#a lot of celebrities make an obscene amount of money (though NOT a lot provide insurance & 100k+ bonuses to the ppl who work for them)

[killian-whump]

Come Buy My KWTs

That’s right. You heard it here first!

I’m going to release a series of exclusive KWT collectibles. KWT stands for Killian Whump Things, and I guarantee each and every KWT will be an actual bonafide thing of some kind. Not only that, but they’ll all be non-fungusible, meaning there’s absolutely NO WAY fungus will grow on any of them!

Imagine that! You’ll be the coolest kid on the internet with your spanky new KWT while all those other kids have other things that fungus would love to slowly devour and return to the earth.

I’m going to release 25,728 of these bad boys, and charge $15 million a piece. I’m also going to post them all online here on my blog, so you can right click and save them and do whatever you want with them, because it’s not like I can stop you or anything and it’s a free world. (Fungus will grow on them, though. BEWARE!!!)

There will also be exclusive music for each one of them! ...but only if you’re in my house, listening to the MP3s I’ll be playing as I shitpost about them. Otherwise, you’re on your own and have to provide your own shitty music to accompany your experience.

AND as an added incentive for you to send me obscene amounts of money, each KWT comes with exclusive access to the KWverse. “What?” you’re thinking. “Another useless metaverse spin-off?” NO! This is a real life universe built in a small medieval dungeon filled with extremely handsome men for you to play with to your heart’s content. Like women instead? Sure, I can throw some hot women in there, too! I can do whatever I want, because it’s called the KWverse because I own the fucking place. Oh, and it’s all non-fungusy, too - because nobody wants mold in their play space. I know.

Not only THAT, but for a limited time, if you send me half a pint of blood, I’ll come and have dinner with you. Or at least eat some sort of meal at your place. Or raid your fridge when you’re not home. Look, I’m not sure what’s going to happen, or what I’m going to do with all that blood (haha, I’m lying, I’m gonna summon a few demons), but it’ll be great and you’ll love it. I mean, why would I lie to you? I wouldn’t, that’s why! Trust me! One out of one mes trust me. You should too!

Let’s see... What else, what else... Well, everything else! You like gaming? I’m gonna put gaming in the KWverse. You like super dramatic celebrity court battles? We’re gonna have, like, a thousand of them every week! You like fraudulent insurance scams? I could pull a few. Why not?

I’m also gonna have a concert. I can’t play any instruments worth shit, but that doesn’t matter, because there’s only a .00000003% chance it’ll actually happen, anyway. But it makes it sound like your $15 million is going to a lot of different things instead of just the one single unmoldy KWT you’re actually buying - so its value to me is immense.

So what are you waiting for? Come buy my KWTs!

Remember, anything can have value if enough people believe it has value. Come and believe with me. Together, we can fleece everyone else out of their hard-earned cash and blow it on gluten-free cocaine and hookers!

[dramione4e]

Red and Green

Dramione | Marriage Law AU Raiting: T

So this is my first attempt at writing a Dramione fic. Is a One Shot that you can also find here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26831194

~

Draco Malfoy was a lucky man. 

 Seven years ago, he had avoided going to Azkaban; he had been able to clean his family name by donating obscene amounts of money to several charities; he’d gotten a very decent job at the Ministry as a Senior Auror and, as if he deserved it, had a circle of close friends, many of them he could even call family. 

 But, damn, he was going to need something more than sheer luck to get out of this mess free or even alive. 

“I’m not entirely sure this is OK, Weasley,” he half whispered, half shouted while looking at both ways of the empty street with an anxious look on his face while his former enemy and now also Auror partner, worked on removing the wards of the house that belonged to none other than Hermione Granger. 

 “I told you, Malfoy,” said Ron, dragging his words. “She showed me how to enter her house in case of an emergency. Just a few more spells and we’ll be able to get in.”

 The plan that both of them had come up with just an hour ago at the Leaky Cauldron was just to go to her house and talk to her. It made sense at the time but now Draco was sobering up and suddenly it didn’t seem like a good idea so much as breaking and entering.

 “Are you sure she is home?” he insisted. “We’ve been pounding at her door for ages.”

 “Believe me, she’s a heavy sleeper.” 

 That made Draco’s insides cringe a little bit. He didn’t like thinking about how Weasley knew such intimate information. Not like he was jealous or anything, the former Slytherin was just pointing out that he himself didn’t know that.

 He heard a click and the door finally swung open. Ron ushered him inside and followed him into the sitting room. It was very early in the morning so it was still a little dark inside. The place still looked the same as he remembered from the previous time he had been invited over for drinks when the gang was celebrating something he couldn’t ever care about now. 

 His red haired partner went upstairs to look for the witch but came back without her. 

 “She’s not home.”

 Yep. Breaking and entering. Good bye, freedom.

 “I guess we'll just have to sit here and wait for her,” the former Gryffindor announced, plummeting on the couch.

 “Are you mental?” 

 But before he got an answer, the front door was opened and he heard a scream coming from behind him.

“What part of for emergencies was so difficult for you to understand, Ronald?!” Hermione was yelling at both wizards who were now sitting on the couch while she was pacing from right to left in front of them. “Do you have any idea how long it takes me to set up wards like this?!”

 None of them answered. The room was fully lighted now and there was a lingering smell of Pepperup Potion in the air.

 “I could have seriously injured you, you fools!” Hermione kept on lecturing them. Ron had his head down, looking ashamed at the floor but Draco could not look away from the sight in front of him.

 Dear Salazar, what is she wearing? 

 His mental question was rhetorical. Draco was no longer a stranger to Muggle culture, in fact he prided himself on how much he’d learned over the past few years. Hermione had been actually the main source of help as she was now the owner of a company that fussed magic with Muggle technology in a safe and convenient way and said company also provided training and seminars to educate magical beings on how to use appliances, electronics and others.

 Besides attending all of the lectures, he had also expanded his knowledge by asking Hermione for more sources on different Muggle topics and he remembered reading about sports and exercise. Still, one thing was looking at pictures of random strangers in textbooks and a very different thing was to have the Gryffindor princess model the outfit.

 She was wearing high waisted leggings that went from under her belly button to the skin above her ankles, and was it called a sports bra? Whatever it was, it left her flat belly totally exposed and Merlin! he was being hypnotized by the swing of her hips and the drops of sweet that ran down her neck to her chest and disappeared inside her small top. Even though she was mostly covered, that outfit left little to the imagination, in his opinion.

 She’d explained she had gone running very early in the morning, something that perhaps she’d happened to mention she usually did but the two brilliant Aurors, in the state they were, couldn’t have possibly remembered.

 When she finally calmed down and the Pepperup Potion kicked in, the men were able to express their apologies which she begrudgingly accepted.

 “Anyway, why are you here?” her tone was softer, but she had her arms crossed in front of her.

 “Remember when I told you I would keep you informed about the Marriage Law?” Ron asked.

 Ah.

 Malfoy had almost forgotten the reason he was there in the first place.

 Five years after the war was over, the Ministry of Magic came to the realization that the wizarding population in the country had alarmingly decreased. Furthermore, the expected “Baby Boom” didn’t pan out because of a large adoption campaign -founded principally by the only Malfoy heir- to help children who became orphans after the war get a home. 

 Two years ago, the Ministry announced that now witches and wizards of marriageable age had a year and a half to find a suitor or suitress to marry, otherwise the Ministry would assign one based on the results of an old ritual that conjured ‘core matching magic’ and ‘soulmate bonding’ in addition to several compatibility tests that they were all ask to fill -some even under Veritaserum.

 “Why? Did you find out who I was paired with?” She took a seat on the armchair in front of them. “Is it someone bad?”

 “Yes, it’s bad, ‘Mione,” her best friend answered quickly.

 Fucking Weasley. Aren’t we supposed to be friends now?

 Draco had indeed developed a strong friendship with Ron Weasley and subsequently with Harry Potter and Hermione Granger -they were a package deal apparently-. Although the last two he didn’t see that often, with Granger he regularly engaged in pleasant conversations about the recent creations of her company, his most interesting cases as an Auror; also literature, music and films (Muggle and otherwise); their interests and, well, many things. 

 She was a very interesting woman and, in the recent past, he had admitted to himself that they had a lot in common and it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if someday they went out to dinner together, just the two of them, as in a date. Still, he had never thought that they would be a perfect match, according to the experts at the Ministry. The highest one on the list by far. 

 After the initial shock had worn out, he’d felt elated. His co-workers had even patted him on the back as if this was his highest accomplishment. Hermione Granger, The Brightest Witch of Her Age, was his match. His soulmate. He was floating.

 When the high that this information gave him ended, he started questioning if he really deserved it. In his mind, they were perfect for each other. After all opposites attract, right? 

 She was a Gryffindor; he was a Slytherin.

 She was Muggle-born; he was a Pureblood.

 She was a member of The Order of the Phoenix; he was a Death Eater.

 Ugh.

 She was smart, beautiful, kind, honest, generous, brave; he was… 

 Guilt had been eating him all day. Maybe they were not a good match after all. Red and green didn’t go well together, right?

 That’s how he ended drinking with Ron.

 “Well? Who is it?” her apathy had now changed into wariness. 

 “I can’t tell you. All ministry workers signed up a non-disclosure agreement and until the owls are sent to the respective witches and wizards, we can’t say, write, point, mimic, spell-”

 “For fuck’s sake, Ron!” she interrupted and stood up again, her arms akimbo her hips. “Why the hell did you bother coming here if you can’t even tell me?!”

 At this, Weasley smirked, “Luckily for you, ‘Mione, we found a loophole,” he said smugly and pointed to himself and Draco even when it had been the blond Slytherin’s idea at the pub. “If you guess the name of this person, I could nod or shake my head without breaking the contract.”

 That seemed to somewhat relax her.

 “OK, so, I’m guessing is someone we know, must be single, and the age…” she muttered more to herself biting her lip. “And you said it’s bad? Does he work at the ministry?” She looked at the red head for confirmation and he nodded at both questions.

 “Oh, no.”

 Here we come.

 “Is it McLaggen?”

 Weasley shook his head.

 “Is it Smith from finance?” 

 Another head shake.

 “Parry?”

 No.

 “Hodgson?”

 No.

 “Mullins?”

 No.

 “The one that works in the same office as your father?”

 Every name was followed by a head shake and Draco was elated to know he didn’t even make the list.

 “Oh, no,” her eyes opened wide and now Draco was sure he was about to hear his own name. “Is it you?” but she was still looking at Weasley. 

 “Oi!” Weasley countered. “You’d be lucky if that were the case!”

 At this Hermione rolled her eyes and left an exasperated scoff, “I don’t have time for this, I’m gonna be late for work.”

 She dismiss them and disappeared upstairs.

 Malfoy couldn’t fight the smile that crept up his lips.

Draco was waiting outside of Granger, Inc. in Diagon Alley. After he and Ron left her house, he went home and immediately owled the witch to ask if she would be available for lunch. When he got her reply accepting his invitation, he went to bed for a few hours, after all, he’d needed to regain his beauty sleep.

 His head hurt a little and he was sure it wasn’t a hangover. Thoughts about how to best approach the subject swirled in his mind and thoughts about her reaction after she found out tormented him. However, he had come prepared to hear the worst and the best.

 “I’m ready.” The witch had stepped out of her office, bringing him out of his stupor. He noticed she was no longer wearing sportswear. Instead she fashioned a velvet looking set of robes that went from a very dark purple at the bottom to a faded, light lilac at the top. Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail.

 Apparently leggings were not necessary for him to go into a trance. When the person was Hermione Granger it didn’t matter what she was wearing. That morning she had looked sexy and provocative and now she, only a few hours later, was the picture of elegance and professionalism and he liked both looks the most.

 When he came back to his senses he cleared his throat, “Shall we?” he asked and they walked together towards a close restaurant where they had met in the past with some of their friends.

 After ordering their drinks and meals, the gray eyed man thought he should just rip off the band aid.

 “I wanted to apologize,” he began. “For the incident this morning. Weasley and I shouldn’t have gotten that drunk and acted so stupidly.”

 “Don’t worry about it,” she shrugged. “I was mostly mad at Ron for messing with my wards, I can tell the whole thing was his idea.” At this, the waiter came back with their drinks and put them on the table.

 “So, did you want to talk to me about something or is this just an ‘apology lunch’?” she inquired with a playful tone and then took a sip of her beverage, never taking her eyes off him.

 He was about to answer when he noticed the intentional look she was giving him and her raised eyebrow.

 “You know?” he ventured.

 “I’m not sure if I know,” she corrected. “I thought you just happened to be with Ron when he concocted his stupid plan this morning,” she mused. “But then after I got your owl, I thought that maybe it was you he was referring to.”

 He nodded to answer her implied question and automatically felt the binding lifting from him. Now that she knew, he was free to talk.

 “Why were you in such an urgent state to let me know?” she inquired. 

 “Weasley said you weren’t going to be happy with the news and he thought it was best to warn you as soon as possible,” he explained. “He said you would come up with a way to avoid the match and get a different guy.”

 “I probably could,” she offered and he knew she was so popular and well-connected in the Ministry that even if she couldn’t get herself out of the whole program, it would take no more than an owl asking them to change her match for them to go ahead and do it. “Is that what you want?”

 No. 

 Was this the best case scenario? Of course not. He would have liked to ask her out on proper dates, build up a relationship and eventually take things to a more serious level. He could easily see them becoming more than just boyfriend and girlfriend. So far, he already liked everything about her. He had dived inside her mind several times to know that.

 Not to mention that she got more beautiful by the day, and no, the glimpse of what her body looked like under the robes had nothing to do with it.

 OK, maybe a little. It was a perk.

 Anyways, the witch was waiting for a response. Should he just take the plunge or listen to the Ron Weasley inside his head, telling him he was a bad choice for her?

 “I know it is not ideal,” he answered. “I mean, to start a relationship with what is basically a forced marriage in which we are expected to wait only a year before we start having children. Not even pureblood arrangements work that way.

 “It is not fair for either of us,” at that moment the waiter interrupted him by bringing their plates. 

 Granger had kept quiet so far and just fixed him with a look that conveyed nothing. He’d learned that when she wanted, her face became unreadable, but he was not to be discouraged.

 He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

 “I would hate to not be the one who marries you,” he dared to say and was pleased to see her cheeks become red. “If we were to do this my way, believe me that I would have courted you the right way. I swear I thought about asking you out many times in the last couple of years and now I feel like a complete idiot for not working up the courage to do it.

 “If you do me the honor of letting me be your husband,” he offered. “I vow to never take you for granted. We will take things slow. As slow as you want. I don’t want this marriage law to get in the way of dating you properly.

 “And you have my word that, if at any point you want out, you’ll be free to do it. I wouldn’t stop you,” he promised.

 She blinked a few times before she reached her hand across the table and put it on top of his.

 “I’d like that,” she answered, her honeyed eyes full of sincerity. “To date you, that is. I’ve also entertained the thought of asking you out a few times,” she admitted blushing even redder. “If in order to date we have to get married, then so be it.”

 He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and couldn’t stop the grin on his face. He turned his hand upwards to intertwine their fingers together and then brought her hand to his mouth at the same time he leaned in to plant a kiss on her knuckles. The electrifying feeling of her soft hand was going to be carved in his memory forever.

 “Thank you, Granger,” he murmured. 

 After they finished their lunches he was now walking her back to her office while holding hands. They were met with multiple stares and gasps along Diagon Alley but he didn’t mind one bit and she even made it seem as if she was oblivious to that.

 “So we’re dating now,” she stated, looking up to meet his eyes. 

 “Yes.” He found that just thinking about it made his face feel warm, but not intending to hide it, he looked back at her with what he hoped was a sincere smile. 

 They entered the building that was her business and Draco could see several heads turning to look at them.

 “Can we talk for a minute in your office?” he asked her and she agreed.

 Once the door was closed and locked he got close to her and took both her hands in his.

 “I know it seems like we are not given much of a choice about this, but,” he said feeling his hands getting sweaty with nerves. “In the off chance that you don’t realize along the way, that you are way out of my league and decide to leave me, I want to ask you the right way so we’ll be able to remember this moment forever.”

 Draco pulled out a small box from inside his robes and opened it in front of her. He heard her curse a ‘holy shit’ under her breath at the sight of the red and green tear-shaped tourmaline ring. Turns out that red and green did go well together. 

 He locked his eyes with hers and she gave him a small nervous smile, “Everything I know about you I already like and it would make me the happiest wizard if you let me learn more. I want to discuss not only academia and the news but also learn about your dreams and fears; I yearn to know how you take your tea in the morning and if you have a preferred side of the bed at night. I long for the happy moments, the new adventures, the memories we will create together and even the fights and arguments. I promise I will try my best to make you happy for as long as you have me.” He got down on one knee. 

 “Hermione Jean Granger,” he intoned. “Will you marry me?”

 The witch’s face was soaked with tears but her smile had gotten wider the more she listened to him.

 “Yes,” she croaked, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She extended her hand in front of her. 

 The wizard happily took it and slipped the ring onto her finger. He then stood up and felt Granger’s soft fingers over his own cheeks. 

 He hadn’t realized he had been crying too.

 “So, we’re really dating now,” she echoed her words from before, moving closer to him and resting her hands on his shoulders.

 “Yes,” he smiled and closed the gap between them, his fingers going up and down her back. “But we’re also engaged.”

 “We’re moving so fast,” she whispered a fake protest, her face only inches from his. 

 He hummed in agreement, his eyes were close now. 

 “And yet,” their noses touched, her voice barely audible. “We haven’t even kissed. That’s not fair, is it?”

 He couldn’t resist anymore. He pulled her closer -if that was even possible- and pressed his lips against hers. She was ready for him and quickly returned the kiss.

 Her lips were the softest and her taste was oh so sweet. 

 What started as slow and tender quickly became heated and passionate. It was new and exciting and yet so familiar. Their lips and tongues moved in a dance as old as time and when they finally stopped for air he opened his eyes to find her staring at him with a warm smile and even warmer eyes.

 She never looked so beautiful.

 Draco Malfoy was indeed a lucky man.

[themanicmagician]

Shipwrecked [3/4]

[AO3]

Summary: When Redd’s boat crashes upon the shore of Bastion Island, Tom reluctantly takes him in while he recovers. Tom despises Redd for his past deceit, but when he has no choice but to spend time with him, Tom is reminded why he fell in love with the wily fox in the first place.

“What is this supposed to be?”

Tom eyed the frilly cocktail Redd had pushed into his hand. It was a swirl of blue and seafoam green, complete with a tiny toothpick umbrella spearing a pineapple wedge.

“Vacation Juice.”

“But we’re not on a—”

“It’s just a name. You’ll like it, trust me.”

Tom took a small sip. It tasted like pears. Very, very sugary pears. He couldn’t even taste the alcohol. As he took a second, larger sip, Redd said: “Told you you’d like it.”

Tom rolled his eyes, not gracing Redd with a response. He swallowed another mouthful of the “juice” as he glanced around the bar. It wasn’t one of their typical haunts. Drinking out in the city was always expensive, so they tended towards establishments with long, generous happy hours, and cheap brews to go along with. The bar they were in now—Tom had already forgotten the name—was a touch fancier. The drinks were all cocktails with themed names. The drinks were served in small portions, and the prices were obscene, but they were celebrating, after all. They could splurge, just a little, just tonight.

The bar was miraculously uncrowded. Tom and Redd had even managed to secure a corner table all for themselves. The lighting was dim, intimate. They were surrounded mostly by other couples, each pair focused on each other rather than a game on TV.

This was Tom’s third drink in under an hour, and he was getting to that pleasant, loose phase of drunkenness. He watched Redd swallow, observed the slow bob of his throat as he drank. He was struck by a bolt of desire. He wanted to trace the movement with his tongue. Tom shifted on his stool.

Redd’s cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket. His cool demeanor slipped, his eyes widened in alarm.

“It’s the landlord for the building!” He told Tom before he hurriedly took the call. “Hi! Phil, how’s it going? No, no it’s not a bad time at all.”

Redd hunched down, pressing the phone close to his ear to listen over the booming music.

“...Really? Oh—Oh no, that’s not a problem at all.”

Redd’s expression twisted briefly in distress. Tom’s stomach lurched with sudden, strong anxiety. What was the landlord saying? It was maddening, only being able to hear half of the conversation. He leaned closer, but could barely hear the tinny voice coming from Redd’s phone.

“Of course. I’ll get it to you tonight. Yes. You too. Ciao.”

Redd hung up, and sighed. When he didn’t immediately launch into an explanation, Tom blurted: “Well?”

Redd combed a paw through the fur on his head with agitation. It made his sleek fur stick up at odd angles, but Redd didn’t seem to notice, or care.

“The landlord, he got another offer on the store. Says if we still want it we’ll have to pay the first six months—up front.”

Tom swallowed, throat suddenly dry. He downed the rest of his Vacation Juice.

“I have some money put away, but not nearly enough for all that time.” Redd frowned. “But if I don’t get it to him tonight, we lose the place.”

“Well, how much is six months’ rent?”

“Everything included—all the fees, insurance, utilities and everything—it’ll be 200,000 bells. And I already went and spent most of my money getting us the stock. I can’t get a refund now.” He laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. “We’ll have all this furniture and nowhere to put it.”  

“How much do you need?”

“Tom, I couldn’t—”

“Redd. We’re partners, right? How much do you need?”

The fox shifted on his stool.

“...It’s too much to ask of you.” Redd mumbled, eventually.

“Redd.”

“Fine, fine. I only have about 15k bells left in my account right now.”

Tom brought out his own phone. It took a few clumsy tries for him to unlock it. He had just enough in his account to cover the remainder, built up from the months of pitching and selling ideas to businesses. This would drain nearly all of Tom’s savings, but it was an investment. It was worth it. Besides, they’d make it up and then some when their store opened.

“I can transfer it over right now.” Tom smiled. “Though I’m afraid we’ll have to switch to ramen and tap water for a while.”

“I could kiss you.” Redd said.

“What’s stopping you?”

After a sloppy kiss that tasted of pears and apples, Tom drained his account for the deposit. Redd called Phil back to confirm the transfer was a success. Once the landlord confirmed, Redd pulled Tom from the bar, hand in hand. They couldn’t really afford to buy more fancy cocktails, but there was a full bottle of sake at home, calling their name.

~*~

Tom awoke with a thunderous headache. He groaned, pinching two fingers to the ridge of his nose. He warily opened his eyes a few centimeters, then slammed them shut again. Nausea churned in his gut. He took a moment to just lay there, and prayed for his insides to stop revolting. How much had they had to drink last night? It was a blur. Tom had been feeling buzzed already from the cocktails and then the sake had gone and punched straight holes through his memory. He remembered snatches of moments, of sensations. Raking his paws through Redd’s fur, feeling the corded muscles beneath as they shifted. The sweet taste of Redd’s mouth on his, the triumph of finally marking up that exposed throat. The way that Redd, always so perfect and composed, became a stuttering, breathy mess as they made love. Then, a whole lot of nothing.

“Redd?” Tom moaned feebly. The fox handled his liquor a thousand times better than he did. He could entreat his partner to get up and fetch him some water. He flailed out blindly, reaching, but his hand encountered no fox.

Tom opened his eyes again, with heavy reluctance. He was alone in the bed. He swept his paw over the sheets. They were cool.

Tom spilled clumsily over the side of the bed to reach his pants, which were in a crumpled heap on the bedroom floor. He rooted around in his pockets until he found his phone. The time blared at him, like a condemnation: 10:05 a.m. For someone that normally got up for the day at 6, it was sacrilege.

Standing upright was a mistake. Dizziness and nausea slammed into him immediately. He barely made it to the bathroom before he was puking. He hadn’t really had much to eat yesterday, so all that came up was stringy bile. He flushed the mess down and rested his head for a minute against the cool bathroom cabinet.

He was surprised Redd hadn’t come to investigate, considering the amount of noise Tom was making.

“Redd?” He croaked.

There was no reply.

Tom sat for a moment more, until he was certain he wouldn’t neat the toilet again. He levered himself upright, bracing himself on the sink.

He shuffled out of the bathroom, and went into the area comprised of their kitchenette and living room. Redd was still nowhere to be found. And there was something...off. It took him a moment, and then he realized: Redd’s stuff was missing. His artwork that’d been scattered around, his books, they were gone. Tom checked their bedroom. Tom’s things were neatly folded in the drawers, but there was an empty gap where Redd’s clothes had once been.

Had something happened to Redd? Heart pounding with confusion and fear, he dialed Redd’s number. The call went straight to voicemail. He called again; same result.

After the beep, he left a message, his voice audibly shaky. “H-Hey, it’s Tom. Call me when you get this, alright? Let me know you’re okay.”

Tom returned to the living room, and paced anxiously until his attention was caught by a white envelope. It was resting on the floor, by the front door. Someone must have slipped it underneath.

The envelope was addressed to Redd, but Tom broke the seal anyway, hoping whatever was inside would provide answers.

Inside was a final eviction notice.

According to it, Redd was three months past due on rent, and had until the end of the week to move out his stuff before it was thrown out by management.

Tom was breathing fast, now. It felt like the walls were closing in on him. This didn’t make  sense. Redd had afforded this apartment for years before Tom had moved in. And as soon as Tom began making money he contributed half of the rent. He gave the bells over to Redd and assumed he’d take care of it. Redd had money before they’d poured most of their shared earnings into their store, so why—?

The eviction notice was starting to crumple in his shaking grip. He set it aside on the kitchen island.

He needed to find Redd. He needed to talk to him. There was probably some simple explanation for all of this that Tom just couldn’t see right now. Redd would explain, would tease him for getting all worked up about nothing. Or, or maybe this had been premeditated. Maybe he’d taken Tom’s money for months and then—

Tom yanked on his pants, and a shirt, and dashed out of the apartment. Redd wasn’t home, but there was one other place he might be at this hour.

Tom ran to their store. Animals gave him odd looks as he passed them, but he paid them no attention. He wasn’t built for running, especially not over long distances. He was soon panting and wheezing, sweat slicking his shirt to his back, but he didn’t slow. The walking sign switched to a red hand but Tom kept running, ignoring the resultant yells and curses spat at him from nearby cars as they were forced to swerve around him.

He reached the store at last—and his heart dropped to his stomach. The entire area was roped off. There were large heavy construction machines, including a crane with a wrecking ball at the end of it.

Tom ducked under the tape and tried to run inside, but was grabbed by one of the construction workers.

“Hey, hey!” The bulldog barked. “You crazy? You can’t go in there, they’re about to bust it down.”

“That’s my store!” Tom yelled. “What are you doing, that’s my property!”

“This place has been foreclosed on for over a year now.” The worker replied, bewildered. “It’s been slated for demolition. Gonna squeeze another high-rise in there.”

“But—But—”

The key in his pocket was freshly cut. If the place had been abandoned, it would’ve been relatively simple for Redd to install a new lock on the place. To add a layer of credibility to the entire request, to allow Tom to hope.

Tom was no longer resisting, so the bulldog released his grip on Tom’s shirt.

“You should step back, kid. It’s going to get real dusty here in a minute.”

He threw one last perplexed look at Tom before he rejoined his crew members.

Tom retreated behind the tape, and watched as the wrecking ball swung out, and smashed the front of the building inwards. His eyes watered, then, but not from the resultant dust.

~*~

He didn’t return to the apartment. He didn’t want anything they’d shared, or that would remind him of Redd.

He walked to the train station in a daze, only pausing to chuck his apartment and store keys in the trash.

Tom didn’t have much remaining in his account, but Redd had at least left him enough to purchase a one-way ticket back to his hometown. The train was the same make and model as the one that’d brought him here, six months ago.

Tom sat at a free window seat, and rested his cheek against the window. The glass was a bit smudged and sticky, likely from a child’s hands, but Tom left his head where it was.

The train came alive with a jolt. Soon the skyscrapers gave way to houses. Gradually, the houses became further and further spaced out, and the forest grew denser. He drank in the sight of green foliage greedily, like a man given water after days in the desert. He hadn’t realized, until now, how much he hated the gray of steel, the tan of concrete, the black of asphalt.  

The train stopped intermittently. Tom did not pay attention to the conductor’s voice over the loudspeaker, as his was the very last stop on the line.

“Hey, do you mind if I sit next to you?”

It took half a moment for Tom to recognize that he was being spoken to. He pulled his gaze sluggishly away from the window. A blue and white cat stood there, smiling down at him, seemingly unperturbed by Tom’s dour mood. Tom shrugged, not really caring what the cat did. He slid into the seat beside Tom.

“I’m Rover.” He beamed. Tom wanted to grab him by the shoulders, shake him, scream that it wasn’t fair, how dare he smile like that when Tom had been through hell.

“...Tom.” He admitted, eventually, in the expectant silence.

“Pleasure. So, where you headed?”

“Home.”

He understood it now. He wasn’t meant for city life, for a place that cradled you when you could provide it value, then dropped you into the dirt after.

“Took a day trip to the city, eh?”

Tom grunted.

“What a place! Fun to visit now and again, but I’d never live there, personally.”

“Me neither.” Tom agreed.

Rover filled the trip with largely one-sided chatter until he hopped off, three stops before Tom’s.

“Safe travels, friend! I’m sure we’ll meet again someday.”

Tom mustered up a wave for him.

The train pulled into its final station a little after noon. Hardly anyone was left on the train. As Tom left the station, he passed a few elderly couples, some younger animals psyching themselves up for a nature hike.

There weren’t cabs this far out, so Tom walked. It reminded him somewhat of his first day in the city, fraught as it was with exhaustion and confusion as he plodded down street after street. At least this time he walked with certainty. Starved of entertainment as a child, he’d explore the entire town enough times he could navigate it blind.

He wasn’t surprised to discover nothing had changed here. He hadn’t been gone that long, all told, and change came at a glacial pace in his hometown. There were the same trees, unchanging storefronts. Though he supposed there was perhaps a bit more peeling paint on the general store sign than the last time he’d seen it. The store had been owned by Gran Bluebell since before Tom was a kit. It was no great shock she didn’t bother with touching up the hard to reach sign at her age.

People recognized him. Welcomed him. Assumed he was just here for a visit. Tom smiled at them, and exchanged pleasantries but no meaningful information on his side. Humiliation burned his face like a hot brand. He could hardly admit to himself that he’d failed, let alone to them. They’d sympathize, express their condolences—but past their commiserating veneer would be a sick kind of satisfaction. I knew you’d never make it out there. You thought you were better than us? Smarter? We’re all stuck here in this town for a reason.  

Had the city soured his optimistic, rosy view of others? Perhaps it had. Could he truly be blamed, though? With pessimism, you expected the worst out of others. You could never be disappointed, only pleasantly surprised.

At length, Tom reached his destination. It was a house on the end of the row. One story, cream-colored. The doorbell had stopped working years ago, so Tom rapped on the door. He heard the shuffle of feet over wood, and then the door creaked open.

Sable’s eyes widened. She shut the door again to unhook the chain lock, and then threw it wide open. Tom could see a slice of the kitchen from his current vantage point. Mabel was strapped into her highchair, gleefully smashing peas into paste on the tray in front of her, babbling nonsense. Label was peering at him with large, dark eyes, half-hidden behind the frayed couch.

“Tom, what are you doing here?” Sable swept a critical eye over him, noting his lack of luggage.

Tom saw telltale signs of strain in his friend’s features. The circles beneath her eyes, the unkemptness of her quills, the stains, fresh and old on her apron. He shouldn’t bother her with his problems. But he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“Tom?”

She cupped his chin, lifted his head up so he met her gaze.

“What happened?”

Tom broke. He surged forward, wrapping Sable in a tight embrace. Sable hesitated only the briefest moment before she encircled her arms around him, stroking his back soothingly.

“Sable,” He choked out.

“It’s okay now.” Her tone was soothing and soft. “Let it out.”

He buried his head in her shoulder, and wept.

~*~

Tom was rooted in place. Redd was gone, again. Without a trace, without a word.

He was being stupid. He was overreacting. Where could Redd go, really? The island wasn’t that large.

He knew this, logically, and yet his heart was pounding like a drum, his paws, clammy. He couldn’t help the irrational fear that history was repeating itself.

He managed to break through the panic which had seized him to return downstairs. He entered the Cranny. Timmy and Tommy swiveled away from their conversation with Fang.

“Have you seen Redd?” Tom blurted.

The twins shook their heads in unison, but the old wolf scrunched up his forehead in thought.

“The little red fella?” Fang rumbled. Tom nodded. “Think I saw him on my way in. Headed northwards, cha-chomp.”

“Should we look too?”

“...too?”

“No, boys. Mind the shop. I’ll find him.”

Tom waited until he was out of sight of anyone inside the store before he broke into a jog. He crossed over the bridge that connected the main swatch of Bastion to the smaller crescent of land to the north. Alex had left most of this land to the wilds. There was a grove of multicolored hyacinths, encircled by pear trees. Bastion’s lighthouse was posted on the edge of the water. There was no other sign of civilization out here—save for Flurry’s house.

Tom hurried up to the house, and was about to knock when the door swung open. Redd was exiting, a new book tucked under his arm. Flurry was behind him, wringing her tiny paws.

“You’re sure I can’t carry it for you?” She fretted.

“The book weighs more than you do. I can handle it, no problem.”

Redd was facing Flurry; he hadn’t seen Tom yet. He was speaking in that tone of voice, the same one he’d had with the boys, before Tom interrupted. Something soft, kind.

Then Redd turned to see Tom, and the gentle look on his face vanished, replaced by something charming and fake.

“Come to escort me home? How gentlemanly of you, Mr. Nook.” Redd batted his eyelashes obnoxiously. Flurry giggled.

Tom gave a short nod to the hamster before she shut the door. Tom waited until they were in the hyacinth field, far enough away from Flurry’s house, to speak.

“You can’t just—just leave without telling me.”

Redd snorted. “I’m not one of your adopted kiddos.” A thought seemed to occur to him, and with some annoyance, he added, “What, you can’t trust me to be on my own, is that it? Think I’m always up to no good?”

“You’re hurt and you don’t know the island. You can’t just go off on your own.”

“Please, Tom. Don’t bother with all this. You don’t care about me, you’ve made that perfectly clear.”

“That’s not what I—you’re so—!” Tom clamped his mouth shut. He took a deep breath, which didn’t do as much to calm him as he would have liked. “I’m sorry. I overreacted. You were just gone, and I panicked.”

Tom was surprised as that seemed to set Redd off. “Oh, panicked, did you? How do you think I felt when you left New Leaf, without telling me? I had to hear it from Chadder—Chadder, of all people!—that you’ve just run off to some deserted island, on your own. There are tarantulas out here, Tom. Tarantulas!”

“And scorpions,” Tom added, helpfully. Redd glowered at him. “I was expanding my business into travel. Not that you’d know anything about innovation.”

“You learned all you know from me!”

“Hardly!” Tom scoffed. “I taught myself everything after you stole from me. My first shop was made out of scrap metal and wood from the dump, and look at me now. Whereas you, Redd,” He jabbed the fox in the chest. “You just jump from one scam to the next, and don’t care who you hurt in the process.”

Redd flinched back. “I’m not. I’m not like that anymore. I—look. I might have. Lied. Before.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.” Tom said, waspishly.

“Guess I deserve that one.” Redd shifted his weight uneasily. “I’m talking about the art. It is real, like I said. Spent almost every bell I got to acquire it all. But I wasn’t planning to scam anyone with it. I wasn’t going to go island to island to sell people replicas. I just wanted to come here. Where you are.”

Tom’s ire drained, supplanted by confusion. He said nothing, and Redd took that as permission to continue.

“I was going to swing by once a week. Give a new piece of art to that human kid every time, because I know Blabbers—”

“Blathers.”

“—would want them all displayed in his museum. And over time, you’d get used to seeing me around. And there’d be no stories about fakes for you to hear. And maybe you’d…” Redd sighed. He looked up at Tom with an earnestness the raccoon had never seen from him before. “I scammed a lot of guys before you. A lot of them were like you—new to the city, hopelessly clueless, grateful for any scrap of guidance. But you were different. I...I do regret what happened between us. What I did to you. It still haunts me.”

“So why did you?” Tom asked, softly. “You know that I loved you.”

Redd’s face twisted in anguish. “I did know. I hate myself every day for ruining what we had. And the worst part is I can’t tell you why I did it. A part of me, a big part of me, didn’t want to. But it was what I’d always done. I didn’t grow up in a nice place, or in a nice home. I learned how to con, how to lie and cheat and survive. I learned how to take care of myself, because no one else was going to. And then you came along, and you didn’t want to use me, and you were clever, and wanted us to be partners, equals. You thought I could be that for you, that I could be up at as high a level as you are, and, and it scared me. It made me think that maybe I didn’t have to be that way anymore. I didn’t have to trick anyone ever again. But when it came down to it, I couldn’t change. I couldn’t make the leap. I fell into old habits, because they were secure, because I knew I could rely on the results. I knew I’d hurt you, but I did it anyway. Because I didn’t trust you, and I didn’t trust myself.”

Tom felt as if his heart was breaking again, but in a different way. Redd’s confession was a raw, sad thing.

“I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I know I don’t deserve it. But I’m a selfish bastard, and I...I still want you in my life. In whatever way you’ll have me.”

There was a long silence between them. The hyacinths swayed gently around them in the cool sea breeze.

Redd had hurt Tom deeply. On one level, Tom did forgive him. Redd had suffered the consequences of his actions. He’d gained money, but he’d lost Tom’s affections, lost the chance for an honest living. On another level, Tom could not open his heart fully to the fox again. Redd claimed that he had changed, and he certainly seemed repentant. But they would remain only acquaintances, perhaps friends, at the most. He simply could not trust Redd to the extent he had in the past, and he doubted he ever would.

“What book did Flurry give you?”

“What? Oh.” Redd blinked. He checked the title. “Bark Antony and Kleopawtra.”

“Perhaps you could read it aloud to the kids, tonight. They’d like that.”

A tentative smile spread slowly across Redd’s face.

He accepted the olive branch.

“Fine, but you’re voicing Bark Antony.”

The pair of them returned to the Cranny, walking shoulder to shoulder.

[thewreckkelly]

The Death of a Starr

‘Schadenfreude’ is a word from German used to express a feeling of pleasure, joy and/or self satisfaction when learning of, or witnessing; troubles, failures and/or the humiliation of another.

We largely see open expressions of schadenfreude in the innocent reactions of children - because adults, like me, have learned to disguise and conceal such a juvenile emotion for fear of being considered small minded.

But the truth is we all like a bit of the auld schadenfreude now and then and have, collectively, encouraged ‘acceptable’ surrogates for our doses of it in the form of the tabloid press, magazine TV shows and particularly the multiple unfettered forms of ‘social’ media.

By the time I had entered my fourth decade - on this particular green planet - the idea of celebrity no longer held any real sense of awe (my professional career and living in London brought contact on numerous occasions with famous people from a myriad of arenas). The old adage of; ‘never meet your heroes’ rang true with disappointment often enough for such interactions and subsequent impressions to be ultimately developed and ornamented to provide anecdotal coffee conversation and not much else.  

Upon relocating to Spain’s sunny Costa one of the immediate and important considerations was to locate the closest establishment to where I laid my hat that served an acceptable glass of Java and had a terrace to allow the complimenting of coffee with a cigarette or twenty. Said cafe turned out to be an adjunct to a garden centre and, as it turned out, the breakfasting destination of preference for fallen comedian Freddie Starr.

He was the first to make contact using a slight on the Irishness of my accent to announce his need to communicate. I countered with a reference to the charity of a world that allowed ‘Scousers’ unsupervised day release. We both laughed and so began a weird relationship.

Over several years we saw a lot of each other in the role of talking heads punctuated with the ostensible good humoured barb that allowed for an intrigue borne out of a need to express and ingest. At one stage he asked me to write a new biography of him for him but baulked when I insisted on editorial control – the suggestion did however yield a crop of questions and answers before reaching its Waterloo.

I had met Freddie before Spain. He didn’t remember but when mentioned he was overly enthusiastic for further details.

It was at a cabaret club I used to own in Manchester called; ‘Talk of the North’. Freddie showed up unexpectedly one night and did an impromptu performance between booked acts. It was entirely improvised, professional, innovative and, most importantly, funny – very funny. When the limelight dimmed to reveal the man, he was crude, rude, diabolically arrogant and bordering on the obnoxious.

I gave him a version he wanted to hear and he pretended to remember. From a purely artistic point of view I also prefer to remember such a version. The rest, with the benefit of mature recollection, is just ignorance. Freddie Starr was a talented and innovative comedian who, as such, deserves a place in the pantheon of the muses.

However it would be wrong not to also remember he was a poorly behaved human being with an incurable penchant to commit the sin of allowing the terrible bedfellows of arrogance and ignorance to prevail over any honest self awareness.

He was bright and fast with it. He was old fashioned in the most awful misogynist, racist and homophobic way. He was scared stiff of anonymity. He was, by all accounts and his own admission, a poor father and hopeless husband. He was selfish and narcissistic beyond any unacceptable norm. He had strong relationships with suspect and diabolical individuals that had the effect of rendering him suspect in wholly repellent behaviour.

I never allowed his off the cuff dismissal of other human beings and their preference to go unchecked and this formed the basis for many difficult moments as we loitered over coffee and cigarettes under a Spanish sun. He was generally unapologetic, excusing his abuse and denigration with the well worn tired comedic get-out clause; ‘everyone and everything was fair game’.

Despite all that his company was mine to choose and I chose to be in it more often than not.

Then Freddie died and the ‘obit’ writers of a savage British press had a field day.

The tainting of the man by the red tops - through ‘sensationally’ regurgitating mostly semi-substantiated revelations regarding his behaviour and social circle - came as no surprise and, to some extent, was merited. While such lurid reporting of a flawed old man’s death should be resigned to wrap fish and provide a soundtrack of white noise, it got me a little disturbed and led to self-examination of my own thoughts and a considered reflection on this man I casually knew.

It certainly wasn’t the ill researched content of the bullet point writing that got to me or because I had any real empathy for the man. Nor was it because I felt any sense of unfairness as to what was printed; ‘you live and prosper by the sword of creative pens - you live with the consequences when the insidious ballpoint turns’. No, I don’t believe it was any of that.

Maybe it was the latent sense of schadenfreude displayed by the many through the inglorious recounting of half truths to meet a demand that went beyond the curious- or maybe it was because I knew the man – or maybe I simply have no time for the scurrilous as a lazy generator of florescent interest.

It would be fair to say that over our years of coffee and argument I began to understand, to a degree, the nature of such a specimen of humanity. Yes he was tortured – we all are in one way or another - but Freddie’s demons were certainly not great enough to warrant any justification for his approach to civilised co-existence.

Yes he was ill-educated and mistook his quick capture of the immediate for something of substance. Yes he sought and found a place in the spotlight and yes he believed that made him special and therefore, in his mind, subject to different standards. Yes this old overweight man was found dead on the floor of a small townhouse on the Costa del Sol, by his infrequent cleaner, alone and a lot of miles from such beliefs and position.

At the end of his lifelong performance Freddie Star was inescapably human and without an audience.

All changed, changed utterly, and in a moment gone; the applause - the laughter - the hangers-on who perpetuated his surreal elevation - the Machiavellian managers and agents who sought self-benefit in making him and cynically strove to benefit further from breaking him - the constant need to manufacture copy though rehearsed outrageous carry-on - the obscene amounts of money for such limited return - the allure of transient glamour - the finality of realisable aspirations - the dawning reality of the limited extent of talent – the shock of mortality.

All of this and probably more contributed to him wrongly believing he wasn’t normal and therefore not subject to the rules of society imposed on the rest of us.

I’m not an apologist for Freddie Starr but I’m also not blind to the realities of his very human inability to say no. He was what he was and, to be honest, he wasn’t much outside his talent. Irrespective of what he was and what he may or may not have done, it’s all quite sad really and certainly not worthy of schadenfreude.

[farawaybelize]

What am I thinking?! An Introspection on COVID-19

Most days we wake up, eat, get dressed, work/play/delve in the day, eat, undress, sleep (though not necessarily in that particular order) - repeat. But on a sunny day in March all that changed when the World Health Organization (WHO) announced that COVID-19 was now a pandemic. A pandemic, what does that mean? Simply put, it’s a disease that has become wide-spread with no control in sight. I personally feel that pandemic is not a word to be taken lightly so I became one of the persons that will go down in history as being proactive.

Right around the second week of March, after it was declared a pandemic, being the natural over-thinker that I am, I set out to stock up on groceries. I grabbed the normal necessities like medications, masks, cleaning/disinfecting products, flour, rice, canned goods, and God forbid I forget to pick up an obscene amount of snacks - because who can survive an epidemic without snacks?

If your family is like mine, food is at the heart of every day. Sunday dinners are literally events in our family and everyday is a day to celebrate. Feeling lazy makes you hungry, working until late makes you hungry, feeling worried makes you hungry - heck...waking up makes you hungry! After all the shopping (and eating) came the COVID-19 memes and games from those claiming to be bored as a result of “having nothing to do”. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for entertainment and I’m the first one to find a joke in an otherwise cold and feverish situation. But I believe there comes a time when we need to step back and take a look at the bigger picture. In a country where even on a good day there’s a shortage of bottled water at the largest water supplier and the fact that we depend greatly on imports for daily life to flow smoothly, it became a time of gripping concern. 

As someone coping with years of anxiety and depression, I overthink EVERYTHING! My mind works constantly every second of every day, so naturally it went into overdrive when the pandemic was announced. Among all the touts about COVID-19 there were thoughts like: How do I keep my family safe during this time? With any pandemic comes economic suffering, how will this affect my life? For how long? How will this affect my kids and their education? Are the government and business sector partners thinking about these things? Is Belize prepared to tackle what’s ahead? What about those persons whose livelihood ceased to exist on that faithful day in March? What about the kids who no longer have school to provide that one and only meal they look forward to for the day or the shelter they’ve become accustomed to from abuse? When will people JUST STAY PUT?!?!

Suddenly, everything just came crashing down around and what was left was high blood pressure, anxiety, fear, stress, depression, worry, frustration, and the list goes on...but one thing remained constant - my focus on the Lord. Through all the uncertainty I received a message that helped to simmer my overactive mind and reminded me to focus on the one thing that never waivers - FAITH. Faith is what allows us to look at the bigger picture and see the brighter side of things. Faith and His assurance reminds us that in times of great uncertainty we need to keep our eyes on God and make even the smallest blessings become the focal point of our thoughts and our lives.

All at once emotions came rushing in and I was reminded that although Belize hasn’t been as greatly affected as other countries (we have been blessed to have only 3 confirmed cases so far with no fatalities) we still have a lot of work to do and an even greater number of things to be thankful for. Amid what seems like a world of turmoil and crisis, I am thankful for these things: more time (so much so that people are now complaining that days are too long when just yesterday they didn’t know where the time went - go figure), all the hustle and bustle of daily life has subsided, fathers spending more time with their kids, fast food being replaced with home-cooked meals, people are learning about hygiene and proper hand washing, and all of a sudden money and material things don’t seem to have the same value to people, the world is...in essence - CLEANER AND QUIETER.

Reflecting on all this you know what I’ve realized? We are in the middle of a supernatural cleansing. An act that’s beyond the level of thinking of you and I, an act of love so great that only a parent (our creator) can understand. With the dreaded epidemic our world, our lives have changed (hopefully for the better) in some small way to put us on a path that aligns with His will. He has cleared the path for a world renewed and lives with purpose and meaning. He has opened up opportunities and forced us to love and help one another after we’ve forgotten how to. We were focused for too long on gathering material things and obtaining titles, that we lost sight of the things that give our life substance and that don’t come with complex titles like love, peace, health, caring, and sharing.

So go, adhere to the nationwide state of emergency now declared, stay in your houses and remain in a state of mind that promotes faith in better things to come and remember to soak up the little things.

[shireness-says]

Maybe I Won’t Die Alone

Summary: Emma just comes in for a drink, but ends up creating the foundation for something much better. ~4.7K words.

A/N: This... isn’t new. This has actually been up on my AO3 since November, which is why it may be familiar to some of you. However, it predates my tumblr, which is why I haven’t shared it here before. BUT! I’m planning on writing a little second part to this in the next week or so, so I thought I’d repost this here so everyone is on the same page. For those of you who haven’t read it before, it’s a Modern AU with Rock Star!Emma and Bartender!Killian. If you prefer to read on AO3, it can be found here. Lyrics are absolutely not mine, and are actually from the Ingrid Michaelson song “Die Alone”. Which is great, and you should totally listen to. Without further ado, enjoy!

Consciously, Emma Swan knows she’s only known Killian Jones for the past four years, but some days, she struggles to remember what London was like, what she did with herself, before he established a presence in her life.

It’s not particularly surprising that she meets him at a bar (his bar, she comes to learn later). No matter how good or bad a show goes, Emma always finds herself exhausted by the end, yet still too hyped to sleep, which inevitably leads to drinking. Unfortunately, she discovered the night before that this particular hotel the Lost Girls had been put up in, while wonderfully accommodating and comfortable in all other respects, stocked their bar with alcohol of a deceptively bad quality (and the scrimping orphan in Emma simply can’t justify paying the obscene prices for something that terrible). Going to the hotel lobby bar might be an option for anyone else, but Emma avoids them on principle. Belle might be their frontman, and is certainly glamourous enough to pull most of the attention directed towards the band, but Emma still attracts a decent amount of attention as the group’s songwriter, and has learned that hanging out in heavy-traffic areas when she’s tired is asking for trouble. So when Robin, the lead singer of their opening act, Band of Thieves, recommends a bar a short tube ride from the hotel (“It’s a bit of a hole in the wall, but cozy,” he’d promised. “Gets the job done. Good onion rings!”), she can’t help but jump at it.

Sure enough, the Jolly Roger is a little off the beaten track, but Emma is immediately sold. It’s not hopping on a Thursday night, but not dead – mostly relaxed businessmen, and a collection of rowdy University students in a corner (thankfully, the type who look like they’re probably more into rap than angry femme rock). There’s a small stage and sound board in a corner, and the bar looks well stocked.

So, needless to say, she’s a little surprised to ask the bartender for a whiskey coke, only to receive a very firm no.

“Excuse me?”

“No. Can’t do it.”

Emma hates to pull the “do you know who I am?” card like, ever, but it’s been a long day, and she needs a drink, dammit. She’s seconds away from pulling all sorts of lines she’s sure she’ll regret later (namely, when they land her in a tabloid), when he jumps back in.

“Don’t get me wrong, lass, I’d love to, but here’s the situation. Those idiots in the corner” – he waves towards the college students – “are apparently celebrating a birthday in grand, drunken style, and just bought the last bottle of the cheap stuff I keep under the counter. I’ve got more in the back, so normally not a problem, but the other bartender just went on break, and won’t be back for ten minutes – probably more like fifteen to twenty, since I saw her duck out the back door with one of them,” he says, hooking a thumb towards the same corner. “Now, I’ve got a bottle of the good top-shelf stuff right here, but I cannot in good conscience let you dilute it with soda. So, you can wait fifteen minutes for your original order, and I’ll toss in a basket of onion rings for your trouble, or you can take the good stuff neat. What’ll it be?”

She takes the whiskey neat. And a basket of onion rings for good measure.

(She’s not too proud to admit that it was a good call.)

------

Emma usually likes to drink alone, unwind from the show, but she finds herself continuing her conversation with this strange, blunt bartender.

(And no, it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s hot as hell. At least not yet.)

His name is Killian Jones, and apparently Robin was somewhat misleading in calling the Jolly Roger “a little place he goes to sometimes”. They play here at least once a month. Jones, as it turns out, was an original member of Band of Thieves before finding himself injured in a car accident, and his brother is still their manager.

(“Awful lot of nerve damage in my left hand. They saved the blasted thing, but makes playing guitar a bit tricky and painful. Ergo, opening a bar. You need considerably less range of motion to pour beer.”)

Apparently the bar is his way of still being involved with music – facilitating instead of playing.

Emma reluctantly leaves at last call, finally relaxed enough to sleep, and feeling like against all odds, she’s made a friend.

------

Killian Jones isn’t stupid – he recognizes Emma Swan the moment she steps into his bar. Even beyond trying to know everything he can about the groups Band of Thieves plays with, big or small, he’s a personal fan of the Lost Girls. But he also knows how to recognize someone who doesn’t want attention, and Swan, in her knitted sweater and beanie – so different from the sheer tanks and leather she wears onstage – has the classic look of someone who’s trying to fly under the radar. Honestly, he can’t blame her – he knows through the guys that there was a show tonight, he’d just want to unwind with a drink as well.

However, the question remains: why is she here.

As it turns out, that answer is quite simple: Robin. Killian only hopes his best friend didn’t suggest that he’s got a crush on her.

(He doesn’t, for the record. He likes the band. He admires her and her writing. It’s not the same thing.)

(Then again, when has that ever stopped Robin ‘The Meddler’ Loxley?)

He nearly has a panic attack when Miss Swan asks for literally the one thing he can’t currently provide – admiration can only take her so far, he’s not willing to compromise one of his few principles as a bartender – but to his relief, she easily acquiesces to his suggestion without accusing him of simply trying to make more money.

(And no, it doesn’t affect his admiration at all that she’s able to recognize good whiskey when it’s placed in front of her. Not at all.)

When she leaves at last call, Killian isn’t quite sure what to think about the night he’s just had. All he knows is that Emma Swan is just as enchanting in person as she is in interviews, sarcastic and witty, and he can only hope he wasn’t so annoying as to scare her off.

------

To his enormous relief, she’s back a little under two months later – apparently in town to sort things out with her manager. This time, she skips straight to ordering his good whiskey, and proceeds to spend the rest of the evening chatting with him between patrons: about music, about pretentious cocktails, about pet peeves, about everything under the sun. That night when she leaves, though earlier than her previous visit, he’s much more confident that he’ll see her again.

------

Emma knows she’s somehow now made a habit of dropping by the Jolly Roger whenever she’s in London. What she’s less clear on is how those visits become closer and closer together.

Sure, the Lost Girls’ manager, Regina, has relocated to the city to settle her mother’s estate. But they’re between albums and tours right now – promotional stuff has dropped off, and though she keeps in daily contact, the need for face-to-face interaction isn’t really there.

And sure, Belle is now in London more often, but that’s because she’s started dating the drummer of Band of Thieves. Emma isn’t quite sure what Belle sees in Will Scarlet – she personally thinks the man is a bit too high energy and goofy, though undeniably smitten with her glamourous band-mate – but that’s not really her business. And, again, it’s not a reason for Emma to be in town.

But she’s back again – her eighth time since her initial visit a little over a year ago – and can’t figure out for the life of her the excuse why.

He’s always happy to see her, always has a new bottle on hand for her to try (“I swear, Swan, if you don’t think this bourbon is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever had, I’ll sell the Jolly and give up this bartending lark.”), and always is willing to spend his evening chatting between customers.

She still can’t quite figure out what she’s doing here, but she’s fine not to question it.

(It’s only as she’s sitting at the bar at three in the afternoon, frantically scribbling out lyrics in a burst of inspiration, that she realizes – the bar feels safe, and warm, and comfortable. It feels like home.)

(As for what that says about her, finding a home in a damn bar, well, that’s up for debate.)

------

Nearly two years into their… patronage? Acquaintanceship? Friendship? Whatever – Killian is pleased to notice that Emma has become an established presence at his bar. From a business side, that’s certainly a good thing – nothing like consistent celebrity sightings to encourage business – but from a personal side, it’s even better. He likes Emma Swan. He may even like like Emma Swan, to phrase it like a pre-teen, but mostly, he just enjoys her presence. She’s smart and easy to talk to and has a droll sense of humor that makes him snort more than he ever should in public. She’s sliding onto one of his stools every month or two, and he likes it.

And with Emma comes the rest of the Lost Girls. Belle is there most often, tagging along with Emma or coming to watch Will play. He’s shocked to find a fast friend in the woman. He’s not sure what he expected, but she’s a quick wit with an easy laugh and an inexhaustible knowledge of books and literature. Even Emma, who met Belle through their shared English major, simply sits back and bemusedly watches as the two debate classic literature. (“Listen, there is nothing you can say to me that will sway me from thinking that Nick totally had a thing for Gatsby,” Belle argues one night. “It’s so obvious we might as well call it canon.”). Ruby drops by too, every so often, happy to flirt with everyone in the place – including himself, and sometimes Emma. Mulan is in less often, preferring to spend any breaks back in Kansas with her sound technician girlfriend. One memorable night, all four come in, and end up getting trashed on a dare from Ruby – a night that ends with him escorting three very drunk Lost Girls up to his apartment above the bar. Emma and Ruby take his bed, Mulan takes the pull-out couch, and he manages to find an old air mattress in his hall closet. (Belle, the wisest of them all, gets a ride from Will back to his place and a proper bed. Lucky lass.) The four women are their own little unit, and he’s so pleased to get to see inside that.

He even meets Emma’s family, which is more nerve-wracking than it probably should be.

“It won’t be, like, a crowd of Emmas, you know,” she tries to tell him. “The Nolans adopted me at 15.”

“That’s fine, Swan. They’re still your folks, aren’t they?”

Her brother, David, seems a little mistrustful of any suspiciously consistent male figure in Emma’s life, but her mother, Ruth, and sister-in-law, Mary Margaret, are truly lovely, if somewhat over-enthusiastic and seemingly dead set on embarrassing their darling relative.

“Oh, you must be Emma’s young man!” Ruth chirps at the same time as Mary Margaret exclaims “We’ve heard so much about you!”

The ensuing shade of red on Emma’s face is truly unprecedented, and he can’t help but laugh as she crashes her head down on his counter.

All teasing aside, the Nolans have a great time on their sojourn to London, and he’s honored to have met her loved ones.

Killian’s not sure how, but he’s carved out a small, undefined corner in her life. He’ll take that.

------

A new phase in her presence at his bar begins on karaoke night. It’s one of his regular rotation events – Amateur Night once a month, trivia every Wednesday, Karaoke night twice, and he usually is able to attract a decent crowd. Emma’s never made it to one before, though, and he’s looking forward to the chance to make fun of song choices with her. But, inevitably, someone flakes. Usually, this just means an awkward pause while he wrestles with the machine to skip the pre-programmed, now useless selection. However tonight, Emma hops up on stage instead. Maybe she’s had too much to drink, maybe it’s the atmosphere, maybe she’s just in a good mood and wants to take a turn, but she pops up on stage and sings a not half bad rendition of Billy Joel. “Uptown Girl”. Hey, at least the flaker had good taste.

Inevitably, someone in the bar takes a video, and inevitably, that ends up on the internet, and somehow, she’s an up front and center sensation. It’s not like she’s unknown – she’s a rock star, for fuck’s sake – but she’s always been able to slip under the radar somewhat, willingly ceding attention to Belle and Ruby. But now? She’s viral. And even had fun doing it.

So she comes back next month for karaoke night. And the month after that. Until there’s a permanent jar sitting on his bartop labelled “Swan Songs” for customer song requests.

Her selection is somewhat eclectic. Emma’s selections range from classic Supremes songs and other oldies to 80’s rock, modern pop and rock songs (“Listen, Killian, the reason I’m not in charge of the Lost Girls is I’d turn us into a Killers cover band, if allowed.”) and one particularly memorable night when she breaks out a Dixie Chicks song (“They are a trio of badass women and if you don’t think that is in line with what I do, then I’m not sure we can be friends.”). Killian’s personal favorite is the night she goes for Frank Turner, “I Still Believe”. Even if her American fans don’t quite get it when it’s posted to YouTube, she brings down the house that night at the Jolly Roger. What’s a better choice than a song about rock n’ roll?

It’s a new tradition for them – sitting at the bar or chatting over FaceTime, sorting through the multitude of suggestions and sorting out the more awful. It doesn’t hurt, of course, that her karaoke habit is great publicity for the band, and makes her own star rise a little higher. But he knows it’s more than that for Emma – she doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to. So if she’s here, singing the favorites of yesteryear, it’s because she genuinely enjoys it.

(He’s turning into such an old sap, but that makes him all warm inside – knowing that she likes being at the bar, being around him, and hell, he’s in so far over his head, Robin was fucking right, he’s got a massive crush.)

------

As they near the three-year mark, Emma ends up making the move to London. It’s time, really; Belle and Will have moved in together, and Regina permanently relocated after falling in love with Robin’s son (and later, Robin himself). Ruby’s always been more a “citizen of the world” anyways, traveling all over the planet during her time off and renting temporary places, and Mulan had begun to gravitate towards Kansas City and Dorothy on her own time more than towards Boston, technically their home base. It makes sense, really. Boston was alright, but never home; tinged by far too many memories of her time in the system to ever earn that title. The only thing to possibly keep her in the States is her family, and she sees them rarely enough as it is. The tiny hamlet of Storybrooke, Maine is certainly quaint, but easy to access it is not. London is the first place she’s been really excited about in ages, so she follows her gut and her heart and finds herself a decent apartment in a slightly quieter area, still close to the city. Plus, if there’s one bonus to being a so-called “rock-star”, it’s being able to afford plane tickets fairly easily.

Getting her moved into her new place turns into something of a party. Killian comes, of course, and brings his brother and sister-in-law, Belle arrives with Will in tow, and Robin with Regina, but her family is there too – Mary Margaret and David flying over to help her get settled. It’s a little ridiculous, really, because she didn’t ship most of the big stuff – her couch sold off, her piano now living in Mary Margaret’s living room. She only has a mattress because Killian thought to remind her of it the month before. There’s still things to move, but it’s more a matter of boxes instead of heavy furniture. But still, they unload her kitchenware and clothes, move in the small collection of end tables she had shipped over, and watch Will and Robin wrestle with her stereo and recording equipment for far longer than it ever should have taken.

Mostly, they’re just here for a party. Emma purchases a TV from the nearest electronics store, Killian runs down to the bar for booze, and Belle arranges for a disgusting amount of pizza to be delivered. At the end of the night, they’re all far drunker than it’s probably safe to be, and David is already passed out on her floor with a giggling Mary Margaret taking pictures. Still, it means a lot that she has so many people willing to drop everything to help with such a chore.

(And maybe it means even more that a slightly hungover Killian shows up the next morning at eleven to pick her up to go shopping for a couch.)

------

It’s nice, having Emma in town on a permanent basis. He likes to think they were already close, but something about having the option to see her every day adds a new level to their relationship. When she drags him with her to pick out a new piano, he learns in the process about how her old piano, back in the States, was the first item she bought with the money from their signing deal; helping her organize her office means he finds a box full of piano ballads she wrote that she swears will never see the light of day; her increased presence at his bar means he learns about her secret love for fruity drinks in bizarre colors. It’s like there’s these little corners of her that he didn’t know existed, and she’s finally confident enough that he’s here in her life to stay to show him those little facets.

In some ways, his life with her in London is just the same. Emma is still a karaoke fixture at the Jolly Roger; still teases him mercilessly, ganging up with his brother against him; still joins him in trying to talk his waitress, Merida, out of some of her more questionable conquests (or, more often, talking her out of punching every rude dick that wanders through the bar).

Yes, so much is still the same, but he takes comfort in the new constancy. It’s different, in that way, and he likes it.

------

Their first kiss is somewhat on accident.

Killian had always thought that if anything ever happened between him and Emma, it would be because he finally worked up the nerve to ask her out, and take her on a nice date, and everything else you’re supposed to do before you respectful and probably bashfully request the privilege of a kiss.

Instead, it’s a Thursday evening, and Killian’s left the bar in Smee and Mer’s hands in favor of spending the evening on the couch on Emma’s. Nothing particularly romantic even happens – they’re watching a documentary about superheroes, of all things, and she’s laughing at a joke he made about God knows what, and he just leans over and plants one on her.

Of course, the moment they separate, the world comes crashing back down on him. Jesus, what was he thinking? Moving in like that without even asking? And lord knows he’s been at least half in love with her for years, but right now he can’t honestly put enough brain cells together to remember if it seems like she reciprocates and he can feel his face turning red. He turns to her with a hand in his hair, apology on his tongue –

– and Emma grabs the back of his head, pulling him down for another, deeper kiss.

Huh.

When they finally break apart, he’s sure he’s got the stupidest grin on his face, and the only word he can come with is a breathless “Yeah?”

(Was it good? Did she like it? Would she be interested in trying that again?)

As always, she seems to just instinctually hear everything he can’t say. They understand each other, after all. So he gets a crazy grin in return, and her own “Yeah.”

Huh.

------

Dating Killian just feels natural.

Which is weird, because she spent ages telling herself that it wouldn’t, convincing herself to never make a move.

But he takes her to terrible movies so that they can make fun of them together, and finds little up-and-coming bands for them to see, and even takes her to nice dinners they both feel slightly awkward at. And it’s comfortable. Good even.

She’s happy.

Mary Margaret is ecstatic to hear the news, the squeal probably audible from Maine without the aid of the telephone and carrying on about happy endings. Which on the one hand, whoa, hold your horses, but on the other… she’s becoming increasingly open to the idea. On the other side of the pond, Regina just rolls her eyes, but Belle gets excited about the potential for double dating, and Emma’s fairly sure she saw some exchange of money between Will and Robin.

Part of Emma wants to say it’s a little much, run for the hills like she always does, but then she feels Killian’s hand envelop her own, and that little part of her falls quiet.

Like she said, it’s nice. She’s happy.

And dare she say it? She could get used to this.

           ------

It comes as a little bit of a shock when Emma approaches him, and offers for the Lost Girls to play a surprise set at the Jolly Roger, especially since she has that twinkle in her eyes that says she’s up to something. But he’s a man in love – who is he to say no?

It’s great, being able to watch from behind his bar Emma perform her own stuff instead of everyone else’s for once. The patrons are loving it, and all four women seem right at home on the tiny stage. He knows he’s going to lose her for a few months again soon – the band just released their latest album, to widespread acclaim, and touring will be starting shortly  – so he chooses to savor this night, imprint every moment in his mind.

Emma has been off to the side of the stage for most of the night, letting Belle and Ruby pull most of the attention, but now she steps forward with her guitar and a quick grin. “Hey guys, having a good time tonight?’ she calls to the crowd, predictably receiving a chorus of cheers. “Good, good… So, some of you might know that I’m the songwriter around here.”

Another round of cheers. Emma ducks her head, seemingly adjusting her tuning, which he takes as a sure sign that she’s nervous about something. Which is odd. Emma Swan is the queen of a “don’t give a fuck” stage presence.

“…which tends to be why our songs tend a little towards the angry side. I went through a metric shit ton of stuff before we hit it big, little of it good.”

“That’s about two fifths of a regular American shit ton, by the way,” Belle pipes in, to a few polite chuckles.

“Think the math joke fell a bit flat, you nerd. Anyways, I am well aware that my stuff gets a little angry and angsty. Ruby’s original suggestion for our first album’s name was actually “Fuck You I’ve Won the Break-up.” She pauses to let the crowd laugh. “But… I’ve started seeing someone in the past few months.” Emma takes a moment to smile. “And it’s going pretty well. So I thought I ought to try and write a love song.” She laughs to herself – and he has to admit, he’s looking forward to finding out why. “Apparently, this is as close as I get. If this makes the album, we’ll probably put Belle back on vocals – “

“It’s that or tambourine!” Belle calls with a grin.

“ – but the other ladies thought that since I wrote this with a particular person in mind, I should be the one to sing it for the first time. So… yeah.” She turns back to the rest of the band. “Ready?”

With a collection of nods, and without further ado, Emma counts them in.

As she starts in, he can’t help but think it’s a little unusual for a love song, what with the heavy electric guitar line and strong drum beat contrasting with the three harmonizing voices. The lyrics are nice, but he senses that this stanza isn’t what Emma is leading up to. If he knows anything about how that woman writes a song, there’s a handful of crucial lines, and the rest is little more than rhyming filler that makes a bit of sense with the rest. Sure enough, she searches his eye out at the back bar in time to croon a line about not being a fool and holding back her feelings. Then they’re building to the chorus and –

“I, never thought, I could love, anyone but myself…

Now I know, I can’t love, anyone, but you…”

She shoots a grin his way in between notes, and he can’t help but feel like she has something up her sleeve. The words are beautiful, and he’s touched, but he recognizes that twinkle in her eye, and it usually means she’s up to something. And sure enough –

“You make me think that maybe I won’t die alone,

Maybe I won’t die alone.”

And then she winks. As the crowd laughs and cheers, and even aws in a few cases, she has the gall to wink at him. Minx.

But damn if he doesn’t love it.

Because really, isn’t that absolutely Emma? She isn’t rainbows and unicorns, “love at first sight” and “the world lit up when I met you”. She’s walls and sarcasm and wanting to seem tough and not rubbing her feelings in everyone’s faces. Of course an Emma Swan love song is less “You are my forever” and more “Maybe I won’t die alone”. So he chuckles and winks right back with a happy grin on his face next time she looks his way.

After the set is over and their equipment is put away, she makes her way over behind the bar, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder. “So…” she starts, “what did you think?” And he can tell, that though his mid-song wink reassured her in the moment, the nerves are back.

“I think…” he pauses, turns around to hold her in his arms more fully. There’s so much he could say, should say, but right now is a matter of picking the perfect words. “I think… that I love you. And I’m touched. It was perfect, love.”

Emma smiles, just one of her million smiles that he’s grown to love. “Yeah?”

Killian smiles right back and nods. “Yeah.”

It may have taken them four years to get here, from a single drink in an unknown bar to two people in love, but they’re here, and they’re happy. Every single second has been more than worth it.

So he kisses her one more time as they separate to serve the crowd of customers, ready to begin the rest of a life together.

[divinelydivorced]

Goodbye, Grandma

My grandma passed away yesterday morning. Even though we knew it was coming, it is still hard.  Tuesday around 3:50 am, I awoke suddenly and couldn’t quite get back to sleep until 4:30. Come to find out, the end started around four and she was gone around 4:20.  It’s amazing how souls are so connected that we can feel the loss happening at the exact moment it occurs.  The older I get, I am made more aware of how similar my grandma and I are.  I’m proud to have inherited so many of her quirky traits and have come to embrace them.  In fact, I see them as a tribute to the impact she had on my life.  So, in honor of the life my grandma lived, here are the 25 things she has taught me:

1.     Bladder problems ARE a joking matter.  My grandma was a hot mess, God love her. Whether it was peeing her pants in an elevator in front of a bunch of strangers or never leaving a restaurant without a huge stain on her top, she always managed to leave a trail.  Most people would cry or die of embarrassment, but she’d just hee-haw, laughing so hard she’d likely pee again.  She passed on her small bladder and the ability to find humor in the embarrassment to me, which has provided my friends with endless counts of entertaining stories. College friends still text from time to time, “Remember when Adam Harris finally asked you to hang out and you had to say no because you’d just peed on your long sweater and had to shower and change?”  Yes, yes, I remember.  

2.     If you want it, get it.  She always knew what she wanted and wasted no time in purchasing it.  I remember, around age ten, her saying how much she wanted a bird feeder.  I went home and made one out of an old milk carton.  When I showed up to proudly give it to her, only two days later, there in her front yard was a brand new gorgeous wooden one.    

3.     Eat it and get it over with.  My grandma was notorious for eating an entire watermelon in the course of an afternoon.  This also contributed to her bladder problems.  Once, my sister went to take a nap at her house.  While drifting in and out, she caught a whiff of the sweet smell of a butter braid (a very large pastry you’d take to a party).  When she awoke excited for dessert, she went out to discover my grandma had de-thawed it, cooked it, and ate 99% of it in the course of two hours.  To this day, whenever I make any dessert-I eat 99% of it while it’s still hot.  We all know what’s going to happen so just get it over with already.

4.     If it annoys you, get rid of it-no matter its practicality. My grandma loved buying things almost as much as she loved getting rid of those same things three months later.  One time she showed up at mom’s house with a car full of lamps.  She decided she hated lamps and wanted them all gone.  My mom, always the practical one, kept them so when my grandma realized later they were necessary, she wouldn’t have to buy more.  Any of my friends know I’m the same.  I served wine in a juice glass the other day.  My friend asked, “Don’t you have wine glasses?” “I did,” I said, “but just got rid of them.”  “Why? You didn’t use them?” he asked.  “No, I used them all the time.  I just got tired of looking at them.”

5.     Never stop moving.  My grandma moved all the time.  She’d often announce it at the latest holiday dinner.  She would wake up, be suddenly sick of her place, and a month later would be somewhere new.  She once left a home, only to return to it a few years later.  A constant mover myself, I was looking forward to staying in my current place for more than a year (a new record) until I recently found out I had to vacate in 30 days due to construction.  Although annoying and inconvenient, I was not surprised when I found myself thinking the other day, “Actually-I’m kind of over this place, so that worked out.”

6.     Crazy is charming.  My grandma was nuts, as am I.  Yet we embrace the crazy and combine it with big hearts.  That’s why people keep coming back.  A little crazy never hurt anyone…and we are a lot of fun on road trips.

7.     The flu is for sissies.  We’d often stay at her house when we had the flu. Grandma gave us whatever we wanted, which included the time my brother insisted he wanted to eat a bunch of tacos.  You can imagine my mother’s frustration when she arrived to pick him up and found him vomiting ground beef and shredded cheese everywhere.

8.     Pools and convertibles aren’t luxuries, they’re necessities.  Life’s too short.  GET THEM BOTH.

9.     Dogs are our children.  She had an antique cradle for her dog to sleep in and was the first to introduce me to a dog stroller.  I get it and think it makes absolute sense.

10.  You don’t need a man.  Most of my life she’s been single.  Men have chased after her and she’ll let them buy her lunch or keep her company, yet it goes no further.  Because at the end of the day, she’s her own woman and has no need for a full-time man dragging her down.  This is a lesson I’m still learning.

11.  Soap operas are good television.  She lived near the high school, so at lunchtime, my girlfriends and I would take our lunches to eat at her place and watch Days of Our Lives.  Those were some of my favorite memories.  If the show got really intense and it was time for us to go, she’d try convincing us to drive her car back, at age 14, so she didn’t have to leave.  She even took me and my aunt to a Days of Our Lives festival one summer.  When it came to idolizing celebrities, her and I saw eye to eye.

12.  Dairy Queen can be dinner.  When she helped move me to Michigan, we spent a week eating Dairy Queen snicker blizzards for every meal.  She was doing Weight Watchers at the time and, although two of these, met her quota for the day-she was willing to make the sacrifice.  I remember thinking how brilliant this was.  When we got tired of Dairy Queen (rare), we’d hit up the Chinese Buffet.  No excuses and no shame-it’s how we rolled.

13.  Why choose when you can have both.  My grandma loved driving with the windows down.  She also would sweat profusely.  Once, we got in the car on a blazing summer day and I asked if we should turn on the AC or roll down the windows.  Her answer?  Both. We cranked the radio up, let the wind tousle our hair as the cold AC blasted our faces.

14.  Underwear is optional.  In fact, it’s often preferred you go without.

15.  Sing loud and proud.  My grandma had one of those loud operatic voices which she’d use to pelt Amazing Grace in church.  We grandkids would chuckle, but in reality, I always loved how she simply didn’t care. She was singing for Jesus.

16.  Spend your time how you want.  There were years where she’d choose hours of Farmville over leaving the house.  I’ve been known to spend an entire 48 hour weekend playing Sims-taking breaks only to run to the bathroom and grab a snack.  It’s our time-we will do what we want with it, and if that means interacting with computerized lives over human ones, so be it.

17.  There’s always something burning in the oven.  Every holiday she left something in the oven.  EVERY. HOLIDAY.  How no one caught on, I don’t know.  How I managed to inherit this trait, despite being annoyed by it, beats me. It seems the rolls always take the biggest hit…who needs carbs anyway-more DQ.

18.  There’s no time for sentimentality.  At a family event, she once walked out with crates of old photographs-including her wedding photos-and announced to the family she was throwing them away the next morning, so, “grab what you want.”  Everyone started arguing with her and refusing to take anything.  Meanwhile I did a clean sweep, loading boxes into my car.  Later, everyone was grateful because she kept to her word and burned everything I didn’t get my hands on.  Years later, I marched out to the living room with a box full of the photos I’d taken and said to my mom, “I’m throwing all of these away tomorrow, so take what you want.”  You better believe she took them-lesson learned.

19.  Sausage gravy is love.  As long as I knew her, she had a part-time job of sitting with an elderly person, a job I’ve now inherited.  As soon as I could work, she started taking me along and then giving me some of her shifts.  She taught me how to make sausage gravy-the first meal I ever learned to cook.  “Old people love sausage gravy,” she told me. She was right.

20.  Rules are meant to be broken.  My grandma didn’t give a f***.  In fact, she invented the phrase.  Sometimes she’d do stuff simply to get a reaction out of you.  There was no rhyme or reason-she went with her urge. I remember walking through the shoe store with my mom a couple years ago and asking my mom, “Do you ever get a strong desire to just start knocking things over?”  

21.  If it can go in a blender, it should.  Grandma introduced me to smoothies and I’ve never looked back.  “Everything can go in a blender!” she once enthusiastically told me as she threw in leftovers along with fruit and hit “blend.”  Now I buy pineapple in bulk and enough produce to feed a small village for a month.

22.  New fads are meant to be tried.  My grandma purchased every diet pill and vitamin that existed, as well as any exercise devise.  She had one of those machines that shook you, vibrating a strap around your bottom and promising to eliminate cellulite by simply standing there.  She had the utmost confidence they would work.  Each time she’d pull the latest tool or pill out of the box, I’d watch in awe as she demonstrated its powers, believing she’d discovered the secret to staying fit and healthy.  She instilled this hope in me.  I carried a crystal around for weeks once after reading it’d get my period to finally to start.  I paid an obscene amount of money for Cindy Crawford’s miracle elixir, returning it 30 days later, and then surprising myself by purchasing it a second time years later during a 5 am workout binge when the infomercial reappeared.  My recent purchase was a $100 fascia blaster which I use with fervor, while watching Friends episodes, and later have to justify when explaining the bruises on my legs to friends with a, “Yeah, it hurts but I can feel it working!”

23.  Walk everywhere.  It’s great exercise, sure.  But, more importantly, it gives you a chance to catch up on the town gossip.

24.  Careful-you can give a man your yeast infection.  This statement alone is self-explanatory.  Yet my grandma felt the need to retell an in-depth twenty-minute story of how her and my grandpa discovered this to be factual, leaving me scarred for life.

25.  When life pushes back, you push harder.  The beginning of my grandma’s life was not easy.  In fact, as I understand it, it was quite hard. My grandpa rescued her and she fell madly in love.  When he died so young, it would have been easy to give up.  But she didn’t.  She found job after job, she gave of herself whenever she could, and always left people laughing.  She was resilient.  She didn’t take the easy way out and, in fact, often took the road less traveled. She made no apologies and left some scars.  Although I will miss her greatly, I am grateful she’s in heaven, reunited with my grandpa-right where she’s always wanted to be.  

So, sing loud, grandma.  Eat your fill of watermelons and leave your underwear here on earth.  I won’t say rest in peace because that never was your style and, besides, I can hear the hee-hawing from heaven already.  In the end, she had it right.  We don’t need all this stuff we carry around because it’s only temporary. All that matters is how you make people feel, the laughter over tears, and never giving up.  And, of course, always knowing where the nearest restroom is.