#and Arno writes - or at least tries to write - but he can never find the right words

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 11 all chapters

-You fly into Rome on a beautiful June day with an ache in your heart you can’t quite shake. You throw yourself into the sights, visiting museums, soaking up the beautiful art and the Mediterranean sunshine. You see things in person that you’d only seen in art history books before, and as an artist you know you are forever changed. You meet plenty of interesting travelers in your hostel, but no one who quite holds your attention, or your imagination, the way the memory of Mr. Wick does.

Italy is beautiful, but the men are exhausting. Not all the men. Just the continual stream of the ones who find you on the street, see a young lady traveling alone and take it as license to bother you. Constantly. More than once, when you turn down their offers of whatever, as politely as you can in your broken Italian, they get nasty.

It’s a relief in a way when you pair up with a kind young man from Argentina to go see the Vatican. No one bothers you, and you have fun, but it’s not exactly what you want.

You actually like being alone, and in others casual company you find that you itch to steal away to a quiet corner to read or sketch or write in your journal. You revel in this special kind of solitude, being a solo traveler in a strange land, not needing to cater to the wants and whims of anyone else for once.

When Javier tries to kiss you on the Ponte Sant’Angelo, you cannot help but feel as though you are being watched. He’s a good-looking young man, funny and sweet and you enjoy his company. At any other time in your life you would have happily lost yourself in a fling. But you know you wish you were looking into a very different pair of dark eyes, and you turn your head at the last minute, receiving soft lips on the cheek.

“Javi…” you sigh with regret, holding distance between you with a hand on his chest.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, clearly crestfallen.

“It’s ok.”

You’re not mad. You’re just…sad—and you’re not sure why you can’t kick this melancholy longing and enjoy yourself in this beautiful place. You feel like you’re walking around with a hole in your heart, and it’s all Mr. Wick’s fault, the big idiot.   

After a week you move on to Florence, and the museums there fill your days. You see so many wonderful things, from the statue of David in the Galleria dell’Accademia, the wonderful paintings in the Uffizi gallery, the splendor of the Duemo... You fall in love all over again with Botticelli, Bellini, Lippi and Uccello and Tiziano and so many others.

You also see a sun-bronzed old man masturbating unabashedly on a blanket in the park, but that’s Italy for you, apparently.

You still feel as though you are being watched, but you never find the source of this weird feeling between your shoulder blades. You try to shrug it off, going for long walks along the Arno between snacks and visits to this galleria or that.

Before you leave the city you go to a book binder’s shop Mr. Wick told you about that has been in business for literal centuries. They have such wonderful things, books with leather covers and gilded arabesques, ornate handmade papers and parchment. You pick up a blank journal for Mr. Wick. It’s small, but its all you can afford. It’s beautifully made, and you hope he’ll like it.

Venice is beautiful, but so very infuriating.

You manage in a blunder on the very first day to drop your phone, cracking the screen into a thousand spiderwebs. It renders the maps you downloaded utterly useless, and you try to go the paper route, but you are lost for the umpteenth time in the maze of small side streets and canals when a seemingly helpful middle-aged construction worker takes pity on you and offers to lead you back to a main road.

At least you think that’s what he says, but after five minutes you realize you read the situation so very wrong, when you find yourself in a dead-ended alley and the older man is puckering his lips at you. It would have been comical on screen, perhaps, but in real life you are not amused. He’s big, but not fast. You’re glad for your flat sandals as you duck under his outstretched arms and dash away down the street, thinking you can’t possibly get yourself any more lost than you already are.

You look over your shoulder to check if he’s pursuing you, and run into something immoveable. You hit so hard you bounce, and you might have ended up in the canal, had strong arms not wrapped around you.

Oh no.

 Fearing you may have landed yourself out of the frying pan and into the fire, you try to squirm away.

“Y/n?”

Recognizing that voice, you freeze for a moment, before actually bothering to look up at who has you in hand.

It’s none other than Mr. John Wick.

A nearly unbearable flood of surprise and excitement fills you from your hair follicles to the tips of your toes.    

“What are you doing here?” you demand, and maybe it sounds more like an accusation than it should.

“Tying up some loose ends,” he answers vaguely. “Is he bothering you?”

You look over your shoulder to see the construction worker has emerged from the alley, and is stumping your way.

“Yes.”

The worker airs some dramatic-sounding complaint with John, waving his hands animatedly. John’s answer is much less musical, but perfectly pronounced, and you’re pretty sure he told the guy to get the fuck out of here.  

Grumbling, your suitor goes in the opposite direction, talking to himself as he does and gesturing with his arms to no one but the audience in his own mind.

So melodramatic.

You cannot help but notice Mr. Wick still has his arms around you, glaring at the man until he disappears around a corner. You are still breathing heavily from your little mad dash, steadying yourself with hands on the flat plane of his chest. John finally looks back down to you, his eyes fixating on your lips before valiantly rising back to meet your gaze, his fingertips digging slightly into your sides. 

You rack your brains for something to say, when all you really want to do is grab the lapels of his beautiful suit jacket, stand on tiptoe and press your lips to his. 

“I…thought you were retired?”

It seems he only reluctantly lets you go after that, the tips of his fingers sliding from your ribcage. Immediately you feel the loss of his strong hands.

“I try to be,” he quips, almost evasively. “Why aren’t you in Rome?” He asks this as if you are the one who is in a place you’re not supposed to be.

“I…saw everything I wanted to see?”

Only then does he finally offer you a smile. It’s almost boyish, and it pulls at your heartstrings with a vengeance. You look him over. It might be the first time you’ve seen him wearing anything but all black, in a light grey summer weight suit with an airy white button down open at the throat.

He looks, if you may be frank, utterly edible.

“It's good to see you,” he says almost shyly, as though he's afraid you might not feel the same.

If only you could tell him that you've thought about him every day since you've been gone. 

“I’m very glad to see you,” you dare to admit. “It's a small world, I guess.”

You decide not to think about what a strange coincidence it is, running into this man in a back alley in Venice. At the moment, you simply don’t care. It’s as though for once the Universe was paying attention to your heart’s yearnings and delivered on it in the flesh.

“Yeah. So...where are you headed?”

You sigh, and very sorely wish you could hang your head on the solid plane that is his chest again. Your desire to be held by this man is an ache in your very bones.

“I don't even know. I'm so lost.”

Usually you have a decent sense of direction, but this fucking city has you walking in circles. Usually that's fine too, but you've never felt so hunted in your life. 

“Would you... like to come to lunch with me? I'm on my way to meet an old friend. He would love to meet you.” 

For a moment you are dumbfounded to receive such an invitation. But then, you look down at yourself in your colorfully cute but obviously cheap sundress, then look at him in his smart suit that probably cost more than your car.

“That's so sweet, John, but I'm sure I'm not dressed to go wherever you're going.” 

“What do you mean? You look beautiful.” 

You look back up to him, open mouthed. He's never really said anything outright like that to you. It feels ridiculously good to hear it. Warmth floods you from head to toe. You know you are blushing, maybe even glowing, but it’s hard to feel too embarrassed when he looks at you like that.

“Thanks.”

He reaches up very slowly, just barely brushing your chin with his knuckle. “Come with me.” His voice is low, soft even, yet somehow adamant. It induces a flutter in your heart—and an ache in your loins. You like to think you are not easily led, but you wouldn't have dreamed of arguing with him now. 

“Alright.”

His pleased smile is a balm to your earlier frustration. For the first time since you got off the train and promptly got lost trying to find your hostel, you feel like you can relax in this maze of a city. You didn’t realize it before, but you haven’t felt safe for weeks.

He offers you his arm.

The gesture is sweet, and gallant, and maybe you lean against him a little more than you need to. His arm is dizzyingly solid beneath your fingers, and you can’t help but feel a little giddy as you stroll together towards your destination.

[weirdcharacter]

I don't know what's worse, that Arno would go to Mariane first to break the news of Bellec's death before going to the Council because he knows how much he meant to her, and Mariane just remaining deadly silent and quietly leaving the room because if she doesn't she *will* kill Arno and she cannot risk her place within the Brotherhood.

Or Arno going to the Council first because it's about a Master Assassin and it's about making sure Elise is not wrongly accused of a crime she did not commit, and Arno explaining to the Council what happened, and the Council scolding and Elise standing there trying to defend him and an Assassin telling her to wait downstairs because it's not the business of a Templar and Arno trying to make sure Elise is safe while also trying to convince the Council of what happened and some assassins witnessing the scene unable to decide on what to do, intervene or stand still or leave, and in the middle of all that chaos... no one noticing the shadow standing in a corner.

Another Assassin in the room. And she is standing still, still and quiet. She is one with the crowd, as she was taught. and she listens. she listens to the Elise trying to defend Arno, and Arno trying to defend Elise, she listens to the Council scolding and screaming about murders and vengeance, and Arno screaming back about justice and truth.

And she stands still. Quiet as a shadow. Until the Council asks for everyone in the room to leave, everyone except Arno and Elise.

She knows where the body is. She heard Arno talking about the tracks he followed, the tracks leading to the Sainte-Chapelle.

So she becomes one with the crowd. She weaves out of the room, out of the headquarters, and she runs.

She runs like she never has before.

She runs, climbs, jumps, falls. Gets up, runs. Runs.

Runs.

Until she sees it.

The Sainte-Chapelle.

And she never tells anyone that she came here, that she found him first. She leaves long before anyone else comes by to find the body.

A few days later, she follows Arno in the underground tunnels. She is quiet, she is patient. She makes sure no one is around, makes sure he is alone. And when the moment comes, she grabs him by the shoulder, slams him against the cold hard wall, presses her hidden blade against his throat and mutters a few words. Words that will haunt Arno as much as it will haunt her.

"I wonder why I have not killed you yet."

Not me being this close to writing a fic set in AC Unity where my Assassin is part of Arno's crew and creating more drama-

[itseivwhore]

Hey! Can you write some headcanons on how Ezio, Arno and Jacob would react if their partner has quarantined themselves because they have interacted with a confirmed Covid19 case? I'm in quarantine right now because of a confirmed case in my University. I've isolated myself in my room, I don't even let my parents near me, so I'd love to get some support! ♥️♥️

Heyo @sofiewithat (too bad this time I can't say:"Heyo anonimo" like I always do :( ) !Thank you a lot for requesting this,I actually wanted to write some headcanons a bit like these (most precisely,how the quarantine would be with them,stuff like this). I hope everything will turn out to be fine for you,but for now,just stay at home,easy peasy,be safe...because out there it's a (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ m e s s.

Let's start now,shall we?

~~~~~

|°Ezio°| :

"No hugs and kisses for the chef today?"

When you came home you didn't go into the kitchen,as you used to do,to greet Ezio with a warm,long hug and the usual passionate kisses.

Instead,you limited yourself at stopping at the treshold of the kitchen,leaning with a shoulder against the frame of the door,watching him cooking,standing there in silence.

He only needed some quick glances,thrown at you as he was busy preparing dinner,to understand and to notice that something happened,that something was wrong.But he kept on gently smiling at you nevertheless,silently and tacitly encouraging you in letting out what you needed to say.

But you were trying to think,to find a way to tell him the not really good news...knowing that,most likely,he would have reacted a little bit too dramatically.

"COSA?!" loudly shouting this as he sharply turned around,facing you.

Ezio nearly dropped the plate of pasta he had in his hands.

You knew very well how he could be so dramatic with everyone and about everything.But you could have said from how his soft and arm brown eyes,that became dim and dark with seriousness,his expression torn between a worried and a shocked one,that he was not being theatrical as his usual.

Not this time at least,and not for this reason.

You tried to explain him everything,trying with all of your best to not worry him even more than he already was.

And him,viceversa,didn't want to look too scared and preoccupied at your eyes.If anything -not counting that first moment when he loudly shouted- he started to be hopeful,telling you that everything would turn out to be fine.

He (and you too) had to think like this,in such times.

But the young Auditore didn't look happy and/or pleased when you told him your decision: at all. Staying away from each other would have meant...no hugs?No kisses?No gentle touches?No cuddles?

He was going to die.

"Amore...I'm dying here!" you once heard him shouting this from the living room while you were in your room.

But nevertheless,he respected your will.

Ezio needed to feel your presence around him in the house.

Who knows for how many times he instinctively stepped closer to you to wrap you in a hug when he saw you walking around the house,and you had to stretch your arms out,walking away from him.

Who knows for how many times you had to remind him to not step too close to you.

And you hate when you looked at him giving you these purely and utterly sad glances,making your heart ache.

You missed not being able to spend so much time with him as you both used to do,laying together on the couch,watching a film,and most of all,cooking lunch and dinner together.

One particular thing that just genuinely brought small tears to your eyes,was when you woke up in the middle of the night,and as you were walking towards the kitchen to get a glass of water,you saw Ezio laying on the couch,sleeping deeply,half covered by a blanket.

"It's not the same to sleep without you between my arms,tesoro"

Be sure that you would find a plate of pasta everyday for lunch.

"Trust me,pasta will kill every little nasty virus that there might be inside you" saying this as he was sitting on the couch,now his new bed,in the living room,making you laugh loudly.

~~~~~

|°Arno°| :

"Arno...?"

You knew you had to tell him that with caution.You knew you had to think billions of time before telling him...that.

The poor boy was there,leaning on the wall,eyes vailed by a thick vail of worry as he was staring at you,motionless.

"Tell me you are joking"

He tried to convince himself that what you were saying wasn't the truth.His head was a mess now,thoughts fogging his mind with endless questions: what if you caught it?And what if...

But you actually managed to calm Arno down,even if a bit.Saying that you were feeling well and that there was no need to be scared and preoccupied that much.

Arno agreeded,even if with a bitter grimace and with a melancholic gaze,with the idea about being distanced from each other: not being afraid,though,on admitting that it wouldn't have been the same.

These weeks passed away pretty quickly thanks to him and his thoughtfulness.He still managed to care and look after you even if you didn't let him close,showing you affection by little gestures,actions and phrases.

And that was amazing,to say at least.

"Do you need something?" asking this at least onehundred of times in a day,wanting to help with all of himself.

"Are you feeling okay,mon amour?" slightly opening the door of your shared bedroom,peeking and leaning only his head inside,gently smiling at you.

Finding a baquet of your favourite flowers in various vases around the house every day.

Smiling happily when,each morning for breakfast,you found a hot croissant in the table of the kitchen,knowing that Arno bought it for you before going to work.

Noticing that-when he left you alone at home because of his work- you often would see posts-it scattered all around the house for you to find,reading the sweet phrases he wrote for you with a grateful smile on your lips as you traced his graceful and long handwriting with your fingertip.

"Je t'aime tant xxx "

We all know that this Frenchman is a romantic:utterly and completely in love with you,and he would do anything to see you in a good mood...even if it would include trying to hide his own preoccupation to make you feel good.

~~~~~

|°Jacob°| :

"Nice one,love,nice one" he scoffed when you told him what happened,throwing himself on the couch as he was eating some snacks,giving you a confident and relaxed expression.

For a first moment he really thought that you were joking around,just teasing him:but when you showed him a serious face and a low voice -which he feared a lot- he understood that what you were saying was only the truth.

You would have bet that you would never have seen Jacob get paler than he already was.

"Bloody hell" indeed.

He was pretty...nonchalant about it.Cracking some jokes here and there,saying that you were perfectly healthy-his own words-and that there was nothing to worry about.

Jacob could have been very,very persuasive,and he actually managed in his intention:making you believe that he wasn't worried or stressed or anything like that.

But of all the things that this Brit was,he wasn't a good secret keeper,or a good liar,either way.

One afternoon,while he believed that you were resting in your room,you heard him talking softly to Evie,confessing her his worries and all of his preoccupations about what happened in such a low,almost scared voice,that made your heart melt.

Of course you had no doubt that Jacob cared about you with all of his heart and soul,but you couldn't help but smile and feeling grateful for having him at your side:not worsening the situation by adding his own fears with yours too,but actually making it all go away in his unique,special ways.

You didn't mention and/or told him that you heard his talk with his sister:you knew that it would have hurt,even if a little,his pride and ego.

A thing you actually adored about the young twin,was that he was able to make even the last laughable thing into a funny one. How he was able to do that?You didn't know,but you loved the male twin more for this particular shade of his personality.

Scaring the life out of you when he wore a plague doctor mask,pretending to be a doctor,his gestures so theatrical as he peeked his head in your shared room while wearing that scary mask.

"Visit hour for my favourite patient"

"Where did you get that?!"

"Ezio gave this to me"

Talking-shouting with each other from your bedroom,where you were most of the time,to the living room,where he was.

"TEA,LOVE?!"

"MAYBE LATER!"

You knew Jacob,reckless and relentless,breaking the rules you imposed for these weeks: sometimes getting way too close to you.

"Bloody corona virus can't stop me"

If he says so...

Jacob would do anything at his disposal,in his best ways,to brighten up your days and to cheer you up.

°*°TrAnSlaTiOnS!°*°

"Cosa?!" = what;

"Amore" = love;

"Tesoro" = darling.

~

"Mon amour" = my love;

"Je t'aime tant" = I love you a lot.

~~~~~

I hope you'll like these!I wrote them as soon as I could ;)

Addio.

[betweensceneswriter]

Island Hopper-Chapter 28: Just Add Water

Certain things are instant.  Not usually sons.

Previously Chapter 27: So Long, Farewell Surprising things await back on Majuro.

ISLAND FEVER (Jimjeran Book 1) 

ISLAND HOPPER (Jimjeran Book 2) 

FanFic Master List

     Perkaj looked so small sitting next to Jamie on the Jolok boat.  The breeze whipped his fine black hair around his ears.  Before he was discharged that morning, Dr. Langenbelik had coached us on our goals.  Perkaj, as young as he was, needed to be able to maintain his correct blood sugar level for at the least a full week by himself before we were to allow him to move back in with his family.  

     After that we were to spot check--stop in and have him test his blood sugars at a variety of times of day to make sure he was being consistent.  The goal was for him to re-enter his family and be independent of us, but not at the cost of his health.  We could also work with the family to help support him, hopefully getting their cooperation to speed the process of moving back home again.  

     Jamie and I had bundled up Perkaj with the few possessions he had brought along and the medical paraphernalia that he had gained during his hospitalization, along with a coterie of stuffed animals and toy cars, gifts from the nurses who had felt such pity for the unparented wee waif. We had boarded the Jolok boat just in time for departure.

     Perkaj’s dark eyes sparkled with delight as he glanced back at me.  He crouched to come close to me and exclaimed above the roar of the engine and surf.  “We go to your house now!”

     “We will also see your mama and baba,” I said.

     At that, he looked giddy.  “I miss them,” he admitted, then with a smile at me went back to sit with Jamie.

     He was equally excited during the bumpy ride in the back of the pickup truck from Arno Arno to Ine.  I realized from his enthusiastic reactions to everything we saw that he must have had no memory of his own truck ride to the air strip and plane ride to Majuro, and that this could be his first adventure outside the confines of the island.

     “Let’s stop at Perkaj’s house first,” Jamie suggested as we neared Ine.  I watched Perkaj’s face as we got closer, sharing in his joy as we pulled up to park on his property.  Our call to the Iroij had the desired effect, as the boy’s family members came spilling out of the house to greet him.  His mama was in tears, holding him by the cheeks and gazing into his face, clucking at how much weight he had lost but obviously pleased to see him looking healthy again.  His father smiled gravely as he shook Jamie’s hand.

     They invited us to come in, and we entered their house, nodding at the relatives we found already inside.  Perkaj’s mother and father ushered us to a pandanus mat and tried to urge food on us.  Jamie gestured to his stomach and explained that he was full and couldn’t eat anything.  I had a feeling that his stomach was still churning from the boat ride despite motion sickness pills.

     I could pick out the occasional word as Jamie explained everything to them.  At his invitation, Perkaj joined us on the mat and pulled out his zippered kit with lancets, tester, and insulin.  At Jamie’s nod, he took a testing strip and inserted it into the tester.  The room was silent as he twisted the plastic tip off the lancet, but there was a chorus of gasps as he poked his own finger and then touched the droplet of blood to the testing strip. Quiet murmurs followed, but when the tester beeped with the results, Perkaj held it up not to show his parents, but Jamie so he could see the LCD readout.

     “Emmon, good,” said Jamie. “120. Show Baba and Mama.” 

     Perkaj scrambled over to them, squatted between them, and pointed and explained as he looked at the monitor.

     I noticed that Maria was hanging back at the side of the room, so as the attention of the crowd was on Perkaj, I motioned to her to come outside.  She hung her head shamefacedly, not meeting my eyes.

     “I am not good aunt,” she muttered.

     “Yes you are,” I said.  “You came with Perkaj to Majuro.  It is very hard to take care of someone with diabetes.  You remember I am a nurse, so I can help Perkaj until he can manage it himself, but you can be a helper to him when he comes back home.”

     Her eyelashes fluttered as she glanced quickly up at me.  “Jolok bod,” she said.  “Is bad he live in your house? You and Meester Shamie are just married.  Is not time for nin-nins yet.”

     “Ejjelok bod.  It’s okay,” I said, trying as hard as I could to mean it.

      Before long, Jamie had made our excuses, Maria helped me grab a few more pairs of clothing for Perkaj, and we had our driver take us the rest of the way to the clinic. Coming around the side of the truck, I felt a hand on my arm. It was Jamie, concern on his face. “Are you all right, hen?” he asked. Perkaj was pulling his backpack out of the truck, his focus elsewhere.

     “Honestly? A little terrified,” I answered, meeting Jamie’s eyes. “Wondering how we’re going to manage all of this along with the rest of our lives.”

     “Just do the next right thing,” Jamie said. “That’s what my da used to say when Jenny, Willie or I were overwhelmed by a task.”

     I took a deep breath, grabbed my suitcase and swung it out of the bed of the truck.

     “Well,” I said, with a hesitant smile at Jamie, “let’s get inside and make a spot for Perkaj.”

     After dropping my luggage by the kitchen table, I went around the apartment opening up the louvered windows and curtains which had been closed for more than a week. Without a breeze to move the air it made little difference.  It was still stuffy and hot. 

     Perkaj wandered around the apartment, stopping in front of the pantry with its rows of cans and tubs of dry goods.  “Ebol mona,” he marveled, opening his arms to show how much food we seemed to have.

     “Eh bowl?” I asked Jamie. “I know mona is food.”

     “It means full… a lot.”

     After pulling our bed closer to the west wall of the apartment, Jamie moved the couch to create a barrier between the table and the back wall to give Perkaj a spot of his own.

     Glancing at me occasionally, Jamie set up the space.  He pulled a quilt from our storage tub, folded it several times and laid it on the floor, topping it with the pandanus mat Perkaj’s mom had carefully rolled up for her son. I pulled one of the extra pillows from our bed and put on a fresh pillowcase, handing a sheet to Jamie to put on top of the mat.

      Looking through the back window, I caught sight of my raised beds. Having seen the dry yellow grass along the sides of the road , the drooping palm fronds and wilting jungle plants on the way from Arno Arno, I’d had a sinking feeling. I still saw green peeking up above the wooden walls of the beds, so I invited Perkaj out to see my plants.

     Though most of the plants looked a little limp, as I dug down into the soil surrounding them I discovered that just an inch under the surface of the ground there was moisture.  It was only a minute later that Anni wandered over.

     “Meester Shamie asked me to water the plants,” she said, smiling. Perkaj stood up on tiptoes to peek into the box, then grabbed the bucket to go to the well.  He lugged it back having to use both hands to carry it, water sloshing out on his feet.  But he was fascinated and helpful as we dipped cups of water and gently poured them at the base of each plant.

     By the time we went back inside, Jamie had stretched wire from one rafter to the other and was hanging up a sheet to separate Perkaj's little room from ours.

     “Let’s do coconut rice and fish,” Jamie suggested, nodding towards our little visitor. He had reached into the dresser, grabbed swim trunks, and was about to drop his pants when he thought again.  

     “Do you want to see how yer bed feels?” He asked Perkaj, rattling off the translation in Majol afterwards. Once Perkaj had rounded the curtain, Jamie whipped off his clothing and pulled on the trunks, his back to the room.  After a pleasant eyeful, and having never seen the man sheepish about being naked, I couldn’t help but chuckle.  Perkaj was still happily sitting on his bed, setting his zoo of stuffed animals around the perimeter when Jamie joined me in the kitchen.

     “Obviously, I need to rethink the space,” he whispered. “No’ enough privacy yet,”

     “You think he’s never seen a naked man before?” I asked in an undertone.

     “Aye, I’m sure the lad has, but he doesna need to be subjected to the vision of a large, naked white Scotsman.”

     “That would be a traumatizing nightmare,” I joked.  Jamie smirked, kissed me, and headed out the door with his fish spear.

     “Itok, Perkaj,” I called out. “Can you help me find a coconut for the rice?”

      Prepping dinner took a good hour, followed by testing his blood sugar, giving Perkaj short-acting insulin, measuring portions, eating, and cleaning up after the meal. By 7:45 I couldn’t tell who was more exhausted--us or Perkaj. Jamie meticulously wrote down everything in the blood sugar/insulin log, and then we met each other’s eyes, an identical question on our faces.  “What now?”

     We were used to freedom in the evenings, our time being our own to read or write letters, to flirt and joke and laugh, to kiss and cuddle, to freely shed our clothing and make as much noise as we wanted.  But now there was an unfamiliar guest in our sacred space. 

     For the first time, I thought I saw it register on Jamie’s face-the sense of anxiety and discomfort I was feeling. But then he frowned determinedly and turned to Perkaj.

     “Ej awa in kiki,” he said.  “It’s time to sleep.  What do mama and baba do to help you rest?”

     “Erro bwebwenato,” Perkaj replied. His voice held a tinge of sadness.

     “They tell you a story?” Jamie repeated, translating. “Well, come & lie down in your bed, and I’ll tell ye a story.  I have one that’s called Jock & his Mother.”

     We turned on a lamp by our bed and turned off the main lights.  While the boys were on one side of the sheet I put on my pajamas, choosing a longer pair of shorts in case Perkaj saw me in the morning. 

     The story was a little like one I’d heard before, where a simple-minded boy keeps following his mother’s advice a bit too late.  Jock brings home a needle in a bundle of hay, and his mother tells him he should have put it in his hat.  The next day he brings home a plough, and following his mother’s advice, puts it on his hat.  Of course, it’s so heavy it falls into the river. 

     “She said to him, ‘You silly boy!  Ye should have tied a rope to it and pulled it behind you!’” Jamie said, giving the mother the voice of an old crone.  Perkaj giggled.

     “The next day,” Jamie said, “The boy earned a leg o’ mutton... well, they dinna have those on Arno, so maybe it was a… roasted chicken. What do you think he did with it?”

     “Tie it with rope?” Perkaj offered.

     “And pulled it all the way home!” Jamie answered. The answering peal of laughter made me smile.  I sat on the bed, arms hugged around my knees.  All this time I hadn’t realized this talent of Jamie’s.  My only bedtime story from him had been the boring recitation of Scottish history.

     Poor Jock tried to carry a horse on his shoulder and then rode a cow, which of course helped a sad princess to laugh and so they got married.  Jamie slowed his sentences and lowered his voice as the story continued, and just before I heard the floor creak with the movement of Jamie pushing himself up off the floor, I heard a little voice murmur something in Marshallese.

     Jamie crept around the curtain, smiling when he saw me.  He joined me on the bed and was reaching for a book when I whispered, “What did he say?  I didn’t hear him well enough.”

     I could have sworn there was a little mist in Jamie’s eyes as he answered.  “He said ‘Ainikiom ekakiiki ao.’” He paused, the effort of translating wrinkling his forehead.  “It means,” he blushed and met my eyes. “The sound of your voice lulls my soul to sleep.”

     I felt a lump in my throat, the sting of tears in my own eyes as I leaned my head on Jamie’s shoulder. He pressed a kiss onto my forehead and wrapped an arm around me.

     “Tired?” he asked.

     “Exhausted,” I answered.

     “I don’t even think I can read tonight,” he said, reaching over me to turn off the lamp.

     “I won’t argue with that,” I responded, getting up to turn the covers down and pull up the single top sheet. It was still hot and windless.

     Jamie cuddled me for a moment when he got under the covers, but then pulled away.

     “It’s so hot,” he groaned. “I’m missing air conditioning already.”

      It was pitch black inside and out when I startled awake.

     “I want to go home,” a small voice quavered.  “Ikonaan mama im baba.  In my house, my brother sleeps next to me,” Perkaj cried.  “I am alone here.”

     “Jab jan”, Jamie said reassuringly.  “Don’t cry.  Here.  You can sleep next to me.”

     He flipped on the lamp, pushed the sheet out of the way, pulled the mat over until it was touching the side of our bed and tucked Perkaj in again.  Jamie then got into bed, kindly turning toward the little boy and scooting closer to the edge that faced him.

     For the next few minutes, I could hear Marshallese as Jamie murmured reassurances to Perkaj.  The low rumble of foreign speech patterns soothed me as well, and soon I fell back asleep.

      In the predawn hours, I was awakened by large, warm hands that gently stroked my back.  They found their way to the tight muscles of my neck and shoulders, then ran fingers through my hair to massage my scalp.

     I shivered at a kiss on my shoulder blade, at which Jamie scooted closer to me and put his arm over me.

     “Cold, hen?” he asked.

     “Actually, no,” I said, smiling to myself.

     “Me neither,” he whispered, a hand meandering down my side, lazily tracing the waistband of my shorts before slipping fingers under the elastic.

     “Whatcha doing?” I whispered playfully, rolling toward him and being rewarded by an enthusiastic caress of my breast and a thorough kiss.

     “Dying,” was Jamie’s response. “A busy week at your parents’ house, then sleeping apart from ye at the hospital, and now we have an instant son? God, I'm starving for ye.”

     No words were needed to tell him I felt the same.  I’d been trying not to be selfish and resentful, but it was challenging to not feel deprived and disconnected.

     I helped him finish what he had started, wriggling out of my shorts and kicking them onto the floor, then climbing atop Jamie, who made quick work of pulling off my tank top over my head, throwing it to the side to join its companion on the floor.

     “Ifrinn,” he gasped as I used a hand to guide him in, lowering myself onto him.

     Perkaj won’t wake up, I assured myself, confident the darkness would hide us.  He was turned away from us anyway, his breath coming out in a low, even snore. I leaned toward him just to make sure he wasn’t looking in our direction.

     Jamie must have noticed my movement because he hissed under his breath, “It won’t be the first time he’s heard these noi…  Oh, God… oh, Christ...”

     I put my hand over his mouth, increasing my pace. I was close, he was close, and then, a plaintive voice interrupted the process.  “Meester Shamie?”

     I froze. Jamie desperately tried to hold my hips to keep me in place, but I was instantly out of the mood, melting down next to Jamie like an ice cube on a hot car.

     “No no no no no no no…” Jamie pleaded. I pulled the sheet up, panting.  “Bollocks,” he swore, then modulated his voice after a deep sigh.  “Ijin,” he said calmly, rolling away from me toward Perkaj.  “I’m right here.”

Next up on Island Hopper:

Chapter 28b: Just Add Water, part 2 Shots & the “Shungle” 

[lunavadash-creates]

Soulmate AU

Little, 2 chapter story about Arno and his soulmate :D  Chapter: 1/2 Pairing: Arno Dorian x OC Warnings: some angst Next chapter Read on my AO3!  "Elise, wait!" Arno shouted and soon laughed, as he saw red-haired girl jumping over the vegetable cart. She was fast and agile, precise and confident, so she was always the one winning all their races. She only shot him a quick smirk but never slowed down to wait for him.Arno tried his best, but he always focused on his surroundings too much as he was too afraid of risk. He wanted to keep Elise safe, even if there was no safer place for them than Versailles. It was a city they grew up together, through the good and the bad, always side by side, supporting each other and sharing all those secret kisses. Arno loved Elise, and he couldn't wait to be with her officially.His soulmate tattoo was still a black outline of a single cornflower just above his wrist. It was small, subtle and it fitted Elise just right. He still remembered that the very first flower he gave to her was precisely this one - a single cornflower in a beautiful, deep shade of blue.

 On that day Elise told him that is was her favourite flower, but sadly, Arno’s tattoo remained empty.Arno shook off those memories and focused on his race with Elise. He really wanted to win this time, so he decided to risk more than usual. He jumped on barrels standing next to the tavern and soon stood on a roof of a building. He saw Elise running in the distance, and he dashed himself, ready to catch her.He never expected that the slick roof tiles wouldn't support his weight enough, so he fell off the rooftop suddenly, landing on his back on the hard, dirty ground. The impact took away all the air from his lungs, making him stunned for a few seconds. Above he saw only the blue, cloudless sky. A second later pain pierced his left arm. It wasn’t broken but definitely bruised."Are you alright?"A silent voice made Arno shiver. He tried to stand up as fast as possible and looked at the lady in front of him. He was dumbfounded. The woman, or maybe a young lady, in front of him, was beautiful. Her brown hair in a shade of milk chocolate was combed in a single brain and she was wearing a black dress. She looked at him with concern in her big, green eyes and in the same moment, Arno felt a wave of warmness spreading through his body, accumulating in his wrist. He looked down at his left hand and saw that his tattoo was full now. The cornflower had an elegant, green stem in the colour of the lady’s eyes, and the flower turned blue. But not some average blue. It was the most beautiful shade of deep blue, almost purple, Arno had ever seen. He raised his gaze toward the woman, who was also looking at her hand. On her left wrist, there was a tattoo of a carnation flower. It was white as snow, and the frame of each petal was in a dark, pink colour. Arno recognized this flower immediately. It was the same flower his father put on the grave of his mother."I'm-""No." Arno interrupted immediately. He was angry. And when he looked in her eyes and felt his heart turning into a tight knot, he got even more upset. It wasn't supposed to be like this!She couldn't be his soulmate. He refused to believe it! He had Elise - his beautiful, lovely Elise that was winning their race. He couldn't be with some random, meaningless girl."No. It can't be you! You can't be MY soulmate!" He screamed. The girl took a step away from him, stunned and shocked. Hurt and disbelief visible in her green eyes that were now shining. She was holding back tears."I will never accept you. I will never love you. You will never be part of MY life. I don't care who you are. We will never be together!" He growled and saw the tears run down her cheek.But he didn't care for her.He didn't care for a stupid tattoo.He couldn't.Arno woke up from a nightmare suddenly, sitting in his bed. His shirt was wet from sweat, his breath sharp and shallow. He felt the pain in his chest, one he knew so well. And then he looked at his left hand. The cornflower was still there, reminding him of his greatest failure. The blue of the flower became a bit weathered, contours not as sharp as they used to be. And the worst part? His soulmate, the woman he was supposed to spend his life with. The woman who hurt him the most was sleeping a few rooms away from him. And she wanted neither to talk to him nor to see him. She wanted him to disappear from her life."I will make sure you will keep your promise, Monsieur Dorian and will never be a part of MY life," She growled at him when he saw her for the first time after all those years. It was the first thing she had ever told him. And the last as she denied speaking to him at all.Arno couldn't sleep anymore, but fortunately, it was already early morning. So, he decided to clean himself before putting on his robes. But as he washed his face, another deep sigh escaped his lips as he saw his tattoo even more weathered than before. The flower looked like a waned picture - grey and blurred. If Arno didn't know it was, once a beautiful, cornflower he wouldn't be able to tell it now. It looked like a picture from a little child - a flower but one that can't be found in the real world.He ran his fingers gently over the tattoo, thinking about Vivienne. She was so close and yet so far away from him. In return, he soon felt a pinch in the wrist and winced. She always did that. She could feel when he was touching the tattoo and thinking about her, so every time, she made sure it would only bring Arno pain. Whenever he caressed his tattoo, she pinched it back.His heart was aching, and he could only blame himself, his stupidity and arrogance. Everything that was happening between them was his fault.Soon he left his room. He needed a distraction, and the best thing he could do was to devote himself to the cause. He was going on a lot of missions lately, accepting every task. But yet, his thoughts were always going back to Viv. To his soulmate.It was late evening when he came back to the Café Théâtre, he was bruised and tired, but still had been holding a flower in his hand. It was single cornflower he found on his way back and thought it was some kind of a sign as he had never before seen that flower in Paris. So, he took it and decided to give it to Vivienne. Or at least try to. So far, she had never accepted a gift from him. Even when he was leaving them directly in her room, she had always been throwing them all away. He found so many bouquets of flowers in the garbage can. The jewellery on necks and hands of workers of Café Théâtre and children eating all bonbons, all those were presents from him. He tried to say sorry, but she never stopped to listen to him. He tried to write letters, but he always found them in his room again, unopened. But he didn't want to give up on her. He already did this once, and now he had to face the consequences."Arno!" he heard the voice of Dimitri. He, Gerard and Philip were his friends. His best friends - the people who had been there for him whenever he needed. Because of them, Arno was not only an assassin, but also found a sense in his life. Without them, he would never be able to pull himself together after what had happened to Elise."Where are you going?" asked Philip."You look you terrible. Where you again running away from dogs?" asked Gerard, mocking him with a wide smile. Demetri was first to notice the flower in man's hand and frowned."You definitely shouldn't do this. Vivienne said she doesn't want you. Stop trying, or she will kill you eventually."The other Assassins looked at Arno surprised, noticing the flower in his hand.When Arno joined the assassins, Gerard was the first to find out that Arno had a soulmate. But at first, Arno didn't want to talk about it. He was still in love with Elise even though his feeling were fading away, changing. Arno felt like he finally understood that they weren't meant for each other, but it was hard to accept. Because he still remembered that pretty girl in a blue dress, looking at him with tears in her eyes.He told them accidentally when after Elise’s death, they found him drunk. He pointed at his tattoo, that already was going grey. And then he lost it and told them about the girl who he had hurt so much. About tears, he saw. About words he said. And then he told them about the worse part. He told them that the assassin who just came back to Paris, Vivienne, was the one who was meant to be with him.Demetri knew Vivienne the best. They often worked together, and they were good friends. He knew that she had a soulmate, one that she hated the most in the world. So, he tried to do the only thing to help he could; keep Arno and Vivienne far away from each other, which was hard as they served in the same Brotherhood. In the end, Demetri knew the reason why Viv didn't want to be with Arno. But he promised her not to tell anyone."Arno. You are our friend, but I'm afraid you have to finally accept that Viv will not accept you.""I know I hurt her but...""There are no buts. Go to Viv if you must but leave her alone if she will tell you no again." Demetri moved away, letting Arno through.He knew how this would end because both, Arno and Vivienne, were too stubborn to listen.Arno found Viv in a training room but didn't dare to interrupt her training. He just watched her moves. She looked like she was dancing the dance of death and destruction, the sword was cutting through the air with a whistle, steel shining in the last rays of the sun slipping through the windows. Her moves were fast and precise, but as soon as she saw him, she stopped and looked at him displeased. Arno saw drops of sweat shining on her forehead, few strands of chocolate hair sticking to her face. But she looked beautiful. If only those green eyes looked at him with something else than hatred..."I'm sorry to interrupt you," Arno said, taking a few steps to close the distance between them but Vivienne raised her sword before he got too close. She never let him near and so it was this time."What do you want again?" She asked anger in her voice made Arno's heart sink in his chest. But he couldn't give up. He showed her the flower. A single, blue cornflower, one that should be uniting them.Viv lowered her sword and came closer to Arno reaching for the flower.For a few seconds, Arno felt happiness blowing inside his body as he thought that maybe, maybe they can make peace with each other. He looked at her with a smile and hope in his brown eyes. He wanted to show her that his feelings were genuine. He wanted to be with her. To love her.But Viv took the flower and torn it to shreds, dropping remains on the floor under Arno's feet."Are you stupid?! What is so hard to understand when I say I don't want you! Stay the fuck away from me, I hate you! I don't want your stupid flowers, your presents and pathetic letters. You will never be a part of my life, so give up already. I wish I never met you!"With that final note, she left the room, leaving behind her one torn flower and one broken heart.Arno dropped on his knees, taking in his hands remains of the flower. He didn't know why his vision was blurry until one single tear fell on his tattoo. His fragile heart shattered into millions in tiny, sharp pieces digging into every organ and every tissue of his body. He bled. He knew he did when he took all the pieces and close them in his hand.Demetri appeared next to him soon, kneeling next to him and putting his hand on Arno's shoulder. Neither he nor Philip and Gerard wanted to see him broken again."I think you should know why she did that."

[veryvincible]

Hi, I’m the anon that made “Arno is 5 years older than Tony” and I got that from international iron man. We follow the Starks and Armstrong. And it specifically say, it took 4 years for Amanda to know Jude, work with Jude, and finally have a child with Jude. Meanwhile, Maria is still mad at Howard because of Arno. Arno had already happened in international iron man. Soo yea. Maria was mad with Howard 38 years ago. Jude and Amanda were dating and working together37 years ago. Two years later, that she was still dating Jude and 9 month later she finds out Jude was a hydra agent. All this happened after Arno; so yea. Anyway, this was a shower thought lmao so it’s all good .. I read somewhere that Bendis did retcon Arno out but somehow Slott brought him back smdh

After reviewing International Iron Man again, I get what you mean! It does seem weird in a way that’s never really resolved. That being said, everything else about the surrounding events of the adoption (namely events in IM Vol. 5, released 3 years before International Iron Man) make it clear that canon’s intent was for Tony’s adoption to occur directly after Arno’s hospitalization (and that the public had no reason to be suspicious of this, nor did Tony).

It’s also worth mentioning that Howard and Maria did have difficulty conceiving to begin with, hence why Arno had issues to be remedied in the first place. So I’m not going to say this was for sure the intent in International Iron Man or anything (since it really, probably wasn’t, and this is most likely just a matter of canon fudging details as canon does), but all we get from #7 is Howard telling Maria that they’ll “try again”. And in Iron Man Vol. 5, we do get to see Maria as she goes through her pregnancy, at one point mentioning that she’s having morning sickness three months in-- which is described by her as “a good sign”, implying they possibly had at least one miscarriage throughout their attempts to conceive.

And after we get the whole Recorder 451 thing and Arno’s rapidly declining health, things get a bit... vague.

Maria says some things in Vol 5 that roughly equate to, “We had to hide Arno, and we needed a baby so the Recorder wouldn’t be suspicious, but we still couldn’t conceive!” which... doesn’t actually tell you whether or not they tried again. It could have been a “we knew we couldn’t do that, so we just adopted you instead!” sort of statement and it could have been a “we tried, but it didn’t work, and then we adopted you!”

And International Iron Man doesn’t actually clear that up much at all. It shows tearful Maria being comforted by Howard, the only dialogue being, “Maria, we’ll try again.”

... Which doesn’t really tell you where in the journey (pre-Arno or post-Arno) that was supposed to take place. And, look, we all kind of know what they were getting at-- it’s probably supposed to be a flashback of post-Arno Howard and Maria, and it’s probably just something canon messed up a bit. The implication (however brief and short-sighted the writing may have been, pushing it) could have been that they did spend 5 years trying to conceive and it just never worked, which would also contradict the canon timeline given that Tony’s age was kind of well known as he went through school and all.

No matter how you cut it, it seems like there are going to be contradictions. But the general consensus, as far as I can tell, is that Tony and Arno were the same age and Tony’s adoption wasn’t long after Arno’s birth, hence why the public had no idea and there was no suspicion at all.

I mean, you could also argue that Howard and Maria kept the pregnancy and Arno’s health from the public, not knowing how it would turn out and not wanting the attention of it, so Tony showing up randomly was just like, “Hey, they have a baby now!” to the general public. But I don’t think there’s any canon basis for that and it’s kind of improbable. Nothing really matches up perfectly anyway, though, so.

That’s all I can really say about that. Seeing now how shoddily things fit together (and how vague canon actually was about how long it took to adopt Tony, even in Vol. 5), I’m hesitant to say with any degree of certainty that Arno and Tony are, like, within a few months of each other. I would believe it if you told me that Howard and Maria tried a few more times to conceive and then adopted Tony, and Arno and Tony are maybe somewhere within a year of each other’s ages, but. You know. If there’s anything I’m missing and anyone else has some magical piece of canon that’s going to make everything here fit together flawlessly, please do let me know. That would be very nice.

Canon’s wild.

[writerjodie]

Preferences: How You Meet (Modern AU)

uhhh this is a really old piece of writing (from Aug. 2018) - so it doesn’t have Kass or Alexios (sorreh) I hope ya’ll enjoy! - Preferences - How You Meet (Modern) Altaïr Ibn-La-Ahad You meet in a bar late at night, long after your girlfriends have bailed and gone home. You sit alone at the dark bar, sipping your favourite drink and losing yourself in thoughts of sunny beaches and handsome men. You're so lost you fail to notice a certain beautiful man slide up beside you. "You, um, want another?" He elbows you and nods at your drink, gaining a nod from you in response. "Not seen you here before, sweetheart, what's your name?" You ask, smiling up at the kind stranger. "Altaïr, and you are?" He pays for your drink and hands it to you, settling onto a stool beside you. "(Name),"you smirk at him, taking a sip of your drink in what you hope is a seductive way. Needless to say, by the end of the night you two are strangers no more - and he even leaves with your number and a promise to text you in the morning. You grin to yourself as you stumble out into the dawning streets, you have a feeling you'll be seeing a lot more of this Altaïr.

Ezio Auditore da Firenze 

(Bc Ezio would totally be a model) You had seen Ezio’s pictures in magazines, and it was your dream as a model to work alongside him, but you’d never considered it would ever happen - no, not until your agent called you about a wedding photo shoot. The dresses you were to model were new takes on traditional styles, experiments with new colours and fabrics, they tell you. In fact, the first dress you try on you love so much you almost want to get married to any old stranger just to wear it. As you make your way to the set for the photo shoot, a familiar accented voice calls out to you. "My, if I had known I would be working with such a bella donna today I would have tried harder," Ezio calls out to you, a mocking pout on his plush lips. "Ezio stop jesting, you always look immaculate! Nice to see you again, its been a long time," you chuckled back, disappointed when your conversation is cut short by the photographer calling you to action. Most of the shots are generic, run of the mill poses, until you get to the final shot. "Now, look in love! Kiss!" The photographer calls, and you feel your cheeks burn with the thought of Ezio kissing you. "Finally!" Ezio sighs, before pulling you into a soft embrace, his lips plastered onto yours.

Ratonhnhakè:ton | Connor Kenway It was your first day as a volunteer at Davenport Animal Sanctuary. As a child your parents had told you about the Sanctuary's work, and you had been distraught to find that it had closed down and left to ruin for several years. Despite that setback, the Sanctuary reopened three weeks prior to your arrival, thanks to the help of a local young man - known to the masses as Connor. "(Name), I presume?" A sweet looking man waves at you, "Welcome to Davenport," "You must be Connor! It is a pleasure to be here, and I think it's wonderful what you're doing here," you shake his hand eagerly, finding yourself extremely excited to start your work here. Connor looks as if he doesn't expect your compliment, for his cheeks quickly redden and he blinks a few times in surprise. "Thank you, (name), follow me to the manor, I need to talk through insurance with you then you can begin work. I think you are with me today," he lumbers off on his large legs, beckoning you to follow. Excited, you skip behind him and try not to stare at his beautiful face for too long. Oh yes, you are going to be so happy here.

Edward Kenway Sighing, you glare down at the bulky life jacket around your midriff. There was no point in you being here anyway, you have no interest in sailing whatsoever, you're just here out of politeness after you won a few free sailing lessons. "Ready for your lesson, Lass?" the voice of who you presume to be your instructor appears out of nowhere, causing to you turn around to find him. Once you turn, it is as if the whole world stops on its axis. Your breath, laden with the salty tang of the sea, catches in your throat as if unable to escape. Widening, your eyes take in the sight of the man, who ticks every single box ever. Sandy blonde hair? Check! Sun kissed skin? Check! Tattoos? Obviously! Muscles that only a GOD could possess? You bet your damn toenails he has them. Swallowing, you attempt to speak to him, only to stand their with your mouth flapping like a fish. "Oh...I tend to have that effect on lots of people," he smirks at you, holding his hand out for you to shake it, "The name's Edward Kenway, by the way. Shall we be starting?" Dumbfounded, you follow Edward onto the little boat where you will start your lesson. Oh...maybe you do have an interest in sailing now.

Arno Dorian (Sorry but Dorian would totally be that irresponsible carer, who somehow keeps all the children alive) This softè baguette works in the nursery down the road from you, a nursery which your little sibling attends every day. Each night they come home, telling you stories of Arno, and each day you think about what he would be like to meet. Luckily, your mother sent you to pick up your little sibling from nursery, giving you a chance to finally meet the famous Arno Dorian. "Are you not too young to have children, mon amour?" A sickly sweet voice welcomes you into the foyer of the nursery, a voice belonging to none other than Arno Dorian. "Oh, no she's only my sister," you stammer, holding the hand of your sister as Arno approaches. Your sister seems to approve of this action, and she turns to Arno with a smile. "Mister Dorian! I've told (name) all about you! I think you two should get married!" Your sister squeals, sending your cheeks into a flurry of burning embarrassment. "What? I barely know him!" You squeak as your sister laughs on. Lucky Arno is unfazed by the whole ordeal, and shoots you a crooked grin. "Well, I would have to take you for dinner first, at the very least. Is tomorrow okay?" He winks at you, sending your sister into overdrive. "Uh...yeah, sure," you stammer out, before scooping your sister up and skipping out of there. "(Name) has a boyfriend! (Name) has a boyfriend!" Your sister giggles and squirms in your arms. You can't help but smile...maybe you do have a boyfriend.

Jacob Frye The Rook, what a nice name for a pub. At least, it's better than the last one, the Blight. Damn suitable name too. Since the pub changed hands, and was swiftly refurnished, you decided to try out the new bar to see if the landlord was any better than the last. "Why on earth did you buy a pub, Jacob? You don't know anything about running a business!" Someone argues from inside, but you ignore it and take the plunge through the door anyway. "I know a lot about drinking, and a lot of that happens in pubs," the response comes, stopping short when you enter, "Ah! My first customer! Welcome to the Rook! What can I get you?" He continues. "Just a rum and coke please, it's been a long day," you chuckle, settling down into the first seat you see as one of the pair get to work behind the bar. Even in the dim light of the pub you can tell he's handsome, with a swagger and smirk to match. "Welcome, I'm Evie Frye," the woman who was arguing first sits down beside you, "That, over there, is my brother, Jacob Frye. He's the landlord," Accepting your drink from Jacob, you laugh as he pours himself a drink and joins you. "Jacob! You can't drink on the job," Evie sighs, rubbing her face into her hands. Raising his brows, Jacob shrugs at you, glass in hand. "Where's the fun in running a pub then, dear sister," he laughs, downing the whole glass in one go. As the night crawls on, more and more customers join you until the whole ordeal turns into a jolly drinking competition - which you obviously won.

Evie Frye (The cliche hurt in this one....but I love Evie) Libraries, oh how you love them. Their wall burst with undiscovered adventures and unstarted quests, just waiting for you to stumble across them. Turning away from the bookshelf, you accidentally walk straight into another girl, sending her armful of books scattering across the floor. "I am SO sorry! Let pick them up for you!" You bend down and scramble for the books, hoping your blush is hidden from sight. Alas, fortune is not in your favour today, for when you stand up and finally get a good look at her, your blush deepens at the sight of her. Pretty freckles, pursed lips, little dimples! Oh she is adorable! "Don't sweat it," the girl calls over her shoulder, already leaving the library. Oh, you might start coming to the library more often!

Bayek of Siwa (I have yet to explore AC:Origins yet, please forgive me if Bayek is out of character) Smiling, you tickle the eagle some more. It's absurd really, how such a graceful bird of prey is reduced to a soft sweetheart once you give her a few tickles. You continue for some time, uttering soft words at the bird as you go, until a voice begins to speak. "She is a beautiful bird, no?" Someone asks, and you look up to see none other than Medjay Bayek of Siwa. "My apologies, Medjay, I did not know she belongs to you," you stutter, knowing full well the man could kill you at any second. He waves his hand at you, as if batting away your apology. "Her name is Senu, by the way. Come, hold out your arm," he whistles, and Senu sets of flying until she is soaring far above your heads. "Keep your arm still," he orders, whistling again at his eagle. With a swish of her wings, Senu has rapily descended and landed with a satisfying ploof on your arm. Eyes wide, the stare at the bird close up now, and Senu stares back, seemingly giving her approval. "She likes you, may I have your name?" Bayek asks, sending the bird soaring high again. "(Name)," you smile, casting your eyes away from his. "Well, (name), it has been a please meeting you, I hope our paths may cross again," Bayek finalises, before waving and heading back into his house. Excited, you run back to your house, replaying the meeting over and over in your head.

Shay Cormac (I can so imagine Shay on a motorbike...in all his leather gear...oh lord I need a cold shower) Distracted by your phone, you don’t look properly when you cross the road - resulting in you nearly getting ran over by a flash motorcycle. Frozen in shock on the curb edge, you nearly drop your phone as you watch the bike wobble a little as it comes to a stop, the rider kicking on the breaks and hopping off to check you. His words come out muffled, forcing him to repeat himself once he removes the helmet from his head.

“You alright lass?” he asks, his dark eyes searching you for scratches. God - he is good looking.

“Y-yeah,” you stammer, “Are you? I should’ve looked where I was going,”

He merely nods, confirming he is unscathed. Biting your lip, you watch him stride back over to his bike, his broad shoulders encapsulated in the shiny leather of his jacket. With a wave of farewell to you, he puts on his helmet and kicks the bike into action once more - speeding down the road in a flurry of dust. Afterwards, every time you hear the roar of a motorbike, you can’t help but wonder if it’s the chocolate eyed stranger, you wouldn’t mind running into him again...

Haytham Kenway Your first day as cafe manager was mostly uneventful...that's if we gloss over the poor lad who spilt his tea all over the floor in protest at something his father said. "Oh for God's sake Connor," he mutters, trying to mop up the spillage with a napkin. "Don't worry about it! It's what we're here for!" You chirp, sliding over to the table with a proper cloth, "Can I get you a replacement tea?" "No, thank you, I was just leaving," the younger one, Connor storms out, leaving you and the mam to clean up the mess. "Teenagers, eh?" You chuckle, wiping away the last of the tea. "Yes...quite," the man looks at you for a second,"I presume you are the new manager here? Do you know what happened to the last one?" "Oh, yes Ziio left for another coffee shop, were you two friends?" You ask, picking up the discarded tea cup. "No no, we just knew each other. Haytham Kenway, by the way," he holds out his hand for you to shake, before swiftly departing from the shop - no doubt to look for his son. "Strange," you utter, heading back to tills with the tea.

[bigfan-fanfic]

Inquisitor Fact Share - Tash

Tagging @ironbullsmissingeye who I got this from.

I thought maybe any Dragon Age fans might want to hear about my Inquisitors, and maybe they’d be encouraged to request. I don’t think this fandom’s over yet! Feel free to ask about my Inquisitors!

Ataashi “Tash” Adaar, Freyja Cadash, Emmeryn Lavellan, Medea Lavellan, Ezraen Trevelyan, Owain Trevelyan - others to come.

A pictures or description of your Inquisitor(hair colour, eye colour, skin tone, scars ect):

The first thing noticeable about Tash is his ever-present smile (Varric nicknames him Dimples). He’s got horns that curl up and back, although they are small due to his young age. He’s slightly shorter than an average female elf, and he has grayish skin slightly darker than the Iron Bull’s. He has long brown hair that he ties into a small knot at the nape of his neck. Unusually, Tash also has golden eyes, similar to Morrigan’s. He basically looks like a giant little kid.

Any info about your Inquisitor(age, gender, sexuality, religion ect):

Tash is a child - about twelve to thirteen. He’s not quite sexually awakened yet, but he had a big crush on Blackwall for a long time. Tash is marginally Andrastian - he says a prayer every now and then, and it brings him comfort to think that his family is at the Maker’s side. 

What race is your Inquisitor?: 

Tash is a Qunari, although he insists on calling himself Vashoth.

1 cute fact about your Inquisitor:

Tash enjoys Cole’s company, and uses him as a human teddy bear on occasion - “Can’t sleep, but he reminds me of my brother, safe and warm next to me, making me feel like nothing can hurt me...”

A picture or description of your Inquisitor’s favourite location:

Tash likes to be in Cullen’s office. It reminds him somehow of his old home in Markham. He’s read every book on the shelves and tries to help the Commander with his paperwork.

Who your Inquisitor romanced/would like to romance(can be a picture or description):

Tash is a child, so he didn’t romance anyone, but upon learning he was basically homeless and family-less, Varric adopted him and took him to Kirkwall.

Something creative of your Inquisitor(Fic, Art, picture, or another fact):

Tash has a flair for design, or at least Vivienne says he does. He personally designed the Inquisition banners around Skyhold, as well as the throne.

Info about your Inquisitor’s childhood(was it happy/sad?):

As a baby, Tash’s mother Saarebas attempted to take Tash to Par Vollen after he developed magic. Tash’s father Kaaras chased after them, and was able to rescue Tash. Saarebas was killed by a group of Ben-Hassrath. Tash had a good upbringing apart from that, as Kaaras met and married a Markham baker by the name of Colm, and Colm’s son Arno took Tash to the Grand Tourney every year.

1 random fact about your Inquisitor:

Tash hates the smell of alcohol. It’s enough to keep him from entering the Herald’s Rest unless he needs to speak to someone.

Your Inquisitors usual companions:

Tash: Varric, Blackwall, and Cole

Are they a rogue, mage or warrior? What’s their class?:

Tash is a mage, and became a Knight-Enchanter because he was fascinated with the tales of mage-knights doing good with glowing swords.

Who did your Inquisitor chose to rule Orlais?:

Tash chose the public truce outcome - mostly because he didn’t want anyone to die. For now, this has worked, with each of the three clamoring to earn the favor of the beloved Child of Andraste.

Who did they leave in the Fade and why?

Tash left the Warden in the Fade. He couldn’t bear to disappoint Varric by leaving Hawke.

Favourite advisor?:

Tash absolutely worships the ground Josephine walks on. He loves her like a big sister. It helps that she shares the chocolates she imports from Tevinter with him.

1 happy fact about your Inquisitor?:

Tash adopted an injured fennec in the Hinterlands. He named it Harold so that he could jokingly ask it questions whenever someone referred to him as the Herald of Andraste. Harold tends to rest on Tash’s shoulders.

Did they save The Chargers?:

Tash saved the Chargers without hesitation. He wasn’t thrilled about working with Qunari anyway, and saw through the guise of an alliance almost immediately.

Did they chose the Mages or Templars?:

Tash sided with the Mages, although he was horrified to think that all the Templars were infected with Red Lyrium.

Did the disband the Inquisition or not?:

Tash disbanded the Inquisition. He didn’t want to have anything more to do with it, having been traumatized by the loss of his arm. Thankfully he had a home waiting for him with Varric and Hawke in Kirkwall.

1 sad fact about your Inquisitor?:

Tash’s entire pre-Inquisition family are dead. His stepfather and father were killed by a Ben-Hassrath ambush while he and Arno were at the Tourney one year. Arno and he traveled with the Valo-Kas after that, with Arno earning their keep, until he was killed during a mission. Shokrakar sent him to the Conclave to cheer him up, never dreaming what would happen.

Opinion of the Qun?:

Tash has a very low opinion of the Qun. But since Josephine has told him it is better to be ambiguous about negative things, that’s all he’ll say on the matter.

Opinion of the Dalish?:

Tash is fascinated by the Dalish, particularly their mythology. He’ll often pester Solas for information about the Dalish and their gods - the one subject Solas doesn’t like talking about - until Solas is practically begging “Ask about something else, child!”

Opinion of The Chantry?:

Tash is no stranger to Chantry abuse, despite being Andrastian. He believes that no one can truly claim to know the Maker’s will, and tries to find meaning in the Chant on his own.

1 headcanon for your Inquisitor:

Tash loves to read and write - before the Conclave, his greatest ambition was to be a court scribe.

Any other information you want to share:

Tash was given the moniker “Child of Andraste,” which made him uncomfortable. He was also the first to figure out Solas’s identity. He likes Vivienne because she can be mean and polite at the same time, and he was initially afraid Dorian would hate him because of his horns. 

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #499

Top Ten Everything Ever

Four hundred and ninety-nine. That’s how many weeks I’ve been doing this four. Four hundred and ninety-nine.

Next week is the big five-oh-oh and I’m doing something typically stupid, but I wanted to make it a real celebration. That means for the next three weeks you’re going to get some rather meaningful and special Tops Ten; lists that have been long in the making, or that are just bonkers-level awkward for me to do. Like this one.

I mean, I’ve ranked films, games, fictional guns, and robots that made me cry. How much longer can I do this for? How many more weeks am I going to put myself through this?

Give me a barrel with bottom unscrap’d.

There’s nowhere to go but up, ladies and germs, and so I present to you the list to end all lists. The most definitive list possible. A list of everything. A list of my favourite things in all of time and space. A list of the official best things ever.

I mean, what more is there to say? This covers everything. I’ve tried to avoid it being really specific to one film or one person. And, of course, it doesn’t include people I know in real life, or events that have happened to me. These are, in their own way, big, sweeping things; film series, franchises, bands, stories that have in their own way changed my life. Just the greatest things I’ve come across in my nearly 40 years on this planet.

And you can’t say fairer than that.

The Transformers comic: this should be obvious to anyone who knows me well, but there’s no greater influence in my life, in terms of storytelling or entertainment, than Transformers. And of all the variants branching off from the Prime Timeline (pun very much intended), it’s the comic that’s greatest. Whether it’s the melodrama of Simon Furman or the intricate plotting of James Roberts, I’ve been addicted to the Transformers comic for the vast majority of my life. It has fundamentally shaped how I consume fiction and the sorts of things I’m into. It’s also really changed how I write, and, in fact, the original Marvel run is at least partly responsible for the fact that I write at all. I drew Transformers comics as a kid. I planned out elaborate multi-issue arcs before I was a teenager. I wrote detailed synopses and snatches of scripts for Transformers movies that would never be made. And I robbed, wholesale, motifs and lines of dialogue for the original books and comics I was working on too. It changed my life. It’s not hyperbole to say Transformers is the single biggest piece of fiction I’ve ever touched. Till all are one indeed.

The films of Steven Spielberg, 1975-1982: Spielberg is my favourite filmmaker, but it felt a bit weird to just say “Steven!” as one of the entries here. So instead I’ve decided to hone in on his early career, despite the fact that knocks out one of the biggest influences of my life, Jurassic Park. But everything I love about Spielberg is in these movies. His skill with a camera, his love of light, his great eye for casting, his way with actors; I mean, Close Encounters, which I probably first saw aged about twelve, is just a microcosm of all my interests in my teens: aliens, government conspiracies, determined men going on a crazed quest, and above all a pervasive sense of hope and optimism. Spielberg’s craft is exemplary, but that’s also true of many of his peers. His flair for action scenes and love of spectacle is entertaining, but there are many directors of whom you could say the same. What I love about him – what keeps bringing me back to him – is his warmth and optimism, his belief in the best of us. Even in his darkest movies, in Schindler’s List and A.I. and Munich (which has one of the bleakest endings of his career), there’s still joy and warmth and something worthwhile and wholesome to fight for. And whilst Raiders is a thrill-ride and E.T. an emotional tour-de-force, all of his preoccupations are encapsulated in Jaws, a tense horror film, a buddy-comedy, an entertaining rollercoaster, an acting masterclass. But it’s still Jurassic Park that made me want to make a movie.

The Marvel Cinematic Universe: so when I was a kid I was reading Transformers and Ghostbusters and other Marvel-published adaptations, but not really any actual Marvel comics. However, as a result, I became very loosely familiar with who Iron Man and Doctor Strange were (and Spidey of course) through references and back-up strips, and that time Death’s Head fought Tony’s nephew Arno Stark. No, when I started reading “proper” comics – mainstream superhero stuff – it was DC. I loved Batman, so I bought Batman, and that was a gateway to the rest of the DCU. However, despite the successes of the various DC movie adaptations, it’s the MCU that really, really got its hooks into me. For one, they’re really good adaptations, well-cast, with some great set-pieces. But the interconnected stuff is what really sings. Not just the characters popping up in each others’ movies, or even the overall arc leading up the crossover events; no, it was the actual shared-ness of it, the way the destruction of SHIELD had an impact, or the Sokovia Accords, or Asgard, Skrulls, magic… everything has an impact, an effect. And sure, it’s incredibly good fun to follow the breadcrumbs and try to work out where things are heading. As we enter a new phase – literally and figuratively – I just can’t wait to find out what’s next.

Grant Morrison’s Batman: talking about interconnectivity, no one does it better – or weirder – than Morrison. His Batman arc – and I’m referring to the character not the title, as it spans multiple series and even, arguably, includes work he did on JLA years earlier – is a web of connected theories, images, themes, events, and references. What does the Zur-En-Arrh graffiti in Gotham mean, not just in the here-and-now, but also as a long-standing reference to decades of Batman’s past? The anticipation of uncovering the next breadcrumb, the excitement of deciphering the next reference; it was long-form storytelling as a form of existential theatre, and it was sublime. But he also did two things that have utterly changed my view of the character. On the meta level, he presented a Batman where everything was canon; the grim thirties Shadow-inspired vigilante, the goofy fifties space adventures, the hairy-chested love-god of the seventies… it all happened to one man over a span of about 15-20 years. Fair enough; that’s cool storytelling. But his idea that Batman was not a miserable, psychopathic loner, that he was not insane or struggling to cope or still traumatised by his parents’ death, that Bruce Wayne was a nice guy with friends and family, who’d used his pain as a weapon, who’d gotten past his rage and grief and turned all the negative stuff outwards. Batman was what was built from all that, and Batman allowed Bruce to grow. And what did he do? He found other lost children and saved their lives, allowing Dick Grayson to take over. Batman is a force for good, in a similar way to Superman in Morrison’s All-Star book, making people better by association. And his confrontation with Darkseid in Final Crisis is extraordinary; brilliant as-is, as a piece of comicbook badassery on the page, but the metatextual resonance it’s given – Batman as a good man versus the font of all evil, David versus Goliath, Theseus and the Minotaur – is brilliant. How it ties in to Morrison’s wider Bat-epic, the whole Black Glove stuff and the devil and time travel and the myth of Batman’s creation and all of it… and just the simple thing of Batman’s last act being shooting the embodiment of evil, saving a human life, and then saying “Gotcha,” before dying, is perfect. Perfect.

The Secret of Monkey Island and Monkey Island 2: LeChuck’s Revenge: when I was little, I played Spectrum and C64 games at my cousins’ house. Then I got an Amiga – I think maybe I was ten? – and I started playing Amiga games. And it was fun and all, but then I read a review in Amiga Action, and my life changed. It was something called an “adventure game”, and it let you walk around chatting to people and interacting with the world, with great big colourful graphics and characters whose mouths moved when they spoke. And then I played it. My love of the medium and its possibilities was cemented then; and, fittingly, it was through the wordy, hilarious dialogue and comedy antics of a wannabe pirate who may, or may not, be selling these fine leather jackets. It’s not overstating things that my gaming tastes were defined by this game and its technically superior sequel. The quirky set-pieces, the weird puzzles, the playing with form (like when you “die” in Monkey 2), and the smart use of Lucasfilm in-jokery. The first game’s “How to Get Ahead in Navigating” gag/puzzle will live with me forever, as will the second game’s bonkers, nightmarish, beautifully constructed ending. As good as they were, none of the subsequent games could hold a candle to it, especially as the whole aesthetic changed into something much more cartoony. But these two? They’re my Big Whoop.

Star Wars: I imagine I know a lot of people in real life who would be surprised – nay, astounded – that I would list my ten favourite Things of all time, and yet Star Wars would not manage to break the Top Five. That’s because that as much as I love Star Wars – and I do, I really do – it didn’t hit me, didn’t speak to me, apart from one brief and weird moment in my late teens. It was games that made me fall in love, I think; games and toys. And, I have to confess, it was the prequels; the intricate digital visions of gleaming cities and impossibly acrobatic Jedi. I love the goofiness and ultra-seriousness of Lucas’ vision, sadly muddled now by the earthy chaos of the sequels. Star Wars is cool; for a while, it defined my idea of cool in cinema. An exciting sci-fi reimagining of ancient and endless myths, a confusing smorgasbord of weird stories and arcane philosophy. Plus spaceships and rapscallions and laser swords. So yes: whilst it was never my faith, so to speak, it’s still one of the coolest and most original pieces of fiction in my lifetime, and to this day there are very few things at all that I find more exciting and evocative than the thought of a Jedi pirouetting through the air with their ‘saber lit.

Middle-Earth, in print and film: one of my most vivid memories of childhood is my mum reading me The Hobbit (and also Macbeth, funnily enough). Then I bought myself my own copy, read it as a kid, read it again as a teenager, wrote (aged about 12 or 13) a sequel in which Gollum comes back to reclaim the ring. I remain to this day baffled that my teacher did not think to tell me that there actually was a sequel to The Hobbit. Eventually I did hear about it, watched the Ralph Bakshi version, and – when I read in Empire that it was gonna be a film and Sean Connery, of all people, was gonna be Gandalf – I thought it best to take the plunge. And I adored it. whilst there’s something about the lyrical simplicity of The Hobbit that I prefer, the depth and scope of The Lord of the Rings – and Tolkien’s subsequent, more disparate writing – that moves me on a profound level. It’s not just the epic nature of the work – the story itself, with its grandiose tales of heroism and adventure – but the sheer balls of the man to make such a thing, to craft wholesale an entire mythological ecosystem. And then the films! I can’t believe they managed to do that; it was pure lightning in a bottle, and we know that because they didn’t quite manage to do it a second time with the Hobbit movies. But all those glorious moments: “Fly, you fools”, “For Frodo”, “I can carry you”, “Go away and never come back” – bloody hell.

Empire magazine: it feels a bit weird, for some reason, citing a magazine as a Favourite Thing. It’s a magazine, a periodical, a journal; it tells you the news and recommends films. it’s not supposed to be part of the culture, part of the fabric of one’s being. But whilst you could debate whether criticism itself is culture, Empire definitely has a culture. It’s a club, nay, a family; something that has been entrenched in recent years through its podcasts and live shows. But for me it began as an education. I started reading it, really, to find out more about Jurassic Park (there we are again, the secret eleventh part of this list). But it went on, showing me more films and filmmakers, introducing me to esoteric industry concepts, broadening my horizons. I always liked film, but Empire made me love film. It reflected my tastes but then it enriched them, codified them, offered me new flavours. It was the first magazine to put Lord of the Rings on the cover; it celebrates Spielberg and the MCU; it had articles about The Greasy Strangler, for goodness’ sake. So much of what I love about film I learned from Empire over the last (nearly) thirty years, and so much of what I love about Empire now is because of what I learned. Bangily-bang.

Traveller’s Tales’ LEGO games: the games that did not make this list, I don’t know. Halo; man, I love Halo. Or what about classics like Lemmings, Worms, or SWOS? What about Mass Effect, Deus Ex, or Fable? What about Mario Kart, what about Civilization? They all deserved a place, really. But there’s something esoteric, timeless even, about the heights of the LEGO games. I remember playing a demo – on the first Xbox, I think – of the first LEGO Star Wars, and being blown away by the fact that, well, it was good. When the games started coming out on the 360 – Star Wars II, Batman, Indiana Jones – I was in the gloriously fortunate position of getting a lot of them for free at CITV, and I devoured them. The simple mechanics, the generous, forgiving gameplay, the satisfying tactile feel of smashing objects and collecting studs. There was something just so rewarding about playing them. And the fan-service! Giving you all those beloved characters, all those worlds, all those genuinely funny in-jokes, references, and cut-scenes. Plus they’re great to play with kids. Time went on, some games were better than others; I feel they reached their peak with the first LEGO Marvel Super-Heroes game, presenting us with an open world New York to play in and a collection of comic book characters that fitted the gameplay perfectly. Subsequent games have either put new restrictions on play, or given us more complicated stories and mechanics, or – really – just over-egged the pudding slightly. I’m really, really optimistic and excited for The Skywalker Saga, long overdue, and promising something of an overhaul. it began, really, with Star Wars; and I feel with Star Wars they’ll have their greatest hour.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds: fun fact: finding the tenth spot on these lists is very hard. How about a brand I love, like Xbox, or the BBC, or even Disney? Or another writer or director – what about Aaron Sorkin? Or a TV show – Doctor Who, perhaps, or Star Trek? Or how about, oh I dunno, Shakespeare? I like him. But I’ve not talked about music, so let’s do that; we’ll go out on a number. I’m not a musical person; I didn’t grow up frequenting record shops or listening to mix tapes in my room. I liked songs, but mostly I came to music through film. That was even true with Nick Cave, who I first heard in an episode of The X-Files, and read about in the X-Files magazine. But he remains one of the few artists, The Bad Seeds one of the few bands, that I continue to seek out and listen to regularly (rather than just saying “Alexa, play nineties rock”). I love the different styles, from the distorted noise of the early, post-Birthday Party years through the sombre melodies of Nocturama. I love Cave’s lyricism; his evocation of myth, his use of imagery. I love how he manages to get phrases like “morally culpable” into a song. I love the humour as well as the tragedy, the references to things both real and mythological, the sadness and eloquence of it all. I love how so many of his songs are about sex but are also really moving and meaningful; how much of the music is infused with pain and sorrow but is also uplifting. The horrible evocations of Cave’s own abuse in Do You Love Me, through to the references to his son’s death in Girl in Amber. I love Cave’s voice. I don’t know if this has come through in this list, but something I really like is stuff that makes me cry but isn’t necessarily sad. I cry when I read Sandman, when he wins the Oldest Game by challenging the end of everything by becoming “hope”; I cry when Donna tells Josh, “if you were in the hospital I wouldn’t stop for red lights”; I cry when Steve Rogers jumps on that dummy grenade. I think it’s hope and heroism and love. And that’s something that I get constantly, mainlined, intravenous, from Nick Cave. As Morgan Freeman says in Seven, “The world is a fine place and worth fighting for – I agree with the second part.”

God, there’s so much stuff not listed here. So many things I love that I feel are core; no Pixar, no West Wing, no other filmmakers cited, really, apart from Spielberg. But ten’s not a big number, and I contain multitudes.

Thanks for reading.

[arnoxjacob]

Of Jealousy and Betrayal

We finally wrote the fanfic we promised! :D We tried our best to come up with something that sounds okay, so we hope you all will like it :3 Enjoy the reading~ -Nightlily & Crystal.

Rate: T Summary: He was kind, handsome, caring, he was perfect. Arno Dorian was the best thing in my messed up life, but then there was Roth. Evie and Arno warned me to stay away from him, but when did I ever listen to someone?

Chapter 1

I never felt happy as much as I'm with him. He was perfect, in all the meanings of the word. He was caring, loving, good looking, French and an assassin. Arno Dorian was the perfect guy and I probably don't deserve him but I don't care. He was mine.

We met in London. I just finished one of my missions when I met him for the first time. He told me he was sent on a mission by the French council to assassinate a Templar that ran away from Paris all the way to London. At first, we were just friends, his way of thinking reminded me a lot of my father and sister. But as the time passed I quickly learned that I'm falling for this damn guy and I want him to stay with me in London.

And that's what I asked him to do once he was done with his business. I don't care it's a selfish act, I finally have something good in my life, I don't want to lose it. He looked at me for a while before he took my hand in his. He smiled at me and promised he'd come back to me once he's done with his business back in Paris. He promised to write for me anytime he could.

And with that, he left me, with a promise to return. I held myself from crying, it's not like he left me completely. ‘Arno promised he'll return. Pull yourself together Jacob.’ I told myself as I walked in the street.

“Darling!” I sighed deeply as I heard the familiar annoying voice. I just said goodbye to my lover, I have no patience to deal with Roth now. While it was true I got along with him better than even with my own blood sister, now it was the wrong time to drag me into one of his crazy adventures. I stopped to look for the source of his voice until I spotted him.

“Not exactly in the mood.”

“Then I have the perfect thing to help you distract your mind, Jacob. Come on, don't be shy.” Roth signaled me to get on the carriage and take the reins. My plan was to go back to our train and just sit there until I get tired of it, or maybe collect a few Rooks and go drinking in the closest pub we could find. But Roth’s plan was sure to be more interesting. I needed something to distract my mind from the fact Arno left and god knows when I'll see him again.

I cursed myself and climbed on. “A’right, where to?”

“The national gallery, dear.”

A trip around London in Roth’s carriage, with Roth, in order to kidnap Starrick’s henchmen was exactly what I needed in order to forget the fact the French bastard left for god knows how long. I'll kick his arse for sure if I won't hear from him as soon as possible.

“So, who's the new guy you've been hanging around with, Jacob dear?” Roth asked. I wasn't sure how to answer. Should I say Arno is my lover? It's not like a homosexual relationship was such a common thing in Britain. If already, it was something that can be called disgusting. Then again, the last thing I care about is what Roth is thinking about me.

“He's my lover.” I decided to answer, taking the carriage back to Roth’s theatre. The second I return to the hideout I'll probably get lectured by Evie about spending time with Roth again. I couldn't care what she thinks either, though. Even if he was a Templar, he's helping me clear the Templar control and weaken Starrick. That's exactly what I wanted.

“Oh, a foreigner managed to steal you away?”

I rolled my eyes. “I didn't give him too many options.” Smiling, I stopped the horses and jumped down. “If we're done here, I'll be on my way.” I said, patting one of the horses before walking away.

“Here you are, Jacob!” I rolled my eyes as I looked at my dear sister. I just kidnapped three people, said goodbye to Arno and had to see Roth’s face. I don't have any patience for Evie's lectures right now. “Arno left you a letter.” At this moment I turned to look at her. But he just left.

“What?”

“Yes, he wrote it before he left this morning.” she told me and handed me a sealed letter. I snatched it from her hands and sat on the couch to read it. Arno really left me a letter before even leaving? What could he possibly write there already?

“I'm going out. Try not to destroy something.” Evie sighed amused and walked away. I rolled my eyes again before looking back at the letter. I opened the seal and started to read.

 ‘Dear Jacob,

 I write this letter to you a day before my leaving. I wanted you to at least have something from me before I'd leave. How do I even begin? At first, when I met you, I must admit I already felt something, love at first sight perhaps. But I wasn't sure of it. How can I? I was attracted to women my entire life, I loved Élise until her death. But after meeting you, everything I thought I know about myself started to confuse me. But.. as we spent more time together I started to realize my feelings toward you, and I was more than glad to hear you have the same feelings for me as well. Even though as I write this letter you're still with me, I already miss you terribly mon amour. I promise to try and finish my businesses in Paris as quickly as I can and return to you. Jacob Frye, you managed to pull me out of the dark place I was falling to after Élise’s death. And for that, I'm forever grateful for you.

 Also, I left you a little gift on your bed in your wagon. You don't have to wear it but I hope it'll remind you of me.

 Sincerely, Arno Victor Dorian.’

I felt my cheeks heating up a bit. This idiot… Writing such a letter even though he's going to return. ‘Come and say it to my face.’ I thought, reading the letter over and over. He told me about Élise once. His Templar childhood friend with whom he fell in love. He brought her to the council’s hideout, he went on missions with her to avenge her father. And she died on one of their missions together.

I did notice it. The Arno who came to London and the Arno who left weren't the same person. And I fell in love with the Arno who left.

I stood up from the couch and made my way to my own wagon, wanting to know what could Arno possibly leave me as a gift. Once I reached my bed I noticed a small box on my pillow. I smiled and took it in my hands, opening it. Inside there was a piece of paper and a necklace with the brotherhood’s insignia. ‘Sending my love, Arno.’ I read the words on the paper before looking back at the necklace. This guy… Seriously.

I closed the box, considering it. I didn't really need something to remind me of Arno. How could I possibly forget the only French Assassin I ever felt something for? But.. I had no idea for how long he's gone. I opened the box again and took out the necklace, wearing it along with the one I already have. ‘You better return soon.’ I thought, ‘I'm really not a patient person.’

I was walking in the streets. It was a quiet day for a change and I decided to go for a walk. Perhaps to beat some Blighters on the way, the day is still young. “Jacob dear boy!” I sighed deeply again as I heard Roth. Not again. As much as I enjoy his company sometimes, I just want to be left alone right now.

“Roth, pleasure as always.” I stopped, turning to look at him. “But I'm afraid I'm in no mood for any of our little play-dates.” I swear this guy was spying on me sometimes.

“Oh, I see the foreigner left you a small gift.” Roth noted as I put my hand over the necklace Arno gave me. I didn't like the way Roth called Arno. I didn't like the fact he was talking about Arno. I didn't want this guy to butt into my personal life. “Well now, don't make such an unattractive face, Jacob. I'm only taking an interest.”

“Please don't.”

“Oh? Why not? I want to ensure my darling is getting the best from the best.” he had this amused smirk of his all over his face. “Once he returns to London I shall check him myself.” I held myself from punching him. After all, I still need Roth’s help to stop Starrick.

“I'll let him know.” I took a deep breath, “goodbye.” I didn't want him to follow me. I really want to be alone for a while and enjoy the rare nice day which London offered today. Letting Arno meet Roth… It's definitely a bad idea.

Fanfic will be updated at this link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13597521

[lifejustgotawkward]

365 Day Movie Challenge (2017) - #348: Blade Runner 2049 (2017) - dir. Denis Villeneuve

As the end credits rolled on Blade Runner 2049 last Sunday night at the Regal Union Square multiplex, I turned to my friend and asked her my usual question, “So, what did you think?” She groaned out, “that was really boring,” and the wave of relief I felt at her response was the perfect summation of my feelings.

How did Blade Runner 2049 disappoint me? Let me count the ways.

I watched Ridley Scott’s original Blade Runner (1982) back in September. I was impressed, though not bowled over, by the theatrical cut, but I still wanted to give the final cut a chance. When I got around to watching that “definitive” version, I found that I actually missed Harrison Ford’s gruff, noiresque narration from the earlier edit of the film, but overall my appreciation for Blade Runner had grown and the second viewing allowed me to focus less on the plot and to better appreciate both the acting and the technical aspects of the production.

My expectations for Blade Runner 2049 were fairly high. I was eager to see how Denis Villeneuve built on Scott’s (and, of course, writer Philip K. Dick’s) visions of dystopian Los Angeles by pushing the narrative thirty years further into the future from the first Blade Runner’s setting in 2019. Although I missed the chance to see this new installment in IMAX - hey, those tickets are expensive when you don’t have spare cash to throw around! - I knew I still had to take the time to watch the film on the big screen. No TV could possibly do justice to an epic sci-fi tale of the Blade Runner variety, at least not for an introductory experience.

Bear with me, now, when I say that Blade Runner 2049 was a massive letdown. Yes, Roger Deakins’ stunning cinematography is practically guaranteed to earn him an Oscar nomination. And yes, the art direction, production design and set decoration further supports Denis Villeneuve‘s strengths regarding compelling visuals. I would also be totally fine with Renée April getting an Oscar nomination for costume design since the coat that Officer K (Ryan Gosling) wears throughout the film is incredible. Unfortunately, for the third year in a row (after Sicario and Arrival) my hopes for Villeneuve’s work have been dashed. For three years running he has fallen short of his ambitious ideas, whether attempting to concentrate on an idealistic DEA agent (Emily Blunt in Sicario), a linguist simultaneously mourning the death of her daughter and trying to make contact with aliens (Amy Adams in Arrival) or a Replicant Blade Runner (Ryan Gosling in Blade Runner 2049) who unravels a mystery about a female Replicant who was able to bear a child. All of these protagonists should be worthy of my undivided attention. Instead, Gosling - like one of Nexus’s new edition of Replicants - is just another in a continuing line of failed leads.

Part of the issue is Ryan Gosling’s own fault. In interviews I find him absolutely delightful, a funny and self-deprecating guy with a nicely offbeat sense of humor; in movies he is unremittingly bland. Whether we’re talking about The Notebook or Crazy, Stupid, Love or The Big Short, he never seems to have any discernible personality on film. It makes sense, then, that he would be chosen to play an android in Blade Runner 2049. But what does it say that he didn’t even play Officer K well? Replicants can be portrayed with emotion, if you recall Rutger Hauer, Sean Young, Daryl Hannah, Brion James and Joanna Cassidy in the original Blade Runner. Each actor breathed life into their characters in unique styles. So why couldn’t Villeneuve and screenwriters Hampton Fancher and Michael Green find a way to inject some flavor into their film’s characters?

The posters for Blade Runner 2049 imply that Harrison Ford and Jared Leto play important roles in the film, but in actuality, Leto’s “antagonist,” Niander Wallace, barely has any screen time and Ford’s returning antihero, Rick Deckard, doesn’t show up until the last third of the film. I enjoyed every moment he was onscreen, spitting his dialogue out with the same jaded sarcasm he had in the first film, but I wish the character had had more time to develop in the film. Wallace bears an undistinguished aura of evil, but what was supposed to be so special about him? Given the spotlight often put on his sightless eyes during “creepy” closeups, was his blindness really intended to be read as part of what defined him as bad (in which case, uh, what is that saying about disabilities)?

Next we have to take a look at the women of Blade Runner 2049. There are six notable female characters: Joi (Ana de Armas), a hologram who is a product created by Niander Wallace and who functions solely as K’s live-in girlfriend; Luv (Sylvia Hoeks), a Replicant who acts as Niander Wallace’s right-hand woman; Lieutenant Joshi (Robin Wright), K’s supervisor on the police force; Mariette (Mackenzie Davis), a "pleasure model” Replicant; Dr. Ana Stelline (Carla Juri), who works for the Wallace corporation in a capacity that I shouldn’t spoil for those who have not seen the film; and Freysa (Hiam Abbass), who plays a role that I similarly should not divulge. Of these six, Joi and Ana Stelline are the most sympathetic characters, but regardless of how these women’s actions are meant to be interpreted, the designs of these ladies are problematic.

Joi is an immediately likeable character, but since she is a product (and one who does not initially have a corporeal form), she does not have autonomy. With the push of a button, K can turn her off any time he wants, which I’m sure is an option a lot of dudes wish they had available for their girlfriends. Joi exists only to serve K, telling him how wonderful he is when he gets home from a long work day and providing whatever eye candy he desires (she can shapeshift to alter her clothing, hair and makeup). Should I ignore the fact that Joi has zero character development and applaud Blade Runner 2049 anyway for highlighting the ickiness of a future society where Joi-models are prevalent (thus eliminating the need for actual human women)? Maybe, but the film doesn’t bother to make a statement about this element of social interaction, other than the fact that it exists.

K is finally able to experience physical contact with Joi when she “syncs” with Mariette, a prostitute, to combine their bodies for a sexual encounter with K, resulting in my favorite shot in the film: an unsettling image of Joi and Mariette’s four blurry hands wrapping around the back of K’s head and caressing his hair. While this interlude incorporates an interesting degree of romantic intrigue - to what extent do K, Joi and Mariette understand what love is? - there is something a little too weird in the film’s dependence on the Madonna and Whore tropes, suggesting an either/or dichotomy where the only time a woman can possess both attributes is when she finds another person (technically a Replicant) who can temporarily provide the missing skills.

Luv is probably the best-developed female character, although since she is Niander Wallace’s servant, it is impossible to say where her allegiance to him ends and her own taste for violent retribution begins. Luv seems to genuinely savor hurting people, but I suppose that attitude was programmed into her by Wallace, which somewhat minimizes the cool factor in her badass fight scenes. It’s kind of odd, though, that she manages to outshine the film’s other resident tough gal, Lt. Joshi (I didn’t think anyone could outdo Robin Wright in this department, especially after Wonder Woman). Villeneuve and his writers couldn’t settle on how best to represent Joshi, so the character fluctuates between a generically butch stereotype and a leering boss who drinks too much and flirts with K. Again, not that women have to be only one thing, but I like consistency in characters rather than mixed messages. I wonder how much of Blade Runner 2049′s muddled and archaic depictions of women are thanks to Hampton Fancher, who also co-wrote the original Blade Runner’s screenplay, which was full of troublesome approaches to womanhood, sexuality and sexual consent.

In the end, the difference between Blade Runner and Blade Runner 2049 is like the distinction between a human being and a Replicant. 2049 tries to live up to the originality of that which inspired it, but it lacks the soul of its predecessor. It really says something that the most heartfelt moments in Blade Runner 2049 are two references to Ridley Scott’s film: a pivotal scene in Wallace’s lair that conjures up the memory of Rachael (Sean Young) from the film, and a moment in the penultimate scene that reuses a key piece of music from Vangelis’s original Blade Runner score. I recognize that many viewers see Blade Runner 2049 as a masterpiece, and I have tried many times in the past week to understand why, but I’m hard-pressed to comprehend why I should have spent close to three hours sitting through such an unsatisfying project, other than being able to say I bravely weathered this particular storm.

P.S. (because I couldn’t figure out where else to write this): I don’t know how many viewers will know where I’m coming from, but for the cult classic freaks out there, let me propose this theory: Blade Runner 2049 is trying to be like Paul Morrissey’s notoriously wild horror-satire Flesh for Frankenstein (1973). Check it out: a really bizarre and wealthy man (Udo Kier/Jared Leto) and his devoted assistant (Arno Juerging/Sylvia Hoeks) endeavor to construct a set of superhumans (FfF) or humanoid robots (B42049), entities that will give birth to a new generation of superbeings that will take the place of their inferior progenitors and obediently do their master’s (Kier/Leto) bidding. In fact, there are two specific scenes that reminded me of Flesh for Frankenstein while watching Blade Runner 2049: when Niander Wallace kills the naked, infertile Replicant woman (ugh, what a terrible scene), it mirrors a moment in Flesh when Arno Juerging, the loyal assistant, tries to commence sex with Baron Frankenstein’s female zombie-monster by punching her in the stomach and fatally damaging her internal organs, resulting in a grotesque display of violence similar to what we see in Blade Runner 2049.

Secondly, when Luv battles K at the sea wall and she kisses him, she is mimicking an action that Niander Wallace carried out when he killed the Replicant woman; this is also reminiscent of Flesh for Frankenstein since the Arno Juerging character often does horrible, perverse things - like conflating his lust for the female zombie with a disturbingly compulsion for violence - because he is following his master’s patterns. Take all that analysis for what it’s worth, Blade Runner fans!

P.P.S. I am also convinced that Blade Runner 2049′s Las Vegas wasteland scene was either an homage to or a ripoff of Nastassja Kinski’s desert dream sequence from another of 1982′s finest cult offerings, Cat People. Even in the slightly faded YouTube upload of the clip, the orangeness cannot be overlooked.

[locomote04]

Fantastic Florence

The Florence Dairies

 Florence is popular for a reason – it’s spectacular.

I am going to start off this post with one of my favourite quotes about Italy, you know, because there are so many to choose from.

“A man who has not been in Italy, is always conscious of an inferiority, from his not having seen what it is expected a man should see.” -Samuel Johnson

What is the root of this romantic, mysterious fascination with Italy, and why is Samuel Johnson so spot on – if you haven’t been to Italy, you haven’t been anywhere. Be embarrassed.

To say that Italy is magnificent is a massive understatement, and there is a very good reason why the Big 3 – Rome, Florence and Venice. They are beautiful. They are cultural, historical, and every other relative adjective you could possibly come up with. Italy has earned its fame.

This is my collection of observations on what it’s living in Italy. And that’s where The Florence Diaries begin…

Florence is the most accessible and walk able of the main cities in Italy.

One of the most asked question from me is “What’s the best way to spend one day in Florence? My first answer is always “Spend more than one day in Florence” – in fact, I recommend spending at least three days in Florence to really soak in the Renaissance charm of this city. However, we also know that a lot of people just don’t have that amount of time. So here I am sharing few tips for you to cover the most of Florence in a limited time period.

Plan Ahead: This seems basic but we can’t emphasize it enough. If you know you only have one day in Florence, you’ll need to take advantage of the amount of time you do have. The only way to do that is by having a bomb-proof plan for getting in, getting out, and which of the Florence attractions you really want to see. 

The Must-see things and places in Florence:

Santa Maria del Fiore:

This is one of the most famous cathedrals in Italy due in large part to its dome – the largest in the world from when it was built in 1431 until 1888. 

The dome climb is one of the more popular attractions in Florence but in high season the line can stretch to over 2 hours.

If you’ve never been before and only have one day in Florence you should at least walk around the outside of the cathedral to get a feel for its immensity and see the Gates of Heaven. 

There are so many restaurants , cafes and bars with the spectacular view of the central dome , so chill here along side the amazing view and a glass of amazing Italian wine .

The Boboli and Bardini Gardens

A city like Florence, well known for its amazing art collections, monumental architecture and rich historic past can sometimes have you forget about the natural beauty that abounds in the form of well-maintained gardens and parks.

The magical silence and stunning architecture in the Bardini Gardens seems to get lost in the crowd of places to visit while in Florence.

You might find yourself looking for a green area or a picturesque garden gate, however, when you enter from here you go first into a building where you will find the ticket office, and then take an elevator up to the gardens. The entrance walk into the gardens will have Florence to your back, and if you turn around you will have a view over the red terracotta rooftops and the Arno River.

Undoubtedly the most scenic part of the garden remains the great Baroque staircase and the Wisteria Tunnel, both of which lead to the Kaffeehaus and restaurant. 

Ponte Vecchio- The Everlasting Symbol of Florence

The Ponte Vecchio (Old Bridge)  is a medieval stone closed-spandrel segmentalarch bridge over the Arno River noted for still having shops built along it, as was once common. 

Butchers initially occupied the shops; the present tenants are jewellers, art dealers and souvenir sellers. 

It's certainly an interesting bridge. Full of old fashioned shops, this bridge is famous is Florence. Take some time to cross this one, as it can lead you to an awesome Pitti palace on the other side of the river and a beautiful district!

Pitti Palace (Palazzo Pitti)

The palace, which houses several important museums, was built in the second half of the 15th century and the palace still bears the name of its first owner, the Florentine banker Luca Pitti.

Now it is the largest museum complex in Florence and today the Palace is divided into four museums: the Treasury of the Grand Dukes on the ground floor, the Palatine Gallery and the Royal Apartments on the first floor, the Modern Art Gallery and the Museum of Costume and Fashion on the second floor.

Following are some information which you require at your next visit :

Opening days

From Tuesday  to Sunday

Opening hours

08.15 am -  6.50 pm

Closed on

Mondays 1 January, 1  May, 25 December

Piazza della Signoria- The historical centre of Florence

Piazza della Signoria has pride of place as the historical, political, and emotional heart of Florence.  

The Piazza della Signoria is Florence's primary meeting place for both locals and tourists. Several concerts, fairs, and rallies are held in the Piazza Della Signoria throughout the year.

Numerous statues designed by some of the most famous Florentine artists decorate the square. The most famous of the piazza's sculptures is a copy of Michelangelo's David (the original is in the ​Accademia), which stands to watch outside the Palazzo Vecchio.Other must-see sculptures on the square include Baccio Bandinelli's Heracles and Cacus, two statues by Giambologna - the equestrian statue of Grand Duke Cosimo I and Rape of a Sabine – and Cellini's Perseus and Medusa.

 The SUNSET of Florence :

Dusk is an important time in the life of an Italian city. In Florence, you have a couple of great options for enjoying the end of the day – the first and most traditional is to find your nearest wine bar and settle in for an aperativo or pre-dinner drink, usually accompanied by some small plates. 

If you have a bit more energy, head to the Oltrarno. After passing over the beautiful and historic Ponte Vecchio get ready for a 20-30 minute hike up the hill to Piazzale Michelangelo, where the wonderfully-scenic Basilica di San Miniato sits. Be sure to get there before it closes so you can peek inside. Then watch the sunset from the best view of Florence in the whole city. It’s the perfect to end to an eventful day of exploring.

The Bronze Pig of Florence

Porcellino, as the Italians call him, means “the little pig”. However the bronze porker sitting at the side of the New Market (Mercato Nuovo) is really a wild boar, or cinghiale in Italian. 

He supposedly brings good luck when visitors rub his snout and put a coin in his mouth. If the water washes the coin from the pig’s mouth and it falls into the grate below, you will have good luck and you will be sure to return to Florence. If not, try again. The coins are used to support an orphanage. 

So my friends , here I have tried to tell you my experience from Florence in a very compact version. “Trust me its worth it “  I must say the person who haven’t seen Italy in its lifetime is lacking on a bigger and ultimate experience of life.

 I wish you all good luck and wish that all of you will visit this amazing country soon and will create a count of experience .

Just remember do not forget to write me your experience about this beautiful city and in case any support you need from my end , contact me through any of my social media.

 Yours Richa Gujaria

[betweensceneswriter]

Island Hopper (Jimjeran Book 2)- Chapter 14 : Ache

Claire continues to work on the Field Ship and finds herself getting to know John better and missing Jamie...

Previously on Island Hopper

To the Table of Contents

At breakfast the next morning, I found myself at the same table as Dr. Saul.  We smiled at each other across the table as we attempted to fuel ourselves for the day with a breakfast of rice, fish, and breadfruit.  I found myself longing for a bowl of Jamie’s steel cut oatmeal—what he called ‘porridge’—chewy and satisfying especially when topped with brown sugar and powdered milk.  Thinking of him made me feel even emptier than I already did.

“It’s a shame that there’s not time for follow-ups,” the kindly doctor remarked, his brown eyes a contrast to his stark white hair.  “Some of the teeth I had to pull yesterday could actually have been saved if I had time to do a crown.  But with such a short time to visit, if a cavity goes deep enough and can’t be fixed with an amalgam filling the tooth has to go.”

“I feel the same way,” I replied, pushing the dry roasted breadfruit around my plate.  As much as I tried to tell myself it was just a starch like potatoes and that despite its name it wasn’t supposed to taste like either bread or fruit, I couldn’t bring myself to eat it if it wasn’t drenched in oil and salt.  “I guess Arno is lucky to have a nurse practitioner there, though we don’t have a dentist… speaking of which, Dr. Saul, do you think I might be able to observe an extraction?  A toothache is one of the things that makes people miserable, and I’d like to be able to at least help them if they’ve got a horribly abscessed tooth.  I don’t want to make it worse for them by cracking a tooth off in their jaws.”

Dr. Saul smiled.  “You’ve got to become a jack of all trades out on these islands, don’t you?”  He looked at me curiously.  “My wife was a nurse before we retired.  I’ve tended to come on these adventures without her, but I keep on wishing she would be willing, for a short time if not several months, to serve out on one of these islands.” He smiled.  “Then I’d finally have time to do dental work the way I’d like to, and she could be my assistant if she wasn’t otherwise occupied.”

All too soon it was time for us to take our dishes to the galley, call out “kommool tata” to the cook, and head to our respective stations.

We had docked on Jabor, the islet with the largest population on Jaluit.  I was surprised to see how westernized the little town was, like a miniature Majuro. Instead of palm trees radiating out from the dock, there were some paved roads and some coral gravel roads, houses, a couple of small stores, and a school.  It seemed like every spare inch of space was covered with either a building or road.

The ship still had a large delivery of boxes to offload and copra to pick up, but it was obvious that the residents had less need of the medical services we provided.  Dr. Saul, however was quite busy, so during my patient breaks he was able to coach me through several extractions.  He showed me how to grip the tooth and rock it back and forth in its socket to loosen the bone and detach the ligament before removing the tooth.   Preparation, he said, was extremely important and would prevent the tooth splintering on removal.

He also demonstrated what to do if a tooth cracked on its way out—how to flush the cavity and make sure to extract the other pieces, to close the opening with a few stitches, as well as giving the patient instructions to rinse their mouths with salt water until fully healed.  

John had a bit of a weak stomach, so he was quite grateful to relinquish the assistant spot to me, and instead manned the fort in the clinic to come get me if I had a patient and handed out toothbrushes and toothpaste to curious children peering into the dental operatory.

Because Jabor was so well-supplied and urbanized, the ship only spent half the day there.  At our lunch break, the boat left the dock and pressed north to another island in the atoll a 45-minute journey away.

After we’d filled our plates, John and I found a shady spot on the upper deck to eat, as far away as possible from the bags of copra piled high on the main deck so that the rancid odor no longer overpowered us.  It was getting worse as the trip progressed and the supply of smoked coconut increased, though if we ever got a breeze at night, it seemed to blow the smell away.  However, in the past few days the ocean had been remarkably still and currently the only disturbance on the water was the white “v” of our wake.

“Where are we going now?” I asked John.

“Imiej,” he replied.  “It was where the Japanese were based during World War II here.” John pointed ahead to the far end of the long green island parallel to our course.  “There are ruins of barracks and an old Shinto shrine there, as well as wrecks of boats and airplanes that divers come to see.”

“I knew that Guam was held by the Japanese during World War II,” I nodded. “I hadn’t realized that the Marshall Islands were, too.”

“It’s taken a while for us to travel toward independence,” John smiled. “In the 1880s during the imperialism rush, Germany claimed the Marshall Islands.  They put in a trading post here on Jaluit.  After World War I, Germany lost the territory and we were given to Japan.”

“As if your nation was something that could belong to anyone other than her people?”

John inspected his fish and selected the perfect bite to pair with his rice.  John was handsome, refined, and distinguished, and yet he looked just as at home eating coconut rice and barbecued fish with his fingers as if he was using utensils in a fine dining establishment.  

“Well, Claire,” he said, smiling patiently, “Though a small nation does not have much control of her destiny, what can be accomplished viewing history with bitterness?  Our histories make us who we are.  During that time, we gained Japanese immigrants, and although many were repatriated to Japan after the war, if they’d intermarried, they were allowed to stay here.”

“I was thinking Ogawa sounded very Asian,” I responded.  “Our general store out on Arno is owned by an Ogawa. And a few of Jamie’s students have a blend of Marshall and Japanese features.”

John nodded.  

“A lot of late World War II was fought in the Pacific, as I recall,” I said.  “The US liberated Guam from the Japanese before the war ended.”

“The Japanese base here on Jaluit was bombed during World War II. The US took the Marshalls in early 1944, and the war didn’t end until a year and a half later.  After the war we became part of the Trust Territories of the Pacific Islands.”

“Forgive my ignorance,” I said.  “But are the Marshall Islands still a territory of the US?  Guam is.”

“No, we gained our independence in 1986,” John said with a smile. “Thirty-two years ago.  We might still be considered a protectorate of the US—they provide defense for us, and the US postal system delivers mail here as if we were a territory or state.  Considering that we only have 55,000 people in the entire nation, we aren’t any sort of superpower.”

I set down my plate and leaned forward toward John. “I’m missing my husband,” I said.  “Tell me how you met.”

John’s face brightened.  “I think it was my first day of College Writing,” he said.  “I like to do well in school, so I was one of the few people sitting toward the front of the classroom.  The next thing I know a very large ri-palle with bright red hair sat down by me.  Sorry,” he said, “Ri-pālle means…”

“No need to translate,” I said.  “That’s Jamie’s name for me half the time.”

John looked amused. “He calls you Ri-pālle?”

“Aet,” I nodded.  “As in ‘itōk Ri-pālle.’”

He shook his head in amusement.  “That Jamie… always kakūtōtōik—teasing. Sometimes,” John said, “the teasing hides a deep hurt… He has mentioned his family, of course.”

I nodded.

“The loss of his father in particular,” said John. He started to ask me a question, then stopped himself. “Has he mentioned me?”

I shook my head slowly.  “But John,” I explained, “I have only known him a little over two months.”

John stared at the wake of the boat. “Jamie was just the opposite of everything I’d seen every day since I was a kid. Red hair instead of black; curly instead of straight.  Tall instead of short.  Big instead of petite. You can see I’m bigger than the average Marshallese because I’m half white.  And having never met my father, I was drawn to Jamie. It was like I was seeing the other half of myself, the other half of my identity.” He paused.  “And I was coming to grips with another part of my identity as well, deciding whether it was safe, whether I was ready to come out of the closet.”

“It’s a big decision,” I responded.  “My best friend Joe is gay.  Coming out to his mom was the hardest thing he’d ever done.  Of course, she gave him a big ol’ hug and said, ‘Honey, I’ve known forever.  I just wondered when you were going to figure it out.’” I remembered the glassy look of tears in Joe’s eyes when he’d told me that story, when he’d shared how freeing it was to be able to be real with his momma.

“Sometimes it’s hard to stay home and make that change,” I said. “Joe moved across the country for college, and he’s settled in Colorado.”

John looked straight at me. “At times I feel certain that moving away is what I need to do to really be able to be myself.  But I’m tied to this place.  I just haven’t been able to leave.”

  The peaceful camaraderie of our boat journey quickly came to an end when we docked at Imiej and soon the staff of all the offices were back to work. By the end of our second work day, I had reached a level of efficiency that reminded me of my days in the ER, funneling patients through as quickly as possible, assessing their needs and providing care in a prompt manner.  I missed the relaxed, communal nature of my practice on Arno but it was also stimulating to rush again.  There was a part of me that recognized that sensation of stress and responded by shutting down the social part of my brain and triggering the professional part.

But after dinner, when the field ship was heading across the still sea toward our next destination, the atoll of Ailinglaplap; the part of my heart that longed for connection couldn’t help but ache.  I crept up to the top deck again and sat by the railing, gazing out toward the east, opposite the final rays of the setting sun.  Somewhere over those black, still waters lay the island of Majuro.  And beyond that was Arno and Jamie.  I hugged my knees to my chest and closed my eyes.  

I’d been homesick at camp before.  I’d had that baby ache when I longed to be a mother.  And I’d missed Frank when I first came out to Arno.  But missing Jamie hurt all over.  I pictured him coming home to me, his face beaming at the sight of me, imagined him after a morning jog, entering our apartment with a smile on his face, sweaty and hungry for breakfast and me, and the look on his face as he determined which to have first.  I thought of him getting dressed in the morning standing by the closet in boxer briefs—how just the sight of him: damp curls around his ears and neck, the lines of his back and visible tone of his muscles could draw me to him as if nothing else existed, unsatisfied until I had seduced him, until I had tasted him fresh with the scent of soap, until I had made him moan and say my name, gasp and blink his eyes in awe and then chuckle, speechless on our bed.

I thought of being held—in that bed, on the couch, in the hammock, standing in the kitchen doing the dishes with him hugging me from behind, his breath in my hair, his body a solid wall of security behind me.  I thought of talking in our bed in the darkness of night, the pleasure of telling stories of our childhoods and discussing things that mattered to us.  There was continued joy in the discovery of who Jamie was, and with each new revelation of his thoughtful character, I thanked providence for bringing us together.

Someone cleared his throat behind me, and I startled at the sound, at first concerned but then grateful to realize it was Dougal MacKenzie and not one of the deck hands who I occasionally found leering at me.

“Well, young lady,” he said, coming over by me and sitting down on a box. “Here you are, outside at night alone again.”  He chuckled, so I began to think I wasn’t in trouble with him. “We havena had many opportunities to get acquainted, but I thought I might take a moment to check with you and see how you are doing.”

I was grateful I hadn’t succumbed to the impulse I was feeling right before he arrived which was to start crying.  It was probably good to be distracted.

“I’m definitely keeping busy, Mr. MacKenzie,” I said.  “I’ve seen so many skin ailments and infections galore and given out at least a third of the boil prevention kits I brought along with me.”

“Indeed?  That’s good….”  We sat in silence for a moment before he began again.  “So you and Jamie have been married a month now?” he asked.  

“Yes, sir,” I responded.  “It was our anniversary when you radioed us.”

I could barely see his face with the sunset fading behind him, but I had a sense that he was smiling.

“Miss Beauchamp,” he started.  “I mean, Mrs. Fraser.  There are moments when I regret not speaking out against your marriage.  It was a sudden decision, and I have wondered whether by not forbidding it, I allowed the two of you to move forward with a life choice that will prove painful to both of you. I hope it wasn’t a mistake.”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t a mistake, Mr. MacKenzie,” I insisted. “As much as it seemed sudden, Jamie and I had a connection from our first meeting.”

“Truly?” Mr. MacKenzie asked.  

“I love him, sir,” I said.  “I was just sitting here thinking of him.  It may have been being reprimanded for my behavior and realizing what it would mean to lose him that was the catalyst, but I believe that we would have ended up dating and marrying if life had continued as it was.  I was falling in love with him, and he said he wanted me from the beginning.”

“So I don’t need to second guess my decision to let you be married? I often consider my sister Ellen when I think of the lad.  When she died and then Brian left, I knew I needed to provide for him.  He needed a man, an example, to get him back on the right path.  And though I think I’ve been firm with him and demanded much, I hope it has not worked for ill in his life.”

“Jamie is a very hard worker, sir,” I said.  “And yet gentle and kind too.”

“Well, I canna take any credit for the gentle and kind part,” Dougal laughed.  “Nor do I think that it was all Ellen’s doing, as sweet as she could sometimes be. I think it was his father, Brian. Though I don’t know what sort of tenderhearted person would leave his son and daughter when they were still grieving their mother and brother.”  He faded into silence.

“Jamie was lucky to have you, sir,” I responded quietly.  “And I’m grateful to you, too.”

He pushed himself up from the box.  “I promised Jamie I would keep you safe.  So you’d better come down with me and get settled in your stateroom for the night.  And in the future, if you wish to have time alone after dark, perhaps you could knock on my door and mention it to me.  I can stand guard at the stairs.”

Before the man could move away, I hugged him.  “You’re family now, Mr. MacKenzie,” I explained.  “Thanks for trying to take care of me.”

He patted me awkwardly on the back, and I followed him downstairs, smiling as I entered my room.  The hug hadn’t been from Jamie, but it would do.

On to  Chapter 15: Hugs and Kisses The days drag on and on, but the ship is heading back toward Jamie…

[janiklandre-blog]

Friday , April 7, 2017

9:25 a.m.  o.k. weather  - a brief session this morning - at 11 p.m last night I listened to news - two scary statesmen - and many more around! - the Russians in the middle of it all - where is our world rushing - walking last night on East 7th Street somebody had put out a small banner, quoting Martin Luther King: Everything Hitler did was legal.  I do remembrt reading about Rabbi Baeck in Berlin telling young Jews - you are living in a legal state, stay within legality yourselves - trust the German legal system - well Leo Baeck survived and a New York institute is named for him - most of the young Jews most probably did not survive.

I have marched in many marches - avoided being arrested - basically remained in my role of eternal observer - have become old, don't walk well any more, scared also of the orange netting police these dsys throws around demonstraters - for sure to catch old women who cannot run - and also have grown disillusend - can't even spell it right - we marched and marched - and now what? What will happen next - all I am likely to do is watch in dismay.

When I lived in Geneva, Switzerland, as a young woman - sitting by the lake, happy with my young children, I also was reading Camus about the "engaged life" - came back to NYC in 1962, immediately headed for the Democratic Club on the upper east side where we had come to live - they barely opened their door - in the NYT I was reading about events in the American South - the civil rights movement - my first boyfriend, Arno, who by then lived in Washington had gotten very involved - but it was the moment when whites were declared not all thst welcome - did get my husband and young children to go with me to an early anti Vietnam demo in Central Park - very peaceful - got latertear gased in Washington - then these protests petered out - the war finally ended - all was well and good - but was it?

I did continue to join protests - remained a sympathiser - never a really active activist - I have written about being an outsider - never anywhere have I become "in, in, so in, so in" - a line from the play of a dear friend.

Yesterday I also mentioned "breaking sweat" - how have I dealt in my life with conflict - how much of it I too have tried to avoid - a long chapter - not for today.

So - trying to deal with all the eye drops - just opening a totally ridiculous bill from Weill Cornell - $253 for a useless test and two brief "therapy sessions" of little use, supposedly paid for by medicare - now is that worth a fight? I will go there and protest - really don't feel like paying this bill - then again endless threatening calls - and these sad women working for collection agences - making call after call to angry people - work that can be done from home. Reminds me of the women in the last century who did piece work at home, sewing, millinary - yes, over Auschwitz was a sign: Arbeit macht frei - work gives you freedom, to be read by people before they were gassed - work - yes, there is wonderful work, there is enjoyable work, work is a terribly important part of a good life - and yet, how hard and impossible for far too many is it to get wonderful work that makes them feel good. I have had some work - teaching - that was enjoyable - never found a way to permanent and secure employment. For the record: I did try.

Yesterday. I did call French Christine who did not answer - but her answering machine worked for a change - did head for the church, always seem to arrive just in the nick of time, sit with Chinese and hear Chinese - it was a nice lunch yesterday, a potato dumpling filled with ground meat - perfect for my teeth - stopped at cheese store and got double cream brie made in France - the fatty stuff is tasty - hard to keep off weight - bought a few things at the super market - an expensive market but closest to my house and these days everything gets heavy fast - rain, thunder - trying to get rid of newspapers that accumulate - eating chocolate pudding made with the 1% milk they give me at the church - sleeping a bit, feeling restless, ready to go out, tried Christine again, a bit worried about her - not sure she should be all alone on her 5th floor - called Jane to share worry - got into talking, another call, more talking - more thunder and then skies clearing - made it to Tompkins Square park, sun! - sat on my hat on a wet bench - went to watch the dogs in the dog run - back to my house - found with Pim's help cell phone for Christine from which she had called my cell phone - reached her - she had left house early - she is enjoying New York.

My house guests were about to meet a friend in the bar across the street from me, Scratcher - that I had looked at for 17 years but finally had entered recently - I still wanted to do a little stationary bicycle - should use it - quick stop at this here computer to check email - berating myself for failure to use ipad - I need at least emotional support to get into all this technology - so hard to find! 

Entered the crowded, noisy bar - all young people - to be greeted by my friend's Irish friend who had never seen me before but knew I was coming - by far the oldest of the oldest in that bar - they had found a table in a corner, not much air, noise - still they seemed to prefer it to my apartment - that has been appreciated by CW folks for small gatherings - ambience in bar very different. We had to talk loudly, still I much enjoyed meeting the Irish friend - he has very interesting work, at this moment restoring an 18th century house near the tip if Manhattan to - a place with a lot more ambiance than my functional apartment - this is interesting not always simple work - dealing with difficult rich people - but he is enjoying it and seems to have a real knock.

Then the shocking 11 p.m. news - sleeping for a few hours, and here I am expecting my wonderful computer helper - with a list I made - among it at long lst perhaps figure out how to get to an ebook - a form a German friend uses and for the longest time I have wanted to read what she writes - a cat book - and just like with my ipad feel so frustrated by difficulties with technology. Also - never yet have read a book on screen - avoided all screen reading - once did buy somewhat by mistake a NOOK - never could figure out how to use it, gave it to an Erica who I hope is still using it - where ever she has disappeared to - far too many people disappear - restless, difficult, expensive - and yet, fascinating New York - the city in which I have come to live for a long life time. Adios, Marianne

[betweensceneswriter]

Jimjeran-Chapter 2 Miss Peach-ay

Jimjeran (Shim-sher͂on) : Marshallese – a lifelong companion Claire is a nurse in the Peace Corps, spending 18 months in the Marshall Islands. Down the road, three Peace Corps volunteers–Jamie, Angus, and Rupert–are running the local elementary school. 

Click Here to Hop to the Table of Contents

Click here for Audio Version--I am no Davina Porter. Still working on my Jamie, Angus & Rupert. But as for the Marshallese words, you can imagine them, or you can hear me butcher them like Claire would.

     “What the hell was I thinking?”

    “Did you say something, Claire?” Laura yelled over the roar of the airplane engines.

    “No,” I responded, shaking my head and staring down at the little green and white loop of shoe-string flung in the middle of the indigo Pacific Ocean, my home for at least the next 18 months.

   I thought our pilot was trying to land us in the water as the plane began to slow and descend.  I couldn’t see anything beneath us, in front of us, or to either side.

    “What’s he doing?” I finally yelled to Laura, terrified.  “There aren’t pontoons on this plane!”

“Don’t worry.  He’s landing on the airstrip,” she yelled back.  Airstrip?  It wasn’t until we were merely hundreds of feet off the ground and the tall green coconut palm trees came into sight that I realized she wasn’t kidding.  We were landing on an airstrip, indeed—an airstrip that took up the entire width of the island.  As the plane taxied bumpily on the grass runway, I looked in amazement at my surroundings.  Water to my left, water to my right.

    “You knew it was an atoll, didn’t you?” Laura asked, grinning at the shell-shocked look of terror in my eyes.

    “I knew what atoll meant, but I didn’t realize it referred to an island that is only like, five feet wide,” I said, extricating myself out of the cramped seat once the plane had stopped and the engines had sputtered until the propellers were still.

    “Don’t exaggerate,” Laura laughed.  “At its narrowest point, it’s still at least 30 feet wide.”

   I’d stared at the little island of Arno on Google Earth, zooming in as close as I could when I’d first accepted the assignment, curious about this place I’d never been.   I could see the wide treed portion where the clinic was in the village of Ine, and I’d followed the narrow strip with a single road down the center around to see where the main island ended but the shallower water continued along the edge of the lagoon, soon to become another little island in the circular chain.

   I had always dreamed of being in the Peace Corps, volunteering in some remote community for a year or two after college. But Frank Randall and I had met when I was just a freshman, and twitter-pated by the handsome, mature, intelligent history major’s interest in me I had simply forgotten who I had wanted to be one day. Frank graduated that year, continued toward his masters’ degree, and then taught in the history department my final year in the nursing program.  When I graduated, he proposed.

   Five years after graduating, Frank and I were still engaged and living together, just had never set a date.  So on my 27th birthday I had announced to him that I was joining the Peace Corps.

    “You’re kidding, right, Claire?” he said, taken aback by my cavalier announcement.

    “No,” I said, shaking my head.  “We’re not married yet, we don’t have kids yet, and you’re doing research for your doctoral thesis.  You can use the focused time to write, and I won’t have regrets once I’m too old or too entangled to volunteer anymore.”

    “Eighteen months, though, Claire?” Frank looked at me in concern.  “You know fertility decreases with age, don’t you?”

    “And you know we haven’t been using birth control for the last five years, don’t you?” I responded.  “If it was going to happen naturally, it would have happened by now.”  I’d stopped taking the pill when I finished my last day of nursing school, figuring if we got pregnant at least that might light a fire under laconic Frank’s ass.  I’d dropped enough hints about marriage, and I was getting tired of my mom scolding me, saying, “They say a man won’t buy a cow when the milk is free.”

   Thinking about Frank’s disappointed confusion had me feeling emotional, but I blinked the tears away and whipped my hair up into a sloppy bun.  It was humid, and not only did my naturally curly hair get ten times curlier, my neck and face were almost instantly glistening with sweat, and I could feel a single droplet traveling down between my breasts.

   A pickup truck had rattled up to the plane, and Laura and I took turns handing heavy boxes down from the cargo hold of the plane and then putting them in the back of the truck, practically filling the truck bed with boxes.  When everything was loaded, Laura went to the pilot.  Holding up two fingers, she said, “Ruo awa.” Two hours.  I almost had a panic attack at the thought.

   Laura came smilingly back to the pickup, where it seemed as if the driver was asking Laura if we wanted to ride or walk.  After the cramped half hour on the plane, I thought walking might be nice, but I was only wearing sandals and it sounded like the clinic was two miles away.  I needed as much useful time with Laura as possible.  With the idea of seeing the clinic and apartment as another motivator, I hopped up into the bed, found a sturdy box and sat down, tucking the skirt of my sundress around my legs so it wouldn’t fly up in the breeze.  

   Laura smiled at my wide-eyed fascination as we rode along, attempting to point out different landmarks.  I didn’t need a travelogue, though; my brain felt full enough as it was.  It seemed like I’d been transported back in time.  The airstrip had been in a completely clear grassy area with no trees, but we quickly reached the coconut palm tree “forest,” if that’s what you could call it, coconut trees scattered across the sandy landscape, interspersed with bushes, some places overrun with green jungle plants.  The road was white gravel.  At times it was level and looked like any other dirt or gravel road I’d seen, but at other times it was two narrow channels of tire tracks with a grassy stripe down the middle.

   After a few minutes, we began to see signs of life.  Two little kids walked along the road barefoot, the little girl in a skirt and tee shirt, the toddler in just a tee with a pair of bare brown buns below.  They moved to the side of the road and waved and smiled at us, white teeth beautifully splitting their tan faces.

    “They’ll steal your hearts,” Laura said.  “Gosh, I’m going to miss them.”

    “Well, thanks for sticking around to give me an initiation,” I said.  “There’s no way I would have known how to shop for six months at a time, and I can’t imagine finding my way out here with my limited language knowledge.”

   I had tried, honestly I had.  But between having the stomach flu for three days during the immersive training in Hawaii and my chronic thick-headedness when it came to learning foreign languages, I had escaped from my language orientation knowing only “Where are you going?” “Kwej etal n͂an ia?*” and  “Ejjab melele**,” which meant, helpfully, “I don’t understand.”

   Thankfully, I was going to have a translator for a few hours each morning during my basic clinic time, so I could learn about people’s symptoms and better treat and teach them.

   Laura had been the nurse on Arno for the previous 18 months.  With her service time coming to an end, the Corps had sought a replacement for her, and I was the one chosen.  An island with an area of a mere 5 square miles with only 2000 inhabitants spread throughout the 133 little islands surrounding the large central and two smaller lagoons didn’t warrant a huge hospital, but having a nurse practitioner at the clinic brought about an instant improvement to the quality of life for the locals.  I would be responsible for basic health and sanitation education, family planning advice and medications, and general emergency care.  For more serious injuries or trauma, the hospital on Majuro, 20 miles away, was able to send a helicopter to the airfield to pick up patients.

    “That’s the Iroij’s*** house,” Laura shouted over the rattle of the truck, gesturing at a utilitarian cement block structure a ways back from the road on a slight rise.  It was surrounded by a few other small houses, outbuildings, and shacks, and had a neatly kept yard covered with white gravel.  “Mr. Timisen is the local governor.  He speaks pretty decent English, and he has one of the two satellite phones on the island, if you need to get word to headquarters in Majuro before your short wave radio appointment.”

   Where we were currently driving I couldn’t see the ocean, but every once in a while I would catch a glimpse of the turquoise water of the lagoon.  It was surreal, beautiful, and humid.  I scratched my leg; I think so far I’d counted sixteen mosquito bites.  I was grateful for the multiple cans of bug spray I had packed in one of the boxes.

   As we went farther, there were more and more houses—gray brick buildings with low windows, shacks cobbled together of corrugated aluminum, plywood, and plastic sheeting, some with grass or palm branch roofs, and yards of the same white rocks.

   Adults and children stared at us curiously.  Laura seemed to get the lion’s share of the greetings and smiles.  “Miss Leenchah!”  they called out excitedly.  “Miss Leenchah, iiọkwe eok!”

    “Leenchah?” I asked, confused.  “Isn’t your last name Lynch?”

    “Yeah,” she said.  “Putting “uh” or “ay” at the end of your name is a Marshall term of endearment.  You’ll have to write and tell me what nickname they give you!”

   Write. Now that was a new one. Write with pen and paper, envelopes, and stamps. Arno didn’t have electricity, much less cell service or WiFi.  I was already panicking without my cell phone to look at for the time, the weather, the news, texts from friends.  I’d bought an actual wristwatch, but not really wanting a watch tan, I’d found a cute watch necklace, which hung upside down. I could easily grab the watch and check the time, without the claustrophobic sweaty feel of a wristwatch.

   And with that, the pickup pulled off to the side of the road, the tires making a crunching sound in the thick gravel.

   There it was, my clinic!  A nondescript building, boxy and white, it had an angled roof with solar panels on it, and louvered windows with screens.  Laura hopped out and offered me a hand down from the truck.  Looking around, I saw that a small crowd had gathered.  Laura spoke to the group in what sure sounded like fluent Marshallese, but of course I wouldn’t know. Finally she gestured to me and said “Your new nurse, Miss Beauchamp.”  I could see them mentally processing the name.  Finally a small voice piped up, “Welcome, Miss Peach-ay!”

   Laura smiled.  “Guess I don’t have to wait to find out, Miss ‘Peach-ay’!”

   The crowd of men, women, and children gathered around the truck.  With much greater speed than we’d loaded, the boxes were whisked out of the truck and into the apartment or the clinic as Laura directed them.

    “House first, or clinic?” Laura asked.  She had just been surrounded by a crowd of kids, and I realized she had been handing out chewing gum to her eager fans.  “Bribery never hurts,” she grinned.  “I bought you some gum to share.”

    “Clinic, I think,” I responded.  “Seems more important.”

   Laura ushered me through the door into the clinic.  Only about 20 by 20 feet, it held one small hospital bed at the back of the room and an examination table, both with curtains that could be pulled around them.  There was a sink that had a pump handled faucet next to what looked like a kerosene stove.  A long counter with cupboards above and below was along one wall, and there was an old-school scale as well as an infant scale on a table next to it.  One locked cupboard stood on the far wall.  I assumed that contained most of the medicine, though we had brought a supply of new medications and bandages in three of the boxes we’d brought from Majuro.

    “So, no running water, and no hot water?” I double-checked, still a little amazed that there were places without running water in this day and age.  “Just the pump?”

    “And a big tea kettle and kerosene stove,” she said.  “I always try to keep some water hot or warm for washing boils or cuts, but it’s pretty quick to heat if you forget. They sell kerosene at Mr. Ogawa’s store.  Don’t forget to keep yourself stocked.  You’ve got solar powered lights, but they don’t last forever, so you’ve got kerosene lanterns for another source of light.”

   Looking around the room for anything else she’d forgotten, Laura showed me the calendar and schedule on the wall.  “First Monday of the month is Depo day.  Depo Provera shots for any women who are doing family planning.  Infant mortality is really high if they don’t wait long enough between pregnancies.  Second Monday is well child check-ups.  Third Monday is health day.  You’ll teach some sort of lesson on cleanliness, sanitation, or nutrition.  And the fourth Monday afternoon is teen time.  You can answer questions about safer sex, good dental health, things like that.”

    “How busy will I be?” I asked, feeling overwhelmed at the barrage of information.  It wasn’t like nursing was new to me, and I’d oriented on tons of different floors in hospitals.  With finishing the Nurse Practitioner program, I was more independent and comfortable assessing and treating a whole variety of illnesses.  It was just the combination of the heat, the humidity, the new environment, and the underlying sense that time was passing quickly, and that Laura would inevitably be leaving me. Alone.

    “Totally depends,” she said.  “Mondays are the busiest, of course.  And you’re “on” all the time, so be sure to leave a note on the door to let them know where to find you, but definitely make sure you relax.  Go snorkeling, learn to spearfish, visit families.  That’s probably where you’ll do the best community health.  Observe people in their environments and figure out which habits are causing poor health. And then, as they get to know and trust you, help them learn how best to improve their lives.”

   She passed the clinic keys off to me on a stretchy hot-pink curlicue cord to put around my wrist—a key for the medicine cabinet, and two keys for the door.  We locked the clinic door, and headed around the corner to the attached apartment.

   As I stepped in the door of my new residence, I was stunned.  This wasn’t a house or an apartment; this was a cabin.  A stark kitchen with open lower cabinets was to the right of the entrance.  A set of shelves to my left held a can of spinach and a tin of something.  Beyond the pantry, a little closet area consisted of a stark bar with some hangers on it and a mirror over a chest of drawers.  One twin bed and a bunkbed flanked the big window at the far end of the room floored with dark unvarnished wood.  Stunned as I was by how plain it was, I found myself drawn across the house to the window.  I turned the dusty louvers to get a better view, and as I stood there, I took a deep breath.  It was poster-worthy perfect.  White sand melted into aqua water that deepened into teal at the center of the lagoon.  Ghostly green bumps along the horizon showed where the other islands in the chain were across the lagoon.  And the sky was a heartbreaking blue beyond blue, filled with white clouds.

   “You will never find another place this beautiful,” Laura said quietly as she came to stand by me.  My nose was prickling and my eyes were watering.  “You’re going to be okay,” she said.  I turned to her and crumpled into a hug as she patted my back.

   Laura helped me unpack the cans and plastic bins of food into the pantry, helped me hang up my sundresses and make my bed with clean sheets.  She showed me the well and demonstrated the best method for getting the tin bucket to fill with water; took me to see the little shower stall attached behind the apartment, open to the sky.  She took me to the outhouse, helping me use the bucket of water to flush the “real” toilet.  She showed me the short wave radio and wrote down the instructions for how to use it.  As we finished each task, I could feel the passage of time, and a sense of terror rising in my chest.  Finally, it could be avoided no longer.  A honk announced that Laura’s ride back to the airport had arrived.

    “Tomorrow will be awesome,” she said.  “You’ll see all the little kids for well-child checkups, and the mamas will be sweet to you, even if they don’t speak a word of English.  Sharbella is supposed to show up at about 9…but realistically, she’ll be here at 10.  Island time, you know.”

   I walked Laura out to the truck and gave her a final hug.

    “If you’re dying for conversation in English, there are a few young guys teaching at the local school down the road that way,” Laura said, gesturing indistinctly down the road.  “They’re also in the Peace Corps, but they are…” she wrinkled her forehead, shook her head, and smiled.  “Well, I’ll let you decide how you feel about them.”

   She climbed into the passenger side, and the truck pulled away from the cabin, tires crunching in the gravel.  I waved goodbye to Laura, standing on the doorstep of the clinic.  And I spoke the words to myself again.

   What the hell was I thinking?

*Kway´ zhuh tell´ n͂an yah´<br /> **etch´-up (like ketchup, with no k) muh lah´ lay<br /> ***ee roych´<br /> ****yock´ way yook´--I love you!

On to Chapter 3 : Pain in the Arse Claire's lonely, so she takes some dinner to the boys, meets some island kids on the way, and loses a battle of wills with Jamie.