt cooked deep into the night. Waiting — for when they could transform, in her hands, into gently folded expressions of love that I would cherish long after the bowls became empty.

(written for COM 211: Reading and Writing Food from Homer to Julia Child, F’2017, with Leonard Barkan)

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Diabetes Awareness: 6 Ways to effectively Manage Diabetes

Roughly 30 million Americans have diabetes, but about 8 million are undiagnosed. That means 8 million people could be worsening a disease they are unaware of even having. Does that scare you yet? Do you know the diabetes symptoms?

There are many stigmas placed against diabetes like that developing the disease comes down to lifestyle choices and not a person’s born-in environment. We should all be aware of those with the disease. It is one that requires constant monitoring to prevent hypoglycemia- low blood sugar- that results in trembling, anxiety, or even seizures.

It is my belief that myths behind diabetes should be broken in order for the general public to understand a day in the life of a diabetic. Diabetics have to defend themselves from their own body’s misguidance, let’s not add to the stigma of their daily battle.

What are diabetes and diabetes symptoms?

Diabetes is a disease where your body can’t process foods as they should be. Instead diabetes causes sugar levels in the blood to increase and therefore results in the irregular metabolism of carbohydrates.  It either occurs when pancreas is unable to produce sufficient insulin or when the body is not able to properly utilize the hormone (insulin) it produces.

There are mainly three types of diabetes – Type 1, Type 2, and Gestational diabetes.

-Type 1: A small percentage of diabetes sufferers have Type 1 as it is usually juvenile-onset and tends to have fewer complications. Type 1 diabetes results when the body cannot provide enough insulin.

-Type 2: This is the most common case of diabetes. Type 2 diabetes tends to be a result of obesity, lack of physical activities, old age, or even heredity. Type 2 diabetes results when insulin isn’t being used effectively.

-Gestational: like Type 1 diabetes, gestational appears in a small percentage of women. It usually occurs during pregnancy but usually disappears postpartum. However, it is important to monitor the chance of Type 2 diabetes occurring later in life is you were diagnosed with gestational diabetes during pregnancy.

Just like any other chronic ailment, diabetes also requires regular monitoring, care and medication.

Why you should take care of your diabetes?

There is nothing more important than being in good health. When diabetics’ blood sugar levels remains in control, apart from a sense of well-being, you also feel more energetic, often see weight loss and are just generally happier. Additionally, wounds heal faster, less frequent urination, reduced chances of bladder and skin infections, and less sensations of dehydration.

Managing diabetes reduces risks associated with the disease: stroke or a heart attack, eyesight issues, kidney, nerve damage, and gum and teeth problems.

    6 ways to effectively manage your diabetes:

Diabetes is not a curable disease, but monitoring your diabetes symptoms managing your blood sugar levels within the normal limit could seem challenging in the beginning, but with discipline and determination you can overcome the odds pretty effectually. If you have diabetes or it runs in your family then you need to be careful about your blood sugar levels and take precautionary measures as prescribed by your doctor. Here are 6 ways that you should follow for effective management of your diabetes:

1. Awareness is the key – know about the condition.

If diagnosed, consult your physician about the precautions you need to take. Get to know how it affects your body and how can you control it. Join a support group, see how others are coping with their problem.

2. Always eat a healthy diet.

Nutrition is a key factor in every aspect of our health. If all of us partook in a daily healthy meal plan, half of our chronic diseases would disappear. I guarantee it.  You need to work with your healthcare team to design a diet plan that will not only keep your blood sugar levels in check but will also be one you’re likely to follow.

-Add lots of vegetables and fruit to your diet, especially those that are rich in vitamins and minerals. Some of the non-starchy vegetables include spinach, broccoli, mushroom, tomatoes, or carrots. Basically, eat the rainbow.

-Include fish, chicken, and other lean proteins. Be sure to cut off the fat around fish and meat. Cook mildly with healthy fats like coconut or avocado oil.

-You may have dairy but sure they are low in fat and in moderation.

-Say no to processed foods and added sugars like pasta, soda, etc.

-Experiment with your sweet tooth with seasonal fruit in your diet. Unfortunately regularly treating yourself to cake or ice cream can have a negative effect on your blood sugar. Try something like strawberries dipped in peanut butter.

-Snacking is allowed as long as it is low in carbs, sugar, and sodium. Think turkey/spinach wraps, rice cakes, apple and cheese, or protein berry smoothies.

-Drink water. Cut out artificially flavored drinks. Water, natural tea, infused water such as cucumber or lemon, are all healthy alternatives to sugary soda or fruit juices.

-Eating whole foods, natural grown from the earth will most likely help with weight loss which helps with diabetes management. However, portion control and implantation is still needed!

3. Exercise on a regular basis.

Combatting diabetes starts with diet but continues with exercise. For at least 30 minutes a day it is important to get your heart rate up. Consult with your healthcare professional before starting any new exercise.

-Go swimming or water aerobics.

-Go for a brisk walk outside or use a treadmill. His includes parking your car further away, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, walking the dog for a bit longer, just taking a few extra steps a day helps.

-Dancing is also a very good exercise for diabetics.

-Take up a sport like tennis to play with your kids or spouse.

-Ride a stationary bicycle inside your home while you watch your favorite shows.

-Swim a few laps in your swimming pool.

4. Avoid alcohol.

Alcohol can be damaging to any healthy person but especially so if you are a diabetic. Soon after consuming alcohol your blood sugar levels can fall and remain so for up to 24 hours which can be very dangerous for diabetics. Most diabetics actually have to receive permission from their doctor to have alcohol. If approved, keep in mind to drink it moderately and with food. Alcohol on an empty stomach with diabetic medication can have adverse effects.

5. Keep stress at bay.

Managing stress is easier said than done, of course. Prolonged periods of stress can cause your blood sugar levels to rise. A stressed out body produces hormones that raises your sugar levels. Exercise and right nutrition actually can help naturally combat stress. If you feel like that is not enough, seek help from a professional.

6. Take medicines as prescribed.

When you are not able to manage normal blood sugar levels with just diet and exercise, prescription medication is required. The efficiency of these medicines depend on the timing and quantity of the dose. Drug interactions should be taken into account but your doctor and pharmacist will know of any threats to your health.

Diabetes creates a trusted team between you and your doctor. You are both reliant on what the other produces. You have to act on what the doctor prescribes and they need to monitor your actions. If you are based in and around Lake Mary, Florida visit MultiCARE Physicians for effective and efficient management of your diabetes.

If you have diabetes or any diabetes symptoms like increased thirst or hunger, frequent urination, blurred vision, weight loss, fatigue and/ or wounds take a lot of time to heal you should immediately contact MultiCARE Physicians.

MultiCARE Physicians is a Lake Mary family practice offering family, pediatric, geriatric, women’s health care and urgent care medical facility where patients get comprehensive and compassionate medical attention.

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Diabetes Awareness: 6 Ways to effectively Manage Diabetes was originally published on Multicare Physicians