#a quilt map to freedom

[picturebookshelf]

The Patchwork Path: A Quilt Map to Freedom (2005)

Story: Bettye Stroud -- Art: Erin Susanne Bennett

[rockislandadultreads]

Read-Alike Friday: The First Ladies

The First Ladies by Marie Benedict & Victoria Christopher Murray

The daughter of formerly enslaved parents, Mary McLeod Bethune refuses to back down as white supremacists attempt to thwart her work. She marches on as an activist and an educator, and as her reputation grows she becomes a celebrity, revered by titans of business and recognized by U.S. Presidents. Eleanor Roosevelt herself is awestruck and eager to make her acquaintance. Initially drawn together because of their shared belief in women’s rights and the power of education, Mary and Eleanor become fast friends confiding their secrets, hopes and dreams—and holding each other’s hands through tragedy and triumph.

When Franklin Delano Roosevelt is elected president, the two women begin to collaborate more closely, particularly as Eleanor moves toward her own agenda separate from FDR, a consequence of the devastating discovery of her husband’s secret love affair. Eleanor becomes a controversial First Lady for her outspokenness, particularly on civil rights. And when she receives threats because of her strong ties to Mary, it only fuels the women’s desire to fight together for justice and equality.

This is the story of two different, yet equally formidable, passionate, and committed women, and the way in which their singular friendship helped form the foundation for the modern civil rights movement.

The Thread Collectors by Shaunna J. Edwards & Alyson Richman

1863: In a small Creole cottage in New Orleans, an ingenious young Black woman named Stella embroiders intricate maps on repurposed cloth to help enslaved men flee and join the Union Army. Bound to a man who would kill her if he knew of her clandestine activities, Stella has to hide not only her efforts but her love for William, a Black soldier and a brilliant musician.

Meanwhile, in New York City, a Jewish woman stitches a quilt for her husband, who is stationed in Louisiana with the Union Army. Between abolitionist meetings, Lily rolls bandages and crafts quilts with her sewing circle for other soldiers, too, hoping for their safe return home. But when months go by without word from her husband, Lily resolves to make the perilous journey South to search for him.

As these two women risk everything for love and freedom during the brutal Civil War, their paths converge in New Orleans, where an unexpected encounter leads them to discover that even the most delicate threads have the capacity to save us. Loosely inspired by the authors' family histories, this stunning novel will stay with readers for a long time.

The Women's March by Jennifer Chiaverini

Twenty-five-year-old Alice Paul returns to her native New Jersey after several years on the front lines of the suffrage movement in Great Britain. Weakened from imprisonment and hunger strikes, she is nevertheless determined to invigorate the stagnant suffrage movement in her homeland. Nine states have already granted women voting rights, but only a constitutional amendment will secure the vote for all. To inspire support for the campaign, Alice organizes a magnificent procession down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, DC, the day before the inauguration of President-elect Woodrow Wilson, a firm antisuffragist.

Joining the march is thirty-nine-year-old New Yorker Maud Malone, librarian and advocate for women’s and workers’ rights. The daughter of Irish immigrants, Maud has acquired a reputation—and a criminal record—for interrupting politicians’ speeches with pointed questions they’d rather ignore.

Civil rights activist and journalist Ida B. Wells-Barnett resolves that women of color must also be included in the march—and the proposed amendment. Born into slavery in Mississippi, Ida worries that white suffragists may exclude Black women if it serves their own interests. On March 3, 1913, the glorious march commences, but negligent police allow vast crowds of belligerent men to block the parade route—jeering, shouting threats, assaulting the marchers—endangering not only the success of the demonstration but the women’s very lives.

Inspired by actual events, The Women’s March offers a fascinating account of a crucial but little-remembered moment in American history, a turning point in the struggle for women’s rights. 

Undiscovered Country by Kelly O'Connor McNees

In 1932, New York City, top reporter Lorena “Hick” Hickok starts each day with a front page byline―and finishes it swigging bourbon and planning her next big scoop.

But an assignment to cover FDR’s campaign―and write a feature on his wife, Eleanor―turns Hick’s hard-won independent life on its ear. Soon her work, and the secret entanglement with the new first lady, will take her from New York and Washington to Scotts Run, West Virginia, where impoverished coal miners’ families wait in fear that the New Deal’s promised hope will pass them by. Together, Eleanor and Hick imagine how the new town of Arthurdale could change the fate of hundreds of lives. But doing what is right does not come cheap, and Hick will pay in ways she never could have imagined.

Undiscovered Country artfully mixes fact and fiction to portray the intense relationship between this unlikely pair. Inspired by the historical record, including the more than three thousand letters Hick and Eleanor exchanged over a span of thirty years, McNees tells this story through Hick’s tough, tender, and unforgettable voice. A remarkable portrait of Depression-era America, this novel tells the poignant story of how a love that was forced to remain hidden nevertheless changed history.

[handeaux]

Remember When A Monfort Heights Literary Society Spawned A Township War?

Those Cincinnatians who live outside the West Side may not even know how to locate Monfort Heights on a map in the northern ranges of Green Township. It is still a fairly quiet place, almost 150 years after the Cincinnati Gazette [11 June 1879] effused about its Edenic qualities:

“As is well known, if Arcadia yet exists of earth, Green Township has long been the English for it. Here bloomed the apple and cherry, and pear, and quince, and raspberry, and strawberry, and currant, and gooseberry . . . [You get the idea.] Here strife was unknown, the only rivalry between the men being as to who should raise the largest fruit for exhibition at the annual festival, and between the women, as to who should make the most impossible patchwork bed quilts for exhibition thereat. The rude world has here made no inroads upon the rustic tongue of truth and affection.”

In 1877, the rude world did make an inroad into idyllic Green Township in the form of a saloon, plopped right into the center of Monfort Heights. At that time, 50 years before an incursion of suburban tract homes inspired the adoption of a more marketable name, Monfort Heights was known as Gans’ Corners, after the Gans family that owned all the land surrounding the intersection of North Bend Road and Pleasant Ridge (now West Fork) Road.

It wasn’t so much the saloon itself that caused the kerfuffle. As saloons go, it was a reasonably sedate operation with none of the notoriety of the devil dens down the road in Cheviot. No, the impetus for the dispute was a literary society.

Until the saloon arrived, the only public buildings out at Gans’ Corners were a run-down schoolhouse and a Methodist church. Around the time the saloon made its debut, a new, two-story school building was erected, designed so that the upper room could accommodate meetings of a cultural and social nature. The local literary society was delighted. According to the Gazette:

“The Acme Literary Society filled up the upper room with stage, curtains, chairs, and other necessary furniture. It also graded and macadamized a road from the pike to the schoolhouse door, and set out a score or more of shade trees in the yard. In fact, the society seemed to comprise the only persons in the neighborhood of the Corners who took a practical interest in the school property, till within the last few weeks.”

The Acme Literary Society was enormously popular in that isolated rural neighborhood. An estimated 80 members gathered each Monday evening for reading, singing and recitations. All was well until someone in the Methodist Church invited John Rudel of Lockland to address the congregation. Rudel was the dynamic leader of the local Sons of Temperance organization. Temperance proved to be a popular topic, and the Acme Literary Society followed by inviting Samuel F. Black, a Cincinnati attorney active in the temperance movement. It was Black’s appearance that agitated the pro-saloon faction, according to the Gazette:

“Black animadverted pretty severely upon the Germans bringing Germany into America in the manner of their drunken customs, etc. The avowed design of the temperance meetings was to close up the saloon aforementioned at the Corners.”

A glance at a Nineteenth-Century map of the Gans’ Corners environs finds enough names along the lines of Haeffner, Beischel, Getzendanner, Kraus and the like to suggest that this anti-German rhetoric did not receive unanimous approbation among the neighbors. The Deutschland element and their friends who appreciated a mug of suds began to ask why the schoolhouse supported by their tax dollars was sheltering a cadre of radicals out to infringe upon their freedoms.

At the next election for the local school board (Rural District 8), the pro-saloon faction supported an apparently neutral candidate who, immediately upon election, voted to kick the Acme Literary Society out of the new schoolhouse. The society immediately appealed to the Green Township Board of Education, of which the rural districts were subsidiary. The township board passed a resolution allowing local societies of a literary or cultural nature to meet in the rural schoolhouses.

It was a hollow victory because, although the township board had the authority, the local rural board had the keys. When the Acme Literary Society appeared at the door of Rural Schoolhouse Number 8, they found two-thirds of the local school board barring the way, accompanied by a number of younger, tougher farmhands who may or may not have inspired themselves with a visit to the local saloon. Per the Gazette:

“Among the first of the members of the society to endeavor to gain admission to the hall were three or four ladies [who] made very earnest and forcible speeches to the two Directors, telling them with a vigor and a force of language and energy of expression befitting their sense of the guilt and meanness of the course pursued by the two aforesaid members of the board.”

When one of their husbands joined the fray, announcing that such obstreperous behavior might well be acceptable in Germany but would not fly in these United States, the two board members signaled their minions, who produced truncheons and advanced upon the literati of Gans’ Corners. It was only the intervention of William Gosling, president of the Acme Literary Society, that circumvented violence at the schoolhouse door. Gosling appealed to his neighbors to act like neighbors, return to their homes and find the best lawyers available to file neighborly lawsuits against each other.

The next showdown took place, ironically, at a saloon. The Seven-Mile House in Cheviot (located on the grounds now occupied by Cheviot School) was indeed a saloon and also a convenient meeting place for the Green Township Board of Education, who would rather have been doing nearly anything else other than listening to the yammering of a bunch of farmers from out at Gans’ Corners.

The arguments were tedious and inane. The pro-saloon faction claimed that the Acme Literary Society caused untold wear and tear to the brand-new schoolhouse by walking up and down the stairs and by parking their buggies in the front yard where the horses could nibble and trample the grass.

The height of absurdity was reached by one of the pro-saloon board members, Joseph Eply, who failed to arouse any sympathy at all by itemizing all the vituperation directed at his good name and then attempted to apologize for one untoward comment that he had unleashed in his frustration.

One of Eply’s neighbors claimed that he was standing nearby and could attest that the foul utterance never escaped the board member’s lips. Eply rose in fury and, according to the Gazette [14 July 1879] erupted in an outburst of righteous indignation:

“Mr. Eply then insisted that he did say it, and became so enraged at the young man for attempting to take away from him the glory of saying this thing that he was sorry he had said; that he claimed the young man had called him a liar, which he had not, and he was proceeding to explain that he was not afraid of anybody, etc., etc., etc., when Mr. [Harvey] Orr called the President’s attention to the fact that this oratory, while it might be highly entertaining and all that, was not expediting business any, and the board returned to business.”

The Acme Literary Society was left to find other places to meet, the saloon prevailed and was soon joined by a few competitors. Fifty years later, in 1928, Green Township begged for a levy to replace the decrepit old schoolhouse that had caused such a commotion years ago at Gans’ Corners.

[travelinglibrariansdesk]

Civil Rights and adventure travel (for kids)

One thing I should say about this blog: if anyone reading it in the future needs to know the suitability of a book for a certain age, you'll have to follow my links to another site - I'm not qualified to judge, and I don't have children of my own, so dig deeper if you want to know if a book I recommend is appropriate for a specific kid or classroom.

My first two books today were clearly returned by someone teaching her children about civil rights. Doreen Rappaport's Freedom River, tells a story about crossing the Ohio River from the slave-owning states of Kentucky or West Virginia to the free state of Ohio. Surprisingly action-packed for a kid's book, the narrative keeps the reader in suspense until the end. The art, however, puts this one over the top. I would call the style "quilting with paper" - but collage pretty well covers it. The colors, patterns and textures create motion and a 3d effect that had me running my fingers over the pages. Absolutely gorgeous work in this one.

A very different style of art, simple, bright and almost cartoonish, supports the story of To Boldly Go: How Nichelle Nichols and Star Trek Helped Advance Civil Rights. The narrative is twofold: a young narrator speaks of the thrill of watching Nichols on screen as a child with her family, and then a 3rd person narrative takes over with a biography of Nichols. I have heard and read Nichols' story before, and I particularly love the part where Martin Luther King, Jr. himself tells her not to quit the show, reminding her of how important it is for people to see her onscreen as an equal member of the crew. I'm glad Angela Dalton thought this story worthy of her efforts. She treats it lightly, not slowing the story down with too much detail, but the impact remains significant.

I really enjoy the way artists can "texture" children's books. Dan-ah Kim's lush The Train Home is like the above-mentioned Freedom River, composed of pen and ink drawing, cut paper and fabric. Again I find myself running my fingers over the page to feel the composition of the art. In the story, Nari looks out of her apartment window, annoyed by the noisiness of her environment, and, as the train rumbles by, she imagines where it might take her, away from city noise. In the forest, she imagines herself in a nest, surrounded by bleeding hearts, butterflies and blue jays. She imagines herself under the sea, living with mermaids and a newspaper-reading, spectacle-wearing octopus. The colors leap off the page as she moves from one potential home to another (what is it about marble lions and libraries?), eventually deciding that she wouldn't be happy without her sister's songs, her grandparents' stories and her parents' laughter. A stunning piece of artwork and a great nudge to children's imagination.

Last but not least is Anna Desnitskaya's On the Edge of the World. It piqued my curiosity because the cover (image, author, title of book) is on both sides of the book - one the reverse of the other. I started with Lucas's side, which tells of his life "on the edge of the world" in Southern Chile, where his father is a marine biologist. Desnitskaya interrupts the narrative with funny pages sketching Lucas's favorite things, illustrated maps and definitions, then returns to the narrative, where Vera begins appearing, as a ghost (outlined), as Lucas wishes he had a friend. He sends a signal in Morse code with his flashlight out into the darkness over the sea...at which point the reader must flip the book upside down and begin to read Vera's story. She lives on the Kamchatka Peninsula in North-Eastern Russia, and she also longs for a friend. It's a very clever and creative way to tell a story - my only complaint is that it's unsatisfying: Lucas and Vera never actually connect - Desnitskaya just leaves it as a possibility. The book has other virtues, however - teaching geography, local flora and fauna, and Morse code. I loved that Lucas climbed a tree to read a new book - and quoted the first lines of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Then, when we read Vera's story, we find that LWW is her favorite book. She, in turn, refers to The Hobbit (Lucas's favorite book) - great teasers for readers inclined to adventure. Even cooler, when I looked it up, I found that this one has been translated from Russian.

I read an article today detailing how one librarian teaches digital literacy; more on this in a future blog, I hope. In the background of a picture of her, I saw delightful "vintage", "travel" posters to Narnia and the Shire and Arrakis. Someday, if I become a children's librarian, I'd love to do something travel-related with this: decorate with such posters, design maps, plan brochures, travel agents... I suppose librarians don't usually do projects with teenagers, but if I could start a reading club, maybe kids would find the enthusiasm for their books enough to do projects - especially if it took place over the summer.

[musicarenagh]

"My Everlasting Isolation": 7evin7ins Maps Loneliness on Debut EP 7evin7ins storms onto the scene with his debut EP "My Everlasting Isolation"—a vessel of 7 tracks fusing alternative rock's angst and edge with alt-pop's sticky-sweet melodies, polished with a contemporary urban sheen. It's like you've been teleported into someone else's prismatic daydream, with raw male vocals floating through kaleidoscopic beats. https://open.spotify.com/album/3shRCuMoi8faGBEWiUsX80 At its core throbs “My Everlasting Isolation,” inner turmoil shaking listeners with stark catharsis. Suspended weightlessly in thought, it renders that exquisite disconnection beyond audio—it is sonic emancipation. The EP pulses as a whole through fogged neon streets, vibrant yet ghostly transmissions with 7evin7ins' voice mapping the echoing terrain. Songs test boundaries, grafting urban rhythms and guitar snarls into a bittersweet confinement, using the familiarity of isolation to compel freedom. [caption id="attachment_53159" align="alignnone" width="618"] 7evin7ins' Debut EP "My Everlasting Isolation": A Prismatic Dreamscape[/caption] Compositions interlink yet each retains its own color and texture, atmosphere and reverbs woven into an auditory patchwork quilt. As debuts often whisper or scream, "My Everlasting Isolation" does both–candidly addressing loneliness yet demanding to be heard. Spinning this record feels like reading secrets in a locked diary, raw yet relatable, immersive visions beckoning us to embrace the contrasts of smoke and spotlights, past and future, echoes and epiphanies. This is 7evin7ins' compelling invitation into his Everlasting Isolation. Follow 7evin7ins on Website, Facebook, YouTube, Instagram and TikTok.

[sbknews]

New Weise Core Adventure Jacket

Accessibly priced, AA-rated, adventure-ready textile jacket Broaden your horizons without it costing the Earth in the new Weise Core Adventure jacket, which provides first-class comfort, AA-rated protection, and the reassurance of a two-year warranty - all at a refreshingly accessible price. Adventure riders need to be able to adapt to changing conditions, so the Core comes equipped with a waterproof, windproof and breathable liner, a removable 75gsm quilted thermal lining and zippered vents at the chest and forearms, plus a large exhaust vent at the rear. There's plenty of adjustment at the waist, sleeves and collar, to allow you to add or remove layers as required, and accordion stretch panels aid freedom of movement. As a little extra luxury, the collar is fleece lined and Neoprene®-trimmed. For protection, the Core Adventure has your back, with CE Level 2 shoulder and elbow armour and a Level 1 back protector as standard. A trouser connection zip with a comfort stretch panel helps keep the jacket in place too.

As well as two zipped front pockets, there is a large rear map pocket. Reflective panel detailing also features, to help visibility in low light. The Weise Core Adventure retails at just £169.99 RRP including VAT - great value for an adventure-ready textile jacket - and is covered by Weise’s two-year warranty for complete peace of mind. The Classic Black comes in a vast size range (S-12XL) and the Navy option offers sizes S-5XL. For more Weise News check out our dedicated page Weise News Visit www.weiseclothing.com for details and a dealer list. Read the full article

[johnandtracyslittleones]

Haven Box: Maps and Navigation

Nature Play

Five more hours playing at the creek this week. Lots of climbing, playing lava monster tag, and setting up tarp hammocks with impossible to untie knots.

Science & Nature

Learning about different geographical terms turned out to be more interesting than I had expected, thanks to our Nature Anatomy book.

We were given a map of Colorado. I think we were supposed to do some Nature Notebooking with it, but my kids dislike those videos. So instead we used it to highlight all the places we have visited. Purple is a day trip or road trip stop, gold is an overnight stay and green are the highways we have traversed through the state. (Kira was incensed I wouldnt let her color each city a different color to make a rainbow map of confusion.)

Art & Handwork

We learned about the compas rose and drew variations.

Kira also drew a map of the creek with all of the places we have named over the months.

Instead of a project for our handwork, we spent extra time going through The Once Upon A Time Map Book, practicing our map skills and enjoying the creative maps. Again I worried this wouldn’t be as fun as some of the previous weeks’ projects, but they loved it!

Forest to Table

The recipe for Honey Cake was just okay. I think it is currently molding on top of the fridge.

Art, Literature & Music

Two beautiful books this week. Jamie loved Sweet Clara and the Freedom Quilt. We read it several times. I was amazed that they somehow managed to encorporate Black History Month into the map theme.

Blaeu’s World Map, 1665 by Joan Blaeu was interesting, but not appreciated as much as previous artworks. They deemed our music selection of Short Ride in a Fast Machine by John Adams as too chaotic, though it was nice to hear all the different instruments.

Not bad, considering when I told them the theme for the week they both groaned!

[saint-starflicker]

I don't know how Catherynne Valente does it (ADHD published author, The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland and Led the Revels There was about lengthy and had a couple of twists that were set up very much earlier) but a practice with bullet journaling can be another support (simple enough not to take up too much working memory, flexible enough not to get stodgy).

It also helped me so much to discover my creative process style (from Ellen Brock, book coach and professional editor.)

Some writer types are strict "method plotters" that means: plot outline, relationship web diagram, character biodata sheets, maps and blueprints of every city and room—or else there's nothing to fall back on when it comes to what to write next, and that's where writers block comes from, blocks come from not enough pre-work before writing.

But then others only write by pure inspiration and improvisation, so if they're forced to plan and plot against their creative process type then that's where their writers block comes from, the lack of freedom and the drain on creative energy that pre-work does to them.

Most people fall in between, so I do a bit of research and moodboarding beforehand or make playlists, and I move on to a vague plot outline (not too detailed or else I trick my mind into thinking that I already wrote the thing and I will feel as though I already wrote the thing even when I know that I didn't), and research other details as I go. Sometimes I get distracted by another book or writing an essay or by life—at which point it was good that I make a playlist, because then accidentally hearing any song on that playlist is like a sleeper-agent activation word that gets me wanting to write the thing. It suits me better to write from the beginning until the end.

Others prefer to write scenes as they're inspired to, out of order, and then sort of copy-paste them together like stitching quilt patches after they have all the pieces and snippets written out.

Someone teach me to have the endurance and stamina for long fics because holy shit i have an au i want to write but my adhd is a looming threat to all my wips

[river-bottom-nightmare]

do you have any dick grayson hcs? I love the way you write about him :D

i do indeed babe, and i am so sorry this is so late i need a distraction from finals week here are a few rambles!

dick's got a love/hate relationship with airports. one one hand, they are places of travel, treasure maps to some incomprehensible reward, and despite dick's boundless curiosity, his need to know things, he's come to appreciate unending moments. airports included. they're filled to the brim with journeys and wanderers, with possibility. but on the other hand, they're just so constrained. dick remembers slipping out of his family's trailer to watch the sun rise, remembers the soft hum of shifting grass at night, remembers bird calls and waterfalls singing out a familiar rhythm-tattoo into the world. he travelled in the open air as a child, and next to nothing will ever come close to that type of freedom.

dick's got a modestly sized list of favourite foods about as similar as a crumbling lighthouse is to a tangerine. in no part thanks to his mismatched quilt of friendships, his favourites include spaetzle to chai doughnuts to wood sorrel. he'll never request them—having spent a significant portion of his life without a butler at hand—but it's still easy to figure out which foods are his favourites, since it takes at least half a dozen people physically stopping him from making himself sick on them. (it causes his friends and family equal parts amusement and concern.)

nightmares are, at this point, a staple in the life of any vigilante, so much so that a good dream leaves an itch when the morning arrives, like the absence of presence. but dick's nightmares have always been a little strange. instead of the curses of memory and failure and grief, dick dreams of headless chickens walking on graves, of books with so many words layered on the pages that they're impossible to read. he has nightmares of two-headed snakes being bad omens, nightmares of unfeeling cars roaring down a tumbleweed highway to reveal someone on the other side, staring at the point between dick's eyes, familiar nose and familiar eyes and familiar lips all on a face that is unrecognizable, and he wants to cross the road to buy an ice-cream pop from them, only the road has transformed into a deep set of stairs, and he tries to climb down but his foot slips and he's falling, he's falling— (dick's never claimed to be superstitious, but he has to admit that some things are just a little fucking weird to be normal.)

dick's favourite star wars character has always been obi-wan kenobi. whenever anyone asks, his immediate response is a little wag of the eyebrows, that beard is kinda hot, tho, right? he carefully doesn't mention a stubborn obi-wan on melida/daan, abandoned by qui-gon, staring out at the army of the young that looked far too much like the titans for dick's comfort. he doesn't bring up the 212 attack battalion, careful not to compare them to the outsiders in his head. he doesn't mention obi-wan's faked death, his extended undercover mission as rako hardeen, the hurt on anakin's face when he discovered the truth, discovered that obi-wan, of all people, lied to him. however, sometimes he'll offer up a smirk and say, chasing after a reckless old hero or an impulsive little genius of a child while managing to be half mad yourself? now why does that sound familiar?

dick's room always needs to be a little cluttered for him to focus. as long as his couch is overflowing with throws and some pillows, his case files will come out flawless. only if his shoes are crooked by the door and sunlight streaming through the windows highlights the books stacked on the floor can he relax into a stretching routine. his kitchen is disastrously well-stocked, his bathroom has thrift-store paintings snuggled between damian's artwork on the wall with hardly any room to spare, his bedroom seems as though he's using every object in there all the time, his home gives off the feeling of life. it's warm and loved, like a funnel cake out of the oil and a vinyl on and singing. (it's the reason why some people visit for a quick stopover on a mission, for information, for medical attention, and always shyly ask if they can come back.)

[jeremystrele]

Seven Local Kids Design Brands We Can’t Get Enough Of!

Seven Local Kids Design Brands We Can’t Get Enough Of!

Shopping

by Amelia Barnes

Selection of V. Happy Co Alphapics Prints in A2 and A3. Plant and planter by Ivy Muse. Lockers by Mustard Made. Floor cushions by Sage x Clare. Taco by Make Me Iconic. Bag/key tags by V. Happy Co. Burger greeting card on locker by V. Happy Co. Photo – Amelia Stanwix. Styling – Paige Anderson. Art direction – V. Happy Co

V. Happy Co Alphapics Letter G Print + Letter C Print. Timber bed by Plyroom. Bed linen and Mathilda Crochet Cushion by Sage x Clare. Locker by Mustard Made. Wire basket on top of locker by Mustard Made. Letter B Bag Tag (on locker) by V. Happy Co. Oval Play Mat in Sage by jnr.life. Hot Chips Tall Lunch Bag by Doo Wop Kids. Floor cushions by Sage x Clare. Photo – Amelia Stanwix. Styling – Paige Anderson. Art direction – V. Happy Co

Letter B Print by V. Happy Co. Plyroom Ava Cot. Plyroom Dedo Wooden Storage Box. Linen and cushions by Sage x Clare. Mustard Made ‘The Shorty’ Locker. Doo Wop Kids Trucks Tall Lunch Bag. Plant and planter by Ivy Muse. jnr.life play mats and shapes. Letter A Bag Tag by V. Happy Co. Make Me Iconic Healthy Tummy Brekkie. Photo – Amelia Stanwix. Styling – Paige Anderson. Art direction – V. Happy Co

Whether you have kids of your own, or just occasionally buy gifts for other little people in your life, it’s always handy to be across the latest and greatest brands for kids.

From personalised art prints to Melbourne-made furniture, there are so many fantastic options currently on offer. These seven brands are just a handful of our local favourites!

Selection of V. Happy Co Alphapics Prints. jnr.life Play Mat (oval, rust), Play Mat (round, linen); Play Room Mate (gull/lobster); Play Go Round (ocean and gull) Play Arc (cloud). Mustard Made Wire Basket. Make Me Iconic Loose Change Binoculars. Make Me Iconic Healthy Tummy Brekkie. Photo – Amelia Stanwix. Styling – Paige Anderson. Art direction – V. Happy Co

Playmat in Sage by jnr.life. Photo – courtesy of jnr.life

New V. Happy Co Art Print – Robot Face Print (800mm x 1200mm, available framed for Melbourne pick up). Mustard Made ‘The Skinny’ Locker. jnr.life Play Mat (oval, rust); Play Room Mate (gull/lobster); Play Go Round (ocean and gull) Play Arc (cloud).  Make Me Iconic Loose Change Paddle Ball. Letter A Bag Tag by V. Happy Co. Photo – Amelia Stanwix. Styling – Paige Anderson. Art direction – V. Happy Co

jnr.life

In a market saturated by clutter, Nikki Davis and Ashleigh Pyke saw an opportunity to enter the children’s interiors space with a more sophisticated and considered design approach.

Their label, jnr.life launched in 2018 with high quality quilted play mats, but their latest venture is jnr.play – a collection of soft play-shapes made in Melbourne for both indoor and outdoor fun.

‘We create useful play essentials for junior life (right from birth) that nurture the imagination and encourage play without forsaking a stylish sensibility suited to grown-up environments,’ says Ashleigh.

These are the kind of kids toys you’ll proudly keep on display in the home, and can even double as furniture.

‘We design for tots but appeal to a contemporary aesthetic with uncompromising detail and durable, premium textiles,’ says Nikki.

jnrlife.com

Maxi Round World Map Backpack by Doo Wop Kids. Letter E Bag Tag by V. Happy Co. Photo – Amelia Stanwix. Styling – Paige Anderson. Art direction – V. Happy Co

Photo – courtesy of Doo Wop Kids

Doo Wop Kids

Sydney-based label Doo Wop Kids are bringing personality to gender-neutral kids fashion with their printed clothing, backpacks, hip packs, lunch bags, and handbags.

‘Doo Wop Kids create products that allow children to express themselves through bright colours, fun prints and loud patterns – without any rules,’ says Wendy Zakaria, who founded the label in 2015.

‘As a brand, we align ourselves to further the freedom of individuality and creativity within our children.’

With prints ranging from ‘70s inspired florals, to cheeseburgers, ramen, and world maps, Doo Wop Kids’ pieces are sure to make you smile. Items are made in both Australia and Indonesia.

doowopkids.com.au

Aussie Food Set by Make Me Iconic. Photo – courtesy of Make Me Iconic

Mustard Made ‘The Lowdown’ Locker. V. Happy Co Letter E Print. Letter E Bag Tag (on locker) by V. Happy Co. Australian Ute by Make Me Iconic. Australian Stacking Burger by Make Me Iconic. Plant and stand by Ivy Muse. Photo – Amelia Stanwix. Styling – Paige Anderson. Art direction – V. Happy Co

Make Me Iconic

After 10 years living in Europe, Natasha Skunca returned to Melbourne and realised the gap in the market for stylish souvenirs depicting local icons.

‘The city has so much to offer that is unique, stylish, and contemporary and I wanted something in our home that brought those elements to life,’ says Natasha.

A decade later, her label Make Me Iconic is still going strong, and has evolved from tea towels, cushions and artwork to also offer beautiful, wooden toys. Amongst their best sellers are remakes of the Australia Post street mailboxes and Melbourne’s famous yellow and green trams.

‘Our wooden toys also simply don’t go out of style, and tend to be more timeless… [They] keep kids busy and they are actually doing some serious learning right before your eyes,’ says Natasha.

There’s also non-Melbourne specific souvenirs for those based elsewhere in the country – such as glass ornaments, wooden versions of Arnotts biscuits, and sequinned accessories.

makemeiconic.com

Selection of V. Happy Co Alphapics Prints. Taco by Make Me Iconic. Locker by Mustard Made. Photo – Amelia Stanwix. Styling – Paige Anderson. Art direction – V. Happy Co

Letter A Print Alphapics Print by V. Happy Co. Photo – courtesy of V. Happy Co

V. Happy Co

V. Happy Co creates playfully designed art prints and more, to inspire both big and little folk.

Founded by designer Vanessa Perilli in 2019, PR expert and brand strategist Esther Navarro-Orejon joined the business in 2020.

Among their most popular products are the Alphapics prints – a unique illustrated alphabet to encourage language awareness, while also just looking great in any kids’ room! V. Happy Co also creates personalised art prints of kids’ names – the perfect gift for new parents. All products are proudly made in Australia.

V. Happy Co were the masterminds behind the now-postponed Happy House event… so stay tuned to their socials for the rescheduled date, as well as new products coming soon!

vhappyco.com

Mustard Made ‘The Shorty’ Locker in Mustard. Photo – courtesy of Mustard Made

Maxi Round World Map Backpack by Doo Wop Kids. Letter E Bag Tag by V. Happy Co Mustard Made ‘The Skinny’ Locker in Ocean. Letter A Bag Tag by V. Happy Co. Photo – Amelia Stanwix. Styling – Paige Anderson. Art direction – V. Happy Co

Mustard Made

We’re big fans of Mustard Made – makers of colourful lockers for kids bedrooms, playrooms and adult spaces alike!

Lockers are available in a range of sizes to serve as versatile storage solutions. The Twinny for example makes for an ideal wardrobe, The Lowdown can be a TV console, and The Shorty is a bedside table alternative. The only problem is choosing a favourite colour!

‘Our lockers are designed to be simple, beautiful, and above all, super versatile, no matter how big or small you are,’ says Becca Stern, who co-founded Mustard Made with her sister Jess Stern in 2018.

‘It’s all in the little details, from the matching keyring to the flexibility of the shelves. We really want our lockers to last so they can grow with you as your clothes get bigger.’

mustardmade.com

Letter B Print by V. Happy Co. Plyroom Ava Cot. Plyroom Dedo Wooden Storage Box. Linen and cushions by Sage x Clare. Mustard Made “Shorty’’ Locker. Doo Wop Kids Trucks Tall Lunch Bag. Plant and planter by Ivy Muse. jnr.life play mats and shapes. Letter A Bag Tag by V. Happy Co. Make Me Iconic Healthy Tummy Brekkie. Photo – Amelia Stanwix. Styling – Paige Anderson. Art direction – V. Happy Co

Plyroom Ava Lifestages Cot. Photo – courtesy of Plyroom

Plyroom

‘Thoughtful’ and ‘understated’ are not words commonly used to describe children’s furniture, but not all children’s furniture is created by Plyroom!

Among this label’s wider furniture collection are several pieces specifically designed to grow with children, and last a lifetime.

‘Children’s spaces are often cluttered and busy. Our pieces sit lightly in the space and create a natural canvas for calm,’ says Plyroom director and founder Elise Heslop.

‘As families grow and needs change, our pieces can adjust and adapt to growing children and spaces as life changes. The Ava Lifestages Cot (pictured), for example, is also a desk, junior bed, and two-tier cot.’

Plyroom products are made in Australia and Italy.

plyroom.com.au

Sage x Clare kids wares. Photo – Armelle Habib. Styling – Heather Nette King.

Photo – courtesy of Sage x Clare

Sage x Clare

A leap of faith saw Melbourne based designer Phoebe Bell found Sage x Clare in 2013, and she hasn’t looked back since!

The homewares, apparel and accessories label expanded to include a baby and kids range in 2017, offering a vibrant range of bed linen, cushions, wall hangings, blankets and muslin wraps.

‘Creating handcrafted pieces full of charm, colour, pattern and texture is the heartbeat of this brand,’ says Phoebe.

Sage x Clare’s soulful and textural wares are designed in Melbourne and made in India. ‘Each piece has such detail that it’s a joy to be surrounded by them,’ says Phoebe. ‘To hold these pieces in your hands and know that someone has learnt a time-honoured craft to create them is the most special feeling of all.’

sageandclare.com

[alicxnthightower]

It was somewhat mesmerizing, watching the languid way a gentle fury began to unfurl within the princess. A sweet fire swirling just beneath the surface of fair skin, it sparked first through Rhaenyra’s words. Sharp and precise, she let her feelings spill hot into the open air. The edge of her jaw twitched, tensing just so and her eyes came to life with molten sparks. 

She truly was a dragon. The beast made home deep inside her, stitched between blood and muscle, intertwined with her very soul. Alicent remained still, intently listening and waiting- a tether in the eye of the brewing storm. Her eyes flit over her friend’s face, then down to where she was twisting her rings to expel nerves.  

The facets of a ruby sparkled in the light, the match to the emerald fit secured around her own finger. Her heart swelled, warmth seeping into her chest when she stopped to think about the importance of it. Furrowing her brow, Alicent reached over and covered Rhaenyra’s hand with her own, giving it a gentle squeeze to stop her fidgeting. 

“You will always matter to your father, Rhaenyra, even if he may not properly show it.” she smiled then with reassurance, “And, though it isn’t quite the same, you will never be forgotten by me.” 

Even if she hadn’t finished her thought, Alicent knew exactly what she meant. She didn’t want to see herself with anyone else either. She didn’t want to be introduced to suitors, or be courted, hanging on someone’s arm as they spoke of nonsense she didn’t care about.  

She would be wrenched from the arms of her best friend, and what little freedom she possessed would be stolen just as fast. 

The piercing of anxiety in her stomach at the thought of leaving the Keep, of leaving Rhaenyra, was enough to make her feel sick. The breath she drew in was shaken; her eyesight threatened to swim just enough to blur her vision. Alicent tugged the string on her cloak tighter, pulled until it started to unravel, and her knuckles paled. 

Stuffing the cork back into the wine bottle, Alicent suddenly moved to lay flat on her back, as her shoulder was starting to ache from leaning on her hand for too long. She sighed as evenly as she could and cast her eyes skyward. “What do you want?” 

She chucked then with an afterthought, forcing herself to stay in the present and forget events that had yet to even happen, “And don’t just say to eat cake and fly off on Syrax. You do that anyways.” 

A wispy cloud tracked across the sky, revealing a cluster of stars in the distance. Alicent mapped them, adjusting her head on the quilt as she strummed her fingertips against her stomach. 

“If it was appropriate, would you still marry me...just as you are?” 

It tumbled from her lips before she had the chance to swallow it instead. The inside of her cheek grew raw as she chewed at the tender flesh while she began counting her stars to keep her heart from hammering out her ears.  

The thought alone made her entire body hum.

She would pray over it later, for here in the Godswood they were not the princess and her lady-in-waiting. They were just Rhaenyra and Alicent, drinking wine and sharing secrets under the swaying branches of the Heart Tree.  

“I always think of it too, you know.” she confessed after another quiet sigh, glancing over at Rhaenyra. 

Getting out, starting over, leaving it all behind. 

Only then would she have nothing to escape from. Only something to run toward. 

The moon, nearly full, is at its peak in the blackened sky when Alicent finally finds herself crawling beneath the crisp sheets of her bed. The linens are cold to the touch as she sinks into the mattress, pillows overly fluffed where her face buries in deep. She draws in a slow, steady breath against the cotton, then releases it with a content sigh. She repeats it three times, then turns her head to the side and curls herself into a ball. The bed is fit for two, three even, but she only ever sleeps in the middle. It’s the one place she can allow herself to feel small, tucked carefully between her large comforter and soft mattress. She’s safe there, in the quiet. With nothing more than the gentle crackle of the fire in the hearth, or the occasional muffled voice floating from the hall, Alicent can only hear her own breathing. It’s a relief to be off her feet, to not worry about keeping perfect posture, or smile until her cheeks hurt and her teeth ache.  

What’s better is that she doesn’t have her father’s voice in her ear telling her to be better, to try harder. 

“Remember, Alicent. You are a lady of the court, and I expect you to carry yourself as such.” He will often say with a calm face, always so collected, “Running around playing childish games with the princess is unbefitting and I can see it’s beginning to cloud your judgement. Perhaps it’s time you started growing up.” 

It’s subtle, his disappointment, but it still manages to cut deep enough that even picking at her cuticles won’t help her heal. 

Alicent doesn’t realize she’s been clenching her left hand in a fist until her nails pierce her palm and she winces, blinking into the darkness to clear her mind. She rubs her palm back and forth across the mattress to quell the sting before adjusting her head on one of the pillows and closing her eyes, willing sleep to take her. 

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but her eyes are heavy with it when she hears a creak coming from the corner of her room. The soft disturbance is followed by a shuffling of feet, trying and failing to remain quiet as they flit across the floor. Alicent keeps still, half-convinced that she’s dreaming when the smell of fire smoke brushes across her cheek.  

“Rhaenyra.” she mumbles, pulling the woody smoke further into her lungs when she draws in a deep breath to try and shake herself awake. “I better be dreaming. The hour is late, and you should be in your room, asleep.” 

Alicent hears an annoyed huff at the side of her bed where the mattress dips with an added weight. Curiosity gets her to open her eyes. That, and the fact that her best friend is in her room when she shouldn’t be, and she knows Rhaenyra will have a smile full of mischief dancing across her lips. It’s the one she loves the most, because it both worries and excites her at the same time. Her stomach flips wild whenever she catches it and she can’t put a name to it, but it’s something she always wants to chase.  

She can only see the tail of Rhaenyra’s braid shining like silver in the sparce moonlight. The rest is hidden beneath a hat and upon further inspection, she notes that her friend is dressed as a commoner. A second set of clothes is placed between them in a pile and Alicent lets out a pathetic whine, even though she’s smiling as she sits up. Pulling her knees to her chest, she glances at the outfit, then settles her attention back to Rhaenyra. 

Puffing out her cheeks, Alicent combs her fingers through her hair and brushes it off her shoulders before plucking a simple, baggy tunic from the offered clothing. Her nightgown is up and over her head and she’s working one of her arms through a sleeve when she speaks again. 

“Where do you plan on venturing to tonight, princess?” Alicent asks with a quiet laugh. 

It’s late, the sky is starless, but she doesn’t care. She’s missed this. 

@rhaenyratargxryen

[marroquinruben]

The Ridgefield Press

Silvermine showcases fiber art innovation in virtual exhibit

By Andrea Valluzzo

“Bridgeport artist Ruben Marroquin, who is represented in the exhibition with an embroidered map of New York City over linen, noted fiber art offers a unique set of challenges. “Yarns can be challenging to work with, the material is very frail, expensive and it tends to get tangled or break quite often, even though I work with the strongest available materials such as German quilting threads, Belgian linen, cotton and bamboo as well as metallics,” he said. The three-dimensional nature of yarns adds a sculptural element to pieces. “The process can be painstaking as it requires tremendous strength and intricacy. The biggest challenge, however, is how long each piece takes to be completed, long hours, weeks and months of slow progress translate eventually into the finished product.”

“Challenges can lead to freedoms, however. “The slowness and arduousness of the stitching process can be a freedom as well, it’s an opportunity to slow down, filtering the energy as it slowly seeps from artist to the paintings,” he said.

[coyotescribbles]

The Warlord’s Daughter #8

Jeanette didn't know how long she remained frozen in place after she was left alone. It could have been one minute, or five, or even ten, and her churning mind wouldn't have noticed.

What was happening? What was going to happen? She'd been so sure that she was about to die, but now that wasn't such an obvious outcome - she might still die, yes, but it no longer felt like a given. So what was going to happen to her? Was she going to be tortured? Turned over to someone else? She didn't know, and she hated not knowing...

Not knowing frightened her more than anything else.

Look at you, she chastised herself, scared of shadows and hiding in a corner like a child.

I am a child.

You are a Spartan.

At least, that's what she'd been meant to be, wasn't it? A Spartan, fearless and fierce...

She didn’t feel particularly fearless or fierce at the moment, though.

Finally, she took a breath to steady herself, and peeked out into the room, making certain that it was empty before she dared to venture out, uncurling from her hiding place and rising unsteadily to her feet.

And for the first time, she was able to get a proper look at her surroundings.

The floor was black stone, finely veined with delicate webs of white and gold, with a path bounded by narrow golden tiles that lead from the door to the entrance of another chamber on the far side of the room. The area she was in seemed to be some sort of sitting area, furnished with wide, cushioned benches - including the one she'd been dropped on - on either side of a low table. And, perhaps most fascinatingly, there were plants; live plants in large, heavy spherical containers - two flanking the door, another against the wall situated between the two benches, and four more across the room, arranged around some kind of small fountain built into the wall there.

She didn't think she'd ever seen plants indoors before, to say nothing of on board a starship.

For a moment Jeanette let her fingers brush over the leathery green leaves of the nearest one, before cautiously moving on.

The whole... living space - it certainly didn't seem to be any sort of prison cell - was laid out like a half-circle, far larger and more luxurious than anything she'd ever seen before, except perhaps the live-fire ranges at the facility.

Even just the thought of that place twisted her stomach now; she still couldn't understand why she'd seemingly been abandoned there, why the whole building had been so very empty and the evidence of conflict so scarce... it just didn't make sense. There had been hundreds of personnel there, and yet...

...and yet...

With a sharp shake of her head, Jeanette shoved those thoughts aside; they were pointless now. Whatever had happened, had happened, and there was nothing she could do and no one she could ask about it.

Best to focus on the matter at hand.

After she'd gotten her scattered wits back in order, she resumed her exploration, mentally mapping out the layout of the room, from the sitting area to the open entryway with its softly gurgling water feature, all the way to the shadowy chamber at the back.

It was there that she hesitated, peering warily into the darkness for a heartbeat before venturing in.

This room wasn't as open as the living area, and was outfitted with a single broad bed, a tall wardrobe, an equally tall mirror, and a low-set, long chest of drawers. The bed’s mattress was thick, with a slight give to it; the pillows were likewise thick and dense, obviously made for non-human heads and necks, and both bed and pillows were made up with heavy, smooth fabric coverings and sheets beneath a luxuriously soft quilted blanket.

It was a far cry from the thin, hard cot and scratchy sheet she'd grown accustomed to. She almost felt envious.

The next thing that drew her attention wasn't the elaborately-framed mirror or the wardrobe that was almost big enough for her to sleep in, but the chest of drawers - or, rather, what sat atop it, neatly centered on its flat, smooth surface.

A small, shallow, squareish ceramic dish, in which grew another plant.

No, she corrected herself, a very small tree.

The chest was just tall enough for her to rest her chin on as she leaned in close to examine this bewildering little thing. For a moment, she was almost certain that it was fake, but a curious poke showed that the soil in the dish was very real, and slightly damp, and the leaves were the same smooth, leathery texture as the plants in the living area. With the utmost gentleness, Jeanette reached up to run her fingertips over the springy branches and soft leaves, utterly fascinated.

It was with great difficulty that she pulled herself away from the tiny tree, and resumed her exploration, moving through the dark towards yet another door.

When she stepped through this one, she found herself blinking in surprise as an array of soft lights came on automatically, gently illuminating the space as they gradually brightened.

This room was clearly a bathroom, that much was obvious. For all their differences, it seemed that Elites, at least, used similar facilities to humans - the sink and shower stall, both tiled in shades of green, were unmistakable, and the toilet was... odd, but recognizable as well. The rest of the room was tiled in deep blue, with  the tiles underfoot sporting a coarser texture than the tiles on the walls. Beside the shower was a rack, tiled in the same rich green as the stall itself, which held stacks of washcloths, rolled-up towels, and a selection of soaps which smelled pleasantly like burning wood, so unlike the overwhelmingly antiseptic-smelling stuff she'd once used...

Once again, she felt envious.

With a sigh, she turned to leave once more, noting how the washroom lights dimmed back to darkness after she stepped through the door.

She left the bedroom, too, despite the intense temptation to curl up on the bed and sleep off the steady throbbing that had settled into her skull.

Stepping back out into the living area, Jeanette next found herself eying the door that led out into the corridor.

What would happen if she opened it? Could she even open it? Where would she even go?

Ever wary, she approached until she was standing right in front of it; it remained firmly closed... but there was a pad set into the wall to the left, and she reached up to tentatively tap at its glassy surface.

The door slid open with a rush of air that almost startled her, and for a moment she could only stare at the open portal.

There was no freedom to be found beyond it, she knew that. She knew there was nowhere for her to run; even if she did somehow manage to make it back to the hangar, she didn't know how to fly.

Still...

Jeanette peeked around the doorframe, cautiously stepping through.

And she immediately came face-to-face with what she could only describe as an armored wall. A sense of dread rose up in her gut as she looked up, and up, even further than she'd had to with the Elite. A thick, sickly-glistening "neck" that seemed to be made of twisted orange ropes protruded from a heavy collar near the top of the towering mass, and at the end of that neck was a blocky, bluish box like a head.

As she watched, it swung towards her, fixing her with an array of brightly-glowing green "eyes" set into the metal, and a deep rumble rattled the depths of her chest. She choked on a gasp as she reeled away from the massive thing - into another unyielding object. Wheeling around, she just barely registered a second creature, just as immense as the first, before she dove back into the room she'd left, only a breath before the door slid shut.

Her heart pounding deafeningly in her ears, Jeanette scrambled and lunged for the sheltered corner she never should have left. Huddling as far back into the corner as she could, she hugged her knees tightly to her chest and, too overwhelmed to do anything else, began to quietly sob.

[shelbyshoe]

Fairies After Dark

Chapter 1

Natsu, a Horde vampire, desires nothing more than to find his father and leave his brother behind. Lucy, an immortal Valkyrie, just needs to get this Horde bounty off her head. Doesn’t help the assassin after her is a gorgeous vampire with cherry pink hair.

Rated: M (sexual content, violence, and harsh language)

Words: 6713

Chapter 2, Chapter 3

FF.net link here.

NALU set in the Immortals After Dark universe by Kresley Cole. I highly recommend the book series. Check out the wiki for more information. Not required to understand the story, but recommended as the universe is fantastic. Hope you enjoy!

Let’s see, if I move my dinner to next Wednesday, and push sewing day for my man skin quilt to Thursday, then I’m all booked. Sorry to disappoint you. 

-Lucy Heartfilia (AKA Lucy the Celestial Valkyrie)

You know, I love what you've done to the place. I miss the viscera hanging from the ceiling though. 

-Natsu Dragneel (AKA Natsu the Salamander)

The woman in Natsu's arms ground her sex against him, her heart slammed to the beat of the music. He fed in the shadows of the club and didn't look forward to the effect of the alcohol she consumed. No need for him to seduce this woman. She took one look at his perfect form, frozen with immortality at the age of twenty-two, and pursued him mercilessly. She pushed back her mane of dark black hair and slid a hand to the hem of her small tight dress, lifting it for him. He felt no pleasure in her arousal. With his immortality came the cease of his heartbeat and the loss of lust. To this day, he cursed himself for saving himself for his bride, an unknown woman who would one day blood him and bring his heart slamming to life in his frigid chest. He leaned into the woman and ran his lips against her jaw sliding down to her neck. When he tasted her skin, as tempting as Hades’ pomegranate, she moaned against his lips. Natsu opened his mouth, his fangs sharpened like tiny blades. He teased a nick in her flesh— blood beading to the surface. From the small contact, she went boneless in his arms. Her head lulled to the side to allow him better access, and her eyes slid shut. As he sank his fangs into her, she writhed against him. He would be spinning after this. When he had his fill, he licked away the last drops of blood and lay her on one of the V.I.P. couches in the corner. Her chest rose and fell in slumber. He would not drink her to the quick, never could, as doing so caused maddening bloodlust.

Natsu stumbled through the crowd. His head was light from the alcohol and the rush of taking from the flesh of a human. Unlike the Forebearer vampires, who rejected the act, he found the experience wonderful and closest to sex he could have in his current state. The music was too loud for his sensitive ears as he ambled toward an exit. The surrounding mortals, oblivious to what he was, couldn't sense the other immortals that found themselves lost in the throes of passion and music alongside them. A few other vampires took women into dark corners. He nodded toward a rage demon he knew on his way out. To his benefit, in his thousands of years of life, he collected many allies in the Lore and just as many enemies. Loreans, immortals, lived among mortals and remained hidden in fear of the Gods' wrath if exposed. 

The bouncer eyed him on his way out of the club. Natsu, accustomed to this look from the man, flashed him his thousand-watt smile. A few humans in line followed him with their eyes. They raked their gazes across his body. Their breath lifted into the air with the cold so enamored they did not notice air never left his lips. He veered toward an alley to trace away from the bustle of the city. His body blinked out of existence and he found himself in the mountains of Fiore, his home.

His room was just how he left it. A mountain of mess spread out across the room. Clothes littered the floor, tomes of dragons from Lore and collections of maps stacked beneath the castle window, and small trinkets of gems and stones littered along a shelf. His cluttered desk pressed against the stone wall. Maps and journals spread across the surface and more collected trinkets. Anything he could get his hands on to find his father he kept in his room. Last known locations sprawled across the pinboard behind his desk. The paper clippings never showed his name, but always held his signature, Igneel the King of Fire. His space was a haven away from prying eyes. The curtains closed, but he could see the overcast sky hiding the moon. He slid them open to reveal the town below. Fiore, an immortal hub and trading port, bustled beneath his window's gaze.

"I knew I sensed you." Natsu whipped his head toward the door. Gajeel leaned against the frame with a look of disgust.

"Knock, won't you?" Natsu said.

"Why? Jerkin in here, Salamander? Hiding your bride in all this shit?" Gajeel enjoyed using Natsu's age-old name and gestured toward the piles of books and treasures he collected over the years.

"I wish. If you wanted to watch, you just had to ask." He gave a smile that forced the man to cringe.

"Gross. I just came to tell you Sting needs you downstairs."

"What does the heir want now?" Gajeel shrugged, his lean muscles tensed. He didn't hate Gajeel, but he didn't like him either. An enemy vampire turned ally was unpredictable. However, when it came to their hatred for Sting, they got along. Sting's father, Weisslogia the Cruel, killed in battle had led to Sting's current place as the ruler of their sect of Horde vampires. Rumors say Sting assassinated the ancient Vampire himself for the seat, and one day he could seize the throne of all the Horde.

"Fuck if I know." Gajeel straightened in the doorway. He stood much taller than Natsu and madness simmered just behind his eyes. Natsu knew the man in front of him drank to the quick more times than he originally let on. Sometimes, Natsu saw his gaze wander and his eyes glass over in a red haze with an intruding memory of one of his victims. Some vampires collected them with the taste of blood from the flesh. Only when they killed during the act did the thirst begin, and one's mind lost, their eyes burning bright red. Natsu didn't drink from mortals often, but he needed to let off some steam somehow. When Gajeel's claws appeared more entertaining than their conversation, he walked out to the hall, and Natsu followed. The castle halls, his home since the disappearance of his father, loomed in the still darkness. When a Forebearer found him centuries ago, a vampire named Gray, he had wandered the globe in search of Igneel. It took little time for them to argue about everything. Natsu sought nothing more than to be free and forbearing the flesh was not a part of freedom. Gray had urged him to join for protection, and he agreed safety was important in the Lore. The Horde, the next best thing, suited him fine in that regard.

The throne room changed since Sting's father's death. The usual adornment of corpses and blood, that drained through the floor, replaced by books and classy goblets of blood mead.

"Your heinie-ness," Natsu said with an exaggerated bow. Sting scowled from over the book he read. He heard Gajeel snigger from behind him. Sting closed the book with a snap. His claws lengthened across the book's leather.

"I've asked you both not to use that name." Sting's red eyes bore into Gajeel.

"What do you need?" Natsu asked.

"I have been informed tonight that one of ours was slain in your jurisdiction." Fuck. Natsu shrugged. 

"I wasn't aware anyone was sent into my area."

"Maybe, if you weren't whoring around, you would have sensed them," Sting said. His voice continuously business and cold. Natsu didn't know how old Sting was, but the heir liked to act ancient. The older a vampire, the stronger they were. Natsu suspected Sting was younger than he let on. Natsu never asked or hung it over his head, but he could have taken the throne. Sting and his father had not been blood-related after all, and Natsu's strength far surpassed Sting's. However, he found himself far too focused on locating Igneel to take on such a tiresome responsibility.

"You know, I love what you've done to the place. I miss the viscera hanging from the ceiling though," Natsu said pointing toward the chandelier that now hung in its place.

"Don't change the subject." Sting gripped the throne until the metal armrests folded like paper beneath his palms. If Natsu possessed a heartbeat, it would have pounded from the waves of power Sting gave off.

"Who kicked the bucket?" Natsu made sure to keep his face unexpressive. Sting visibly cooled, though his eyes still burned with bloodlust.

"The Minstrel."

"That ancient? Who had the power to bring him down?" Rufus Lore, also known as the Minstrel Who Sings to the Red Moon, was one of the oldest Horde vampires blessed with memory manipulation. Taking on an old bloodlust vampire would have been quite the undertaking.

"I don't know, but I need you to find out." Who would slay such an old and powerful male?

"Fine, I assume you want me to kill them. They can't be too strong. Rufus was always a little wooo if you know what I mean." Natsu twirled a finger around his temple for emphasis. the Minstrel's eyes were bright red from the memories accumulated over a long-life and lost lucidity from what he saw. Rumor had it, he couldn't tell the difference between his memories and theirs. His memory manipulation said to get him through the worst of it. Sting sneered at Natsu's gesture. Probably, hit a sore spot with all the bloodlust the man currently felt.

"I'll be going then." Natsu turned to the exit.

"Before you go, Natsu," Sting said, a smug expression on his lips. "Your brother wants to see you." Natsu's body tensed at the reminder of his brother's existence. The current king of the Horde, just as ruthless and crazed as any other bloodlust vampire, had a few centuries over Natsu. Sting knew his name but referred to him as Natsu's brother to piss him off. Zeref, the vampire known as the Black Wizard, killed the previous king of the Horde. Rightfully killing the king or wiping out the lineage obtained you the seat on the Horde throne. Beside him stood Rogue, Sting's best friend. Natsu loathed him too and didn't know how he got along with Sting so well— they were opposites. Natsu left the castle doors to slam behind him. Sounds drifted up from the town below. He could feel the breeze over his skin, but he could not breathe in the crisp air.

"Fuck that guy," Gajeel said behind him leaning against the closed doors.

"What do you want?" Natsu found himself in a touchy mood.

"To see if you need help with this killer. I'm suspicious."

"Why? Everyone hates vampires in the Lore." It was true that vampires were on everyone's hit list, but other Loreans steered away from ancients like the Minstrel.

"There is no current war or reason to pursue someone so powerful. It just smells fishy to me."

"Then go look into it yourself. I have to go." Natsu did not look forward to his talk with his brother.

"Ain't gotta be a dick about it." Gajeel shrugged and traced away. Natsu followed suit and traced to the Horde castle on their vampiric plane. He stood inside a familiar sitting room. Natsu hated everything about the black castle, the expensive furniture, and the old world feel. A soft fire lit the fireplace and two cups of blood mead sat on a small table beside facing chairs. He sensed another presence in the room.

"Why am I not surprised you knew I'd come to this room?" What little time he stayed in his brother's care he spent in this room pondering over Igneel's disappearance.

"Hello, Natsu." Zeref ambled to a chair before the fireplace and took one of the cups in hand. His red eyes glowing in the darkness, black hair tousled, his skin was gaunt, and his eyes rimmed with lost sleep. Zeref always wore older regal clothing that made him look expensive, but they now looked wrinkled and worn. Natsu stood firmly and crossed his arms.

"What do you want?" He didn't want to stay any longer than he had to.

"Come, sit with me, brother." Natsu winced at the familiar tone in his voice.

"Don't pretend you know me." Zeref never desired a relationship before his adoptive father's disappearance. Natsu didn't know he had a brother until he froze in his immortality. Zeref peered over the side of the large chair and gave him a sharp look.

"Humor me." He placed a lot of power into the command. As much as Natsu wanted to fight him on it, he knew he couldn't leave until he did as Zeref said. He peered at the fireplace. Zeref had either been stupid or confident that Natsu wouldn't use the fire against him. Most vampires had gifts, and Natsu was no different. The fire manipulation gave him his age-old name, Salamander. He sank into the chair across from him.

"You look like shit," Natsu said. Zeref gave him a sharp look before the vampire drained his cup.

"Always lovely to speak to you, little brother." This time, Natsu held his tongue over the mention of their relation. Zeref stared into Natsu's eyes in the unnerving way a cat stares down a fish. "I've looked better."

"Something keeping you up at daylight?" Natsu didn't want to come here and fight with him, no matter how weak he was. The power had always rippled off Zeref like no other he knew. He hated to admit it, but he was grateful Zeref appeared to want to fix their relationship as siblings. Fighting him would prove to be a challenge— one that he would one day take on.

"Isn't there always something that keeps a king from sleep?" He grinned at Natsu shifting his empty cup from one hand to another. His eyes pulled away to stare into the flames. "You don't drink." Natsu's cup of blood mead sat untouched between them.

"I don't drink from a cup I didn't pour."

"Smart, but I have no reason to poison you."

"What do you want, Zeref?" The flames flickered across his red eyes, his focus on something that wasn't Natsu. "Zeref?"

"One day you will know the things that keep me awake," Zeref said. Part of Natsu wanted the man before him dead and reveled in his weakened state, but part of him remained interested in the things that plagued him. Zeref's eyes came back into focus, his face stern "But for now, I heard there was a killing in your jurisdiction."

"Always to remind me of my failures."

"That's not my intention. I wanted to warn you about something." It was the first time Natsu could see Zeref's genuine concern for his wellbeing.

"About the killing?"

"Our oracle has lost sight of you. I worry about you, brother. It is the Accession after all." The Accession happened every five hundred years, a checks-and-balances system for immortals, so killing and mating were soon to ensue. This time, Zeref looked up at Natsu with the furrowed brow of a troubled sibling. "Whoever has killed Rufus the Minstrel may be the very death of you." 

♡♡♡

"Damn Cana to hell," Lucy said between gritted teeth.

"If you keep wiggling, I'll be making these worse," Levy said. With steady hands, she cleaned the gaping wound on Lucy's arm. Lucy arrived at the witch's coven that evening with blood running down her arm, chest, and a smile on her face. Her mood soon soured with the news of the bounty on her head. No one kills an ancient Horde vampire and escapes without consequence.

"Now, I'll have the whole Horde after me."

"Don't you want to kill them all anyway?" Levy cleaned the last of the blood around the wound. Because of her immortality, the cut already began to close.

"Yes, but not all at once!" Lucy could hear the other witches gathered downstairs. Levy had invited her best friend in, threw the bottle of blue nail polish over her shoulder to Juvia, who caught it without taking her eyes off Friday the 13th playing on the TV in the living room, and grabbed the first aid. Lucy's intrusion, not the first time and not the last.

"Why did Cana want you to kill the Minstrel?" Levy wrapped the last bandage around Lucy's arm and packed up the first aid.

"She won a bunch of money in some bet and said she'd pay me for the kill." Levy rolled her eyes but smirked.

"Who would let kooky Cana, the All-knowing soothsayer, in on a bet?"

"Erza didn't want to leave anyone out." Reliving the moment Cana won, and Erza's face transforming into pure regret, amused Lucy.

"Of course, she didn't. Well, did you at least get the money from Cana?"

"Turns out she wasn't entirely lucid when she told me she'd pay for the kill. She couldn't even remember winning the money. I brought her his fangs and everything." Lucy sighed leaning her head back on one of the coven's many beanbag chairs in Levy's room. The room itself plain with few personal effects. When the witch wasn't going back to her bedroom, finding comfort in the upstairs study, the coven told her to just move her stuff there. Levy stood with the first aid in her arms. Lucy pulled a small plastic bag, with fangs inside, out of her pocket and held them up to her friend. "You can have them. Maybe, decorate this abandoned room with them, Levy the Bookworm."

"Levy the All-powerful you mean!" Lucy was grateful for the Valkyrie's alliance with the witches. She often found herself in the cheerful purple Victorian house. The smell of herbs drifted through the house, up to the stairs that wound through the heart, and to the study at the topmost room. The lively coven was calming to Lucy. She didn't hate living with her sisters in Val Hall, but she appreciated the break from the drama and screaming Valkyrie. "Do you want a warding spell?" Levy asked over her shoulder dipping into the small bathroom across the hall. Lucy groaned and struggled to stand from the beanbag chair. She no longer felt the sting of her wounds, sure they already healed, and would remove the bandages later.

"No, I can't go running behind a warding spell. If my sisters thought I was hiding from the Horde, they would chew me out for the rest of eternity." The Valkyrie were all related as sisters or half-sisters, sharing two of their three parents. If it wasn't for the ancient living Book of Lore, no one would believe they came from three parents. When a maiden warrior cries out for courage, the gods Freya and Woden heed her call and strike her with lightning, saving her. They preserve her courage in the form of a daughter, an immortal Valkyrie. Lucy could not dishonor her mother's courage by hiding behind a magical barrier.

Lucy shoved the fangs into her pocket and leaned against the bathroom door. Levy placed the first aid kit back in its rightful place underneath the sink and rummaged through a container of nail polish. She pulled out a purple color and held it up to the light. "I should let you get back," Lucy said. Levy ambled passed her to the hall and waited for her friend to follow.

"You're not staying? It's a horror movie night!"

"Nah, I'm going to take these bad boys to Erol's and see if anyone has a bounty out for this chump." Lucy patted her pocket where the fangs sat like lead. Levy shrugged and padded down the stairs toward the living area. The sounds of conversation and high-pitched orchestral death music came to a crescendo as they went.

"Don't go upstairs, you dummy!" one witch said followed by a resounding groan from all the women.

"Juvia doesn't think that was clever." The screams of said dummy were no more, and the music was quiet.

"You're always welcome here, Lu," Levy said and turned to the rest of the coven. Lucy waved to everyone and left.

Lucy hadn’t been to Erol’s in a long time. The bar nestled in the party district, the same place she had killed the Minstrel. Loreans from all over came to loosen up and make business deals. She heard the bar before she saw it. The neon sign flickered, and the door swung open. A pair of male shapeshifters stomped out laughing, their eyes glowing bright green in the night. They eyed her when she came into view. All Loreans were beautiful— came with the immortal territory. These shapeshifters were no exception.

"Be careful, little fey," one said, his voice low and attractive. She would normally chat them up, but tonight she was on a mission. "There's a demoness in there with quite the attitude." She waved over her shoulder at the warning. Most mistook Valkyries for fey because of their pointed ears. Lucy didn't correct them, as her problems were bigger than a couple of shapeshifters mistaking her for a fey. She pushed through the door and found a group of Lykae at a table near the entrance. One of them she knew and waved her over.

"What are you doing here, Lucy?" Laxus asked. For a moment, as he drank in the sight of her, his usual gray eyes shifted to the bright blue of the Lykae clan.

"Looking for a bounty to claim." She nodded a greeting toward the rest of the table to be polite. "Know of a Minstrel?"

"That ancient vamp? Looking to take him on?" Laxus' grin widened. "Need any help with that?"

"No need," she said and removed the plastic bag from her pocket. "I already took him out." One of the Lykae whistled low.

"Damn, Valkyrie, out for revenge?" one of them asked.

"No, why?"

"Only someone out for revenge would look to get the entire Horde after them for one measly bounty." Lucy internally kicked herself for the same reason and would outwardly kick Cana when she saw her again.

"I was promised money, but my client bowed out."

"I don't blame them," Laxus said eyeing the fangs, "Good luck finding anyone who gets involved with a Horde target." Lucy shrugged and slid the fangs back into her pocket.

"This is the Lore, Laxus. I'm sure someone out there is crazy enough to have a bounty out for the leech." Laxus nodded and tipped a beer glass up to his lips.

"Always welcome to spend some time with us Lykae." His eyes flashed an icy blue. The look was quite the compliment, but she never felt that way toward Laxus, and he never pushed for her interest since she wasn't his mate. The muscular Scots rounded the table with their flashing eyes and wolfish grins. If she was a Lykae's mate, she wouldn't be very upset. Didn't hurt that rumors said they had the highest stamina in the Lore with whispers of mind-blowing sex.

"Thank you, Laxus. I'll have to stop by the Lykae compound one of these days." Lucy was thankful again for the Valkyrie's many alliances and waved at the table on her way to the bar.

"Lucy!" a sweet and boisterous voice called from a table close to the bar. A small silver-haired woman waved her over. Beside her sat a large muscular man and a smaller woman with short silver hair. All of them looked to be related. She guessed they were demons, as the man's horns wrapped around the sides of his head like all the other demons she knew. Horns were a show of power and extremely sensitive to the touch.

"Do I know—"

"Erza asked us to find you here. I'm Mira, this is my sister Lisanna, and brother Elfman." Lucy took the chair that Mira slid out for her.

"How do you know Erza?"

"We go way back. She told me not to tell you, but she wanted me to help you with some leech."

"Of course, she did." Erza was one of the eldest and like a mother to everyone, except Cana. Not surprising that she looked after Lucy.

"No need, I already killed him." She tossed the fangs on the table. She tired of them burning a hole in her pocket. Lisanna's face morphed into disgust.

"Did you have to pull his fangs out?" she asked. Lucy allowed herself to grin with pride.

"How else was I supposed to have proof of my kill?" Most of the sisters kept proof of their kills like trophies. Erza's collection remained the largest. Her row of fangs longer than her assortment of armor. Lisanna's eyes widened in surprise, and Mira laughed.

"I like you, Valkyrie. Erza was right, you are a troublemaker. She knew you would be able to kill him. She wanted me to help you with the bounty."

"Why would you do that?"

"I'd like to do business in the future," she said eyeing her brother, who shrank under her gaze. "If our family requires a little muscle, we'd like help from the Valkyrie."

"Sure, what are the terms—" A large demon bumped into a tiny barmaid and sent her to the floor. The demon spared her not a glance and sat at the bar ordering demon brew. Elfman tensed and Lisanna rose from the table to help the barmaid clean the mess. Mira rolled her eyes at her brother and opened her mouth to speak to the demon at the bar.

"Are you going to say you're sorry?" Elfman asked. His voice was loud but shaky and unpracticed. His eyes glinted in malicious inky black.

"What did you say?"

"You just rammed into her. You should apologize." Elfman stood to confront him. Mira's mouth hung open and her eyes widened. Lucy believed this was an uncommon behavior.

"Don't worry about it," the barmaid said to Lisanna, "I'm just an inferi. I'm used to it."

"That's ridiculous. Of course, I'll help you," Lisanna said. The barmaid's light brown hair fell in her face. Other than the rags she wore, she appeared pretty and buxom. Lucy felt bad for her. Inferi were sorceri who had their root power stolen from them and rendered them a slave to the sorcery who took it from them. The owner of this inferi was nowhere in sight. Lucy had only encountered a few sorceri in her life. This woman must be telling the truth. Sorceri wore armor and masks, and this inferi didn't even have any jewelry on. Most of them were masters of poisons and kept them hidden inside their jewelry and armor. The sorceri took these from her to keep her helpless. The idea sickened Lucy. Whoever owned this one, treated them poorly.

Another crash resounded in the bar. Elfman shoved the demon and demanded an apology for the barmaid, who was shrinking by the second trying in vain to cease Lisanna's help. Both demon's horns straightened preparing to fight. Lucy didn't wish to get in the middle of a demon fight and scooted away.

"You will do as he says," Mira said with a death grip on the demon's wrist. He gritted his teeth, his brow furrowed in pain. His silence earned him another squeeze to which he grunted. Mira moved quick enough for Lucy not to have noticed when she left the table. "Now," she ordered. The demon glared up at Elfman and eyed the inferi on the ground.

"I'm— ugh, go fuck yourself demoness." This was the wrong answer. Mira grasped his wrist and threw him on his back. The wooden floor splintered beneath him. Her appearance changed, her hair wild and untamed, her eyes darkened to pitch black, and her outfit skintight and more suited for one of the Death Demon clan. With each kill, they would become stronger, and Mira appeared ready to bathe in the blood of her enemies with acquired strength. The shapeshifters were right, a demoness raged inside. The demon on the floor mumbled something unintelligible into the wooden and passed out. Mira morphed back to the shapely and kind woman Lucy first met. Lisanna, undisturbed by the commotion, took everything from the barmaid and carried it high above her head all on one hand toward the bar. When she gazed up at her brother, she patted him on the shoulder with a grin.

"Congrats, brother," she said and disappeared behind the bar. Elfman's eyes too had turned pitch-black, but Lucy did not sense rage when he stared down at the inferi on the floor.

"Well would you look at that," Mira said tossing her head back to laugh at the sight. "We'll talk later, Lucy. I'll be sending you the bounty money." She grabbed the fangs from the table and slipped them into her dress. She turned all her attention to the barmaid on the floor and helped her up. "What's your name?" she asked the woman.

"Evergreen."

Lucy said goodbye to the siblings and happily made her way out of the bar. She hoped the sorceri who claimed Evergreen's powers had a written will, as the demon siblings were going to rip them limb from limb.

The fangs out of her pocket, Lucy felt free to do whatever she wanted. She strolled toward a night club she heard about a few times from other Loreans looking for a party. Dancing sounded like an effective way to relax, yet something else drew her that she couldn't place.

♡♡♡

Natsu traced to the familiar alleyway and leaned against the cool brick wall. The Minstrel's killer could be anywhere by now, but he just wanted to lose himself in a soft throat. The beat from the club muffled where he stood. As soon as the bouncer saw Natsu, the man glared in his direction.

"Aw come on, Charlie—"

"It's Brad."

"Okay, Ben. Listen, you want to let me in." Natsu grinned up at the mortal. Every word dripped with power as he stared him down. Whatever the man saw in Natsu's face made him move to the side for him to enter. "Thanks, Bryan." He patted the bouncer on the shoulder and sauntered through the club doors. The sounds and sensations bombarded him as soon as he entered, but one presence stood out. He couldn't make out what direction it was coming from, but it was intoxicating. Their heartbeat like a pounding drum in his ears, a calm in the storm of people. Natsu circled toward the bar, scanning the crowd on the dance floor. Immortals packed in everywhere inside the club. The live DJ bobbed his head to the bass.

"We have to talk." The deep voice slid beside him at the bar.

"Not interested, Gray." Natsu didn’t need to look beside him to know who spoke. The vampire’s presence irritated him as much as his voice. The heartbeat from before grew louder and just as quickly vanished from his earshot.

"There's still time, Natsu. You're not filled with bloodlust yet." Gray stood stiff as a board with discomfort beneath the red hue of the bar light. He wore a white coat with fur around the hood. Gray's eyes trained around him. Observant ass.

"I'll pass." Gray never showed his face in Natsu's jurisdiction. This night just kept getting worse. "I have some business to attend to right now."

"Surely, you are around bloodlust vampires. You know how they have lost their minds, and you still plan to take from the flesh?"

"Look, I already told you I want nothing to do with the Forebearers. I want my freedom."

"Do you have that now?" Natsu, on edge before, wanted to cause some violence. The building would look wonderful covered in his flames. The fire rose in his throat with the image. Gray wasn't off base. There was no freedom in this world and even the Horde had rules. Associating himself with Zeref enraged him, but he needed protection and his brother proved useful.

"What if I told you I have a lead on your father?" Natsu's eyes snapped to Gray.

"How do you know—"

"Just come with me. Join us and I can help you," Gray said, "Or would you rather take orders from your brother?" Natsu grabbed the man's collar in his heated grip and pushed him against the bar. When Natsu flashed the bartender a glare, the human backed off from the ruckus.

"Looking into me?"

"Of course." Gray's serene expression pissed Natsu off the most. The bastard was cocky, knew he could take him, and had information on his lineage.

"Why do you want me so badly?"

"It's the accession, Natsu. We need everyone we can get." Natsu's grip loosened.

"I'm on no one's side." The presence and loud heartbeat, that intrigued him before, slammed loud in his ears. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of golden hair. He twisted to look for them.

"What is it?" Gray raised a brow.

"This conversation is over," Natsu said, body screaming to leave and find the owner of the sound. Gray eyed him curiously but didn't try to stop him. Natsu pushed club-goers out of the way. The presence brought him to the back of the building, and like a man possessed he followed. An intoxicated woman grabbed him and attempted to pull him toward the dance floor. On a normal night, he would have guided her to a dark corner, but he couldn't get the presence out of his head. The flash of gold hair piqued his curiosity. With his acute hearing, he heard the back-door slam shut behind someone taking the heartbeat with them. He all but shoved the woman off him and elbowed his way toward the door. The rush of outside air whipped his cherry hair into his eyes. He slid a hand through to tame the strands. The door opened to a back alley. A woman made her way toward the street, her long blonde hair brushed from side to side against her ample bottom. Her heart sang in his ears.

"Hey, wait," Natsu said. She stopped and turned her head to eye him— and eye him she did. Her caramel gaze raked his body, and unlike the humans from before, it left him with a shiver down his spine. He stood a little taller under her inspection.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Who are you?"

"Interesting pick-up line," she said raising a brow. The mystery woman smiled forcing him to grin back. She tilted her head a little more. A long braid at the front of her hair fell over her shoulder and revealed a pointed ear. He could only assume she was fey, a ruthless race known as master archers, but she lacked a bow. He spotted a curled-up whip and a strange set of golden keys snug against her shapely hip. She was a mystery that intrigued him.

"Meeting someone?" He imagined her meeting with a man and felt his body tense with the possibility.

"What's it to you?" She turned to fully face him. He cursed softly at her figure. Her hips met a slim waist and ample breasts that nearly spilled out of her top.

"Hoping to be the one you meet," he said. She crossed her arms and tapped her chin with a slender finger tipped with a tiny painted claw.

"Let's see, if I move my dinner to next Wednesday," she said running her finger across an invisible list, "and push sewing day for my man skin quilt to Thursday, then I'm all booked. Sorry to disappoint you." His cheeks ached from how much he smiled at her. Her wit so far, the most attractive thing about her.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"You first."

"I'm Natsu Dragneel." He closed the gap between them.

"And what are you Dragneel?" She eyed him again at closer proximity. Natsu straightened with her appraisal, for whatever reason he wished to impress her.

"Ah-ah, I answered your question. Now, answer mine."

"Lucy Heartfilia." Her name was just as beautiful as she was. From so close, her heart sped up in his ears. Lucy was enthralling.

"What do you think I am?"

"Ah-ah," she said stepping toward him, "I answered your question."

"Guess." His voice was a command and came out lower than he expected. She raised a brow in response.

"Okay, I'll bite. Either a demon or a leech." She pointed toward his mouth; her eyes locked on his lips. "You have fangs." Be still his heart, she was witty and observant.

"Whatever you want me to be as long as I can take you out." He wanted to do more than just take Lucy out on a date. He imagined taking her throat in his castle room, her heart pounding as loudly as her moans in his ears. "Could take you anywhere you want to go. I've traveled the world."

"Tricky. Demons and vampires can trace."

"I feel like you enjoy challenges as much as I do. Tell me what you think I am, and I'll confirm or deny." A sly grin spread across her lips and she leaned in closer. She eyed him again, taking longer over his exposed arms and shoulders.

"Demon," she said with a hopeful note. He crossed his arms over his chest in an "x" and made a buzzer sound with a smile.

"Incorrect." All at once her eyes widened, and she took a few steps back.

"I better be going." Natsu dropped his arms in his confusion. While most Loreans weren't fond of vampires, they tolerated the ones without the red haze of bloodlust. Natsu's, he knew, were clear. This one wasn't a fan, as she called vampires "leeches."

"Why in a hurry?" Even though her body was beginning to turn away from him, her eyes still darted to his mouth. She turned toward the street. "Wait, did I do something wrong?" he asked. Natsu couldn't stop his hand from darting out to take her arm gently. Her skin like the comfort of fire against his as he took his first breath after centuries without the need. The air chilled his unpracticed lungs. His long-dormant heart spurred to life. The feeling nothing that he could remember from his childhood with a heartbeat. He pulled her towards him. A breath escaped her in a rush, and he took in the scent of her arousal— better than he ever dreamed. Her breaths labored with the rise and fall of her breasts and her chest flushed under his gaze. After all this time he had found her, like a gift from the gods themselves, his bride.

[replicant1955]

Everland

There is a land that lies on no map. Neither is it recorded in any history. But it is a land which everyone knows. It is the land that you see in the shadows of a summer afternoon as it slowly slips, first into evening, then into night. It is the land of a winter storm, the land of a sudden snowfall, the land of unexplained noises in an empty house. It is the land of scribbled notebooks forgotten in a trunk. It is the land of empty wardrobes and wide eyed wonder. It is the land of memory. It is the Everland. And this is Charlotte’s.

1.

It was a lovely summer’s day.

Charlotte was not happy. The mobile signal at her Grandma’s was terrible. It was like trying to talk on a motorway.  In fact the lack of any mobile signal required her to walk out of her bedroom, out of  the house, go down the hill and stand by the gate into the bottom field (the one with all the cows) before she could talk to her friends.

And she couldn’t e-mail, text, instagram or facebook them, unless she had an afternoon to spare for one photo.

She gazed with dismay at all the electronics spread over her bed. What was she going to do all summer without broadband and a decent mobile signal? She looked around her bedroom, hoping for a miracle. But everything remained the same. The floor remained wooden and old, and bumpy. The window remained small and tilted with wobbly panes of glass. The wardrobe remained large, dark stained and mysterious. The rug remained the rug and the quilt remained the quilt. And the single plug socket looked as lonely as ever, especially as it was already coping with her television and her clock.

What had her mother been thinking of when she said, “You can go to your grandma’s as usual this summer”.  Every summer holiday for as long as she could remember she had spent a month at her grandma’s house deep in the country. And she had enjoyed it. The freedom to go wherever she wished: the chance to wander through fields and woods for as long as she wanted. The many mysteries of an old house with so many corners it felt that it had been built backwards and upside down. And the comfort of her own bedroom (not shared with an annoying younger brother) with its wide bed and little window that admitted early morning sunlight with a capacity that belied its size. And the garden with its twisting paths that disappeared into tiny glades and streams; the fields that stretched out forever, empty except for distant clouds; the river that ambled its way through the tiny village, covered in squabbling ducks and stately swans. She had loved it all. But most of all she had loved having her grandma and granddad to herself.

But this year was different. This year she had her phone, her tablet, her school friends, the many plans that they had made texting in classrooms when lessons had become too boring to even pretend to pay attention. And now, now she was in the electronic equivalent to Siberia, exiled from everything and everyone who was vitally important to her continued existence.

Her mother had been sympathetic but uncomprehending, her mind fixed more on free time with her new boyfriend than with a knowing daughter commenting on anything and everything. And her kid brother thought the lack of an older sister for a few weeks was the opportunity of a lifetime. She shuddered at the possibilities for mayhem he would find without her to warn him.

Her grandma had been so welcoming that she felt that she couldn’t raise the subject with her. And Granddad, well he had just smiled and nodded and turned back to the chair he was fixing with a slight shake of his head at the inadequacies of modern carpentry.

So she was stuck, and annoyed and grumpy. And as her mother often said: nobody did grumpy like Charlotte.

*

Finally rousing herself from her bed of misery she took her phone, wandered downstairs to the kitchen, smiled at her Grandma who was deep in some major cooking effort intended for the village fete and announced that she was going to walk to the corner of the lane to phone her friends. Her grandma smiled and nodded and turned back to the ongoing battle with her pastry.

The path from the kitchen door wandered round the corner of the house, round the front door which no one used (for good reason as it opened under the stairs) and then down the overgrown front garden that led to the lane. The front garden was largely grass and twisted trees which bent in odd shapes beneath their indeterminate ages. Here and there small flowers broke through the green; daisies and cowslips and others which she could not name. The garden was home to mole hills and busy bees and numerous birds that nested in its high hedges.

In its shadows there were reputedly five wells, each used and then capped and forgotten. Many times she had looked for them all but she had never found the  tops of more than four, each with its grey concrete hat and a small grating down which you could throw stones and listen for the distant splash.

The house seemed to nestle comfortably into the garden. Charlotte was not really sure where one ended and the other began. The lawns that stretched up to its old brick and stone walls and white painted windows; to its unused doors and empty flower pots. It was a house comfortable in its old age, happy in its many years. When she had asked her Grandma how old the house was she had simply smiled and replied, “As old as you want it to be” and carried on with what she was doing. So Charlotte had had to make up her own mind.

There was a small stream that ran through the garden, close to the house, so Charlotte sometimes liked to imagine it as a mill with its big water wheel and the dark stones grinding newly harvested corn in the warm dusty shadows.

Or perhaps it was once a tiny castle? The walls were a mixture of stone and brick, as if someone had used whatever was to hand to build it and some of the stones had time worn carvings so it could once have been a castle.

Or perhaps a farmhouse with its dark low oak beams and its red tile roof, bent beneath its weight of moss. She looked back at its tiny windows, ivy climbed walls and idly smoking chimney and wondered. The house looked old, very old. It looked like it had always been there, like somehow it belonged there and nowhere else. It looked right.

She paused for a moment in a circle of sunlight. She thought about her grandparents. In a way they were stranger than the house. If she pictured her grandmother she always thought about her as being silver. She always wore a silver necklace with a single dark bluestone stone. Sometimes she almost shimmered.  Somehow she reminded her of forests, of moonlight, of fairies. She was tall, slim, unbent despite her age (something else she wouldn’t discuss). She moved with a casual grace and had an innate calm about everything, up to and including a nosy talkative granddaughter. Charlotte had never heard her raise her voice. Her face was thin and angular but she had a generous smile and Charlotte never doubted her love.

And she had a bow, with REAL arrows. When Charlotte had first seen the bow, hanging unstringed high up on the wall of the living room she had ached to take it down and hold it. It was never talked about so finally she had asked her granddad whose bow it was. He had smiled and said, “Your grandmother’s”. He was silent for a while after he said that but then he had added, “But she has not used it for a very long time.” On learning this Charlotte had immediately rushed away to ask her grandmother about the bow and could she have it but she would only say: “When you are older and taller I will teach you to use it”, and despite constant badgering over the whole of that holiday would not be drawn further on its’ history, when she could shoot it or even why she had a bow in the first place. After all, as Charlotte had said constantly, her mother didn’t have one.

And her grandfather:  he was as different from her grandmother as chalk and cheese (a meaningless saying of her mother’s: of course they were different). Where her grandmother was tall and slim her grandfather was small and round. Where her grandmother seemed to be almost a creature of the forest more at home in woods and fields her grandfather seemed to be a creature of the earth, happiest buried in his workshop, with his many tools and machines and fires and files. He always looked as if he would happily burrow into the earth to dig up metals and make things.

But he clearly loved her grandmother and he loved Charlotte as well so she didn’t mind. She didn’t even mind his pipe which he smoked in the evenings – always out of the house because her grandmother objected to the smell. He would sit there and blow smoke rings to amuse her and tell her stories of wizards and dragons that lived in the earth and collected hoards of treasure.

Strange but nice she concluded and satisfied that she now understood them both she moved on to consider other things.

*

Slowly she wandered out the gate, always open and now hanging down on its hinges, into the lane and then down to the field, partly skipping from sunlight to sunlight, gazing at the shape of the clouds and listening to the birds rustling and chatting in the hedges.

At the bottom of the lane she stopped by the wide metal gate and gazed at the wide field with its distant herd of quietly munching cows. The day was surprisingly warm and she settled on the old stump in the shade of an oak tree to read her texts.

Reception was as bad as always and her messages took ages to load, especially as they were full of pictures of the exciting things her friends were doing and from which she was currently excluded. Bored with waiting she walked to the gate to look into the field. It was then that she saw the owl. It was gliding slowly and silently across the field, looking down, its head moving slowly from side to side. She supposed it was hunting. She watched as it criss-crossed the field several times in long slow transits. It was almost hypnotic, the way in which it flew, low and silent across the sunlit field. Gradually she became more and more interested in the owl, ignoring her phone and its’ insistent bleeping.

Finally it glided to a perfect landing on a nearby post and, to Charlotte’s surprise turned in her direction. For a moment it looked at her steadily and Charlotte realised with a sense of shock that something was different. It was wearing goggles! From the middle of its’ flat white feathered face there extended two polished brass cylinders, each fitted with a lens at the end. As she watched, the lenses extended and retracted, each of the owls eyes growing larger and then smaller in turn. For a moment girl and owl stared at each other in seeming mutual amazement and then, with an irritated chattering of its beak, the owl launched itself back into the blue sky and slowly flew off in the direction of the distant wood.

Charlotte sat there, puzzled, amazed and wondering if she had really seen what her eyes had shown her. An owl wearing binoculars! What in heaven’s name: (another saying of her mother’s) was going on. Then, as if the day hadn’t had enough of impossible things she heard a sharp whistle at her feet and looked down.

What she saw in front of her was even more bizarre. Sitting in a small four wheeled vehicle with a tiny steam engine at its’ back was a small grey field mouse. It looked strangely at home in its’ tiny red leather seat and with its claws gripped tightly on the steering tiller. There a small stream of white smoke coming from the chimney at the rear of the vehicle and she could hear the boiler bubbling away.  The mouse looked up at her with its bright black eyes, lent its’ head to one side and and very reasonably said, “Well that was a close escape if I say so myself. Thought he had got me at one point.“

Charlotte looked down in amazement. Talking mice driving steam cars. Whatever next! Then,as if there was nothing strange in its talking or in her obvious staring the mouse continued, “You don’t mind moving your feet do you? I’m not very good at steering yet. “Not daring to think too much of the strangeness of conversing with field mice Charlotte realised that her feet were blocking its path. “Sorry, “She said and moved them back.”Thank you” it replied and then, with a cheery, “Goodbye” .it trundled off along the lane followed by its plume of white smoke, finally turning beneath the hedge.

For a long time Charlotte sat on the stump, phone and friends forgotten. Finally she got up and walking slowly along the lane shaking her head, went back home to tell her grandmother what she had seen.

Somehow summer no longer seemed so boring.

 Doug

[sbknews]

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