#and seeing this stout man just hop on the ice

[ratatatastic]

deeply funny to me how short and stout forsy is on the ice

[firstfrostfall]

A Cold Lament - Chapter Five

a tommy shelby fanfiction

In the winter of 1918, the Shelby brothers returned home from a war-torn France. In the winter of the following year, the middle brother, Tommy, recognizes an opportunity for his family to move up in the world, and it came in the shape of a misplaced crate of weapons.

In the meantime, per the request of his aunt, he gives a struggling young woman a job.

Little did he know, that like the smell of snow on the wind in late autumn, everything was going to change, and it wasn’t just because of some stolen guns.

Takes place during Season One.

“I’m freezing my fucking balls off, Tom,” Arthur grumbled while taking a sharp swig from his flask.

Tommy stood with his brothers in an open field atop a grassy hill, the ground beneath them still moist from an earlier frost. It was a clear and sunny day, despite the bitter December wind that nipped at their faces. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue above the hazy tree line on the horizon, without a single cloud in sight.

They were trying to purchase the Appaloosa that Tommy had his eyes on, but it was turning out to be more of a waiting game than anything else. Their meeting spot with the seller was out in the countryside, far away from any signs of civilization. So much so, that the roads were nothing more than sets of winding dirt trails, and the truck they borrowed from Charlie Strong had gotten stuck in muddy puddles on more than one occasion during their drive. Another fucking headache.

“Easy,” Tommy reached for his pocket watch and glanced at the time. It was only a little after 11 am. “The seller will be here any minute now, and then we’ll be on our way.”

“Yeah, you’ve been saying any minute now for twenty fuckin’ minutes.” John retorted.

“Can someone remind me why we’re buying this damned horse again?” Arthur tugged his cap lower on his head. “It’s the bloody winter. What do we need a horse for? The races aren’t until spring.”

“Horses take time to be trained, Arthur.” Tommy gave him a tight-lipped reply.

Eventually, after about another twenty minutes of waiting around in the cold (much to John’s dismay), their seller came sputtering up the road in a beaten-down truck with the horse in tow.

“G’day, boys!” The seller called from the truck, waving his hand wildly out of the window. Two gruff-looking men sat in the seat beside him. “Brisk morning, isn’t it?”

“Quite.” Tommy quipped, forcing a smile. John scoffed and rolled his eyes.

The seller hopped out of the driver’s seat and tipped his ragged tweed cap to them. He was a short and stout older man, with bushy eyebrows and a scraggly white beard.

“Leroy.” He reached to shake Tommy’s hand.

“Thomas,” Tommy jerked his chin toward his brothers who stood beside him. “These are my brothers, Arthur and John.”

“You’re Polly Gray’s kin, yeah?” Leroy asked while plucking a tall piece of dried grass from the earth and placing it in his mouth.

“We’re her nephews,” Arthur answered, glancing at the two men who were still sitting in the truck.

“Ah, that’s very nice.” The older man chewed on the blade of grass. “Very nice.”

Tommy couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something off-putting about the man. Too much small talk, too many fake pleasantries.

“What clan are you from?”

“No clan, just traveling on my own.”

“Who's in the truck?” Arthur raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, no one. Just some hired protection for myself,” Leroy waved a hand at them. “Nothing to concern yourselves with. I’m an old man selling horses, can’t ever be too careful, yeah?” he paused for a moment, then added with a wink, “I’m sure you boys know how these deals can go.”

Tommy hummed in affirmation. An old man selling stolen horses, that is.

“Yeah,” Arthur replied, kicking at a clump of dirt on the ground.

“Now, enough with the niceties. Shall we take a look at that horse?”

Tommy gave a pointed nod and followed him around to the back of the truck. The three brothers watched Leroy eased the horse out of the stall, whispering to her while she wildly thrashed her head around.

“Ha, she’s got quite the personality,” The seller grimaced as he tugged on the reins in an attempt to quell her, so vigorously that his heels dug into the muddy earth.

“We can see that,” John scoffed while nudging Arthur in the side.

Eventually, the horse settled, huffing and puffing clouds from its nostrils and into the frigid air. Tommy stepped forward to appraise the horse more closely. He ran his hands down its legs and inspected each hoof, then curling back its lips to examine the teeth. She had a palomino coloring, a white mane and tail with a chestnut coat that faded into white speckles.

“She’s beautiful,” Tommy gave the horse a few final pats on the shoulder. “We’ll take her.” He motioned for his brother to come toward him with the flick of his wrist. “The payment, John.”

John nodded, taking a few strides to his brother. Before he could reach into his coat for the money, Leroy cleared his throat loudly.

“Ah, yes, the payment,” He smiled and gave the reins a tug. “The price is double of what we spoke about earlier.”

Tommy stared at him blankly. “What changed?”

“My mind. That’s what changed.” Leroy exhaled dramatically. “This here is a good horse,” He punctuated each of his words with a pat on the horse’s neck. “I have a lot of interested buyers who are willing to pay the extra... fees.”

“Fees?” John echoed, his mouth agape. “What fees?”

Tommy raised a hand to silence his brother. “You said you were only dealing with us.”

“Yes, well,” The seller shrugged. “People say a lot of things.”

Tommy rolled his eyes and shook his head, reaching for the cigarette case he tucked inside of his jacket. “We’re buying the horse for the amount we originally settled on.”

“Says who?”

“Says us.” John narrowed his eyes at the man.

“Listen, I don’t want to cause any trouble,” Leroy placed a hand on his heart. “But the doubled amount is my final and only offer. I’m just trying to make a living here- I’m sure you boys can understand that.”

Tommy nodded while he perched a cigarette between his lips. “We’ll pay the original amount and a half.”

“Fuck, Tom.” Arthur removed the cap from his head and ran a hand ragged through his hair.

Leroy stroked his beard thoughtfully and then shook his head. “No. I’m only taking the doubled amount.”

“I won’t go any higher than what I just offered,” Tommy said.

“If that’s the case, then continuing this conversation for any longer is pointless.” Leroy furrowed his eyebrows together. “Is that clear?”

“Crystal.” Tommy lit the cigarette, the flames of the match just barely touching his fingertips. “Consider our business over, then.” He dropped the match to the ground and stamped it out with his shoe.

“What a waste. I can’t believe you mingy folks won’t scrounge up a little extra for a horse of this caliber,” Leroy grumbled as he led the horse by the reins back into the stall. He jerked his head toward the front of the truck. “I should charge you for the coin I wasted on these two oafs in there. Useless.”

Tommy fought the smirk that quirked at the corners of his lips. The uncanny polished veneer of pleasantries was fading fast from the man’s persona. He was just another rat looking to make a few extra bucks on a black market horse. Sure, it was a nice horse, a beautiful horse, even, but certainly not worth the inflated price Leroy was preaching. It was stolen, too. He knew he should’ve been getting a better deal for that.

“I’m still willing to go over half of what we originally agreed on,” Tommy called to him.

“Let me think again,” Leroy tapped a finger to his lips. “And my final answer is,” He spat on the ground in front of them. “That.” He muttered a curse under his breath, and then spat on the ground again. “And that’s for your aunt, for sending me a fuck all deal.”

While the crassness of Leroy’s comments and actions were an irritation to Tommy, he knew what game he was trying to play. He was trying to get a rise out of them, he had those two men in the truck, after all. He didn’t get his deal (it truly was more of a scam), and now he was nipping at their ankles in a desperate attempt to get his payout.

Arthur, on the other hand, was sent into a spiral. He should’ve known that his brother was nothing but a ticking time-bomb at this point. He had been nursing his flask all morning long (he had to have been halfway drunk), and Leroy’s demeanor was the icing on the cake. The situation was flint, and Arthur was the tinder.

“Fuck.” Tommy and John said in unison.

Arthur knocked Leroy onto the ground and reached for his cap. In the same instance, the two men inside of the truck must have heard the ruckus and were taking rushed strides toward them, each with a crude shiv in hand.

While Leroy was trying to evade Arthur’s wrath, Tommy sensed an opportunity. The reins were no longer in Leroy’s hands, and instead, the horse was bucking and braying about, clearly spooked by the fighting.

Tommy lunged for the reins but was knocked onto his stomach by the wild thrashing of the horse’s head. For a moment, he managed to scramble on the ground and get a steady grip on the reins, but his efforts were futile, for the horse was too strong from that angle. His grip went slack, and the horse bolted out onto the field. Tommy watched as it galloped away, causing something crimson and furious to boil up inside of him.

By the end of it, panting and covered in sweat, Tommy could barely remember the details of what had just happened. It started with a horse, a sniveling old man, two hired thugs, Arthur’s rage, a horse that was now gone, and blood.

At some point, Leroy had managed to slither into the truck and drive away (Arthur tried chasing him down the road, much to John’s bemusement). His thugs, on the other hand, were curled up onto the ground, whimpering as they clutched their scarred and bleeding faces.

“At least that old loon got his money’s worth with these guys,” John commented wryly, spitting blood onto the ground. His lip was bloodied, and would certainly bloom into a dark bruise within the next few hours.

“We should’ve killed him and took the horse in the first fucking place.” Arthur took a long swig from his flask and wiped the back of his hand across his lips.

There was only one thing Tommy could say. “Fuck.”

The three of them were bruised, covered in blood and dirt, and the horse was gone.

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Polly sat them down and looked at their wounds in the parlor when they arrived back at the shop.

John had a split lip and a few cuts on his hands, while Arthur was more so just bruised and battered from a rolling tussle with one of the hired men. Tommy was sore, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the hit he took from the fucking horse, or the nasty slice he had gotten from one of the thugs on his forearm.

“It’s for the best,” Polly said while deftly cutting up a bandage. “Buying a horse in bad faith like that,” She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Bad luck.”

“Bad luck,” John scoffed while splashing icy water onto his face. “How’d you even know this guy? He was a nutcase.”

“It’s been a long time. I never said he was a friend,” Polly rolled her eyes while she poured alcohol onto a rag. “I warned you that he was a scoundrel. The horse was stolen after all. Now let me see that lip.”

Their bickering became background noise in the back of Tommy’s head. It didn’t matter how anyone knew Leroy. They were one horse short, and his chest fucking hurt from that same fucking horse thrashing about amidst the chaos. But, he found a tinge of humor in the fact that they, of all people, were calling that man a scoundrel.

After an hour of sitting still with several bandages looped around his knuckles, he was getting antsy.

Tommy stood up and made his way toward the stairs.

“Hey, where are you going?” Arthur bellowed from the table. His face was red, and it wasn’t from the fighting- he was certainly drunk now.

“Bed.”

“Pol hasn’t looked at that cut on your arm yet."

“I’ll wrap a rag around it.” He ignored the rest of his brother’s slurred shouts and walked to his room.

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Tommy’s ears wouldn’t stop ringing.

He laid on his bed and stared at the ceiling, watching as the long shadows waned from afternoon to evening, to nightfall.

The red tendrils of rage continued to knead and claw at his gut. He needed horses for the races, and not just any horses. Good horses. That Appaloosa was going to be a good fucking horse. If he was going to have any chance at fixing the big races come springtime, he was going to need a lot of good fucking horses.

Hell, he was trying to build a fucking business here.

There was a moment where he almost reached for his pipe. His head-ached and his muscles were painfully sore. He was just about ready to cut his losses for the day, and call it a night. But then, he thought of something else.

Perhaps, he needed a drink first.

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He watched her sweep the floor of the pub from the window. Her back was to him, and she didn’t notice him until the front door slammed shut.

Anna flinched, almost dropping the broom onto the floor. “Christ,” she turned to him, her face softening in recognition. “Mr. Shelby, you frightened me-” she cut herself off, “Are you okay?”

He knew he looked like a proper mess, certainly felt like one too. He didn’t bother fully changing out of his clothes from earlier, either. Under his winter coat, he was wearing a cotton shirt that was stained with blood, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to make room for the bandages that covered his cuts. His trousers and shoes were caked with mud too- another lost cause.

“I’d like a drink,” Tommy waved her off as he took a seat at a random table and dropped his coat to the floor. He could see her hesitate, her eyes darting anxiously between him and the rack of booze behind the bar.

“The same as always?” She asked, her voice wavering only slightly.

“The very same.”

Anna propped the broom against the bar and quickly went to work on pouring his drink.

“Where’s Harry?”

“He had to step away early this evening,” She rounded the table with his glass and gingerly set it down in front of him.

“All by yourself again?”

She nodded.

When he reached for the drink, a sudden pain shot through the length of his arm, from fingertip to shoulder. It felt like a thousand tiny little nails pricking at his skin all at once. He glanced down at his forearm and saw that the makeshift bandage he had tied around the gash was soaked red, and was coming loose. “Shit.”

“Here, let me.” Anna sat beside him and took his arm in her hands, slowly unwrapping the bloodied rag. The slice on his forearm was nastier than he initially realized. It was red, hot, and angry. His hands were in poor shape too, a few cuts on the palm, and scratches on the knuckles. Not to mention the bruise he knew was forming on his chest. Her eyes flicked from his forearm to his eyes. “I’m going to get some water, I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared into the back room, and minutes later, came back with an iron pail and a clean rag over her shoulder.

“Would you like me to leave you alone?” She stared at his face intently. “Or do you want me to stay?”

Truthfully, he was taken aback by the questions.

“You can stay.”

She gave a curt nod and took a seat next to him.

“Can I help?”

“Not much I can do with these hands.”

Anna smiled and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear.

Everything felt, quite suddenly, as though it was too sharply in focus. Tommy watched her while she rolled up the sleeve of his shirt up farther past his elbow, her movements deliberate and gentle. The first time she dabbed at the slice on his forearm, he winced. She noticed this, and each time after she touched it, she glanced at him cautiously, just to make sure it was okay.

Tommy decided that from that moment forward, she was a blue mystery. He wasn’t even sure what that fucking meant, but that’s what she was to him. A blue mystery. She could’ve materialized from the Queen’s fucking castle, for all he knew. But here she was, living alone in a dingy flat, and no one ever saw her other than this fucking place and her family. Her hair was always curled, and she did not speak much. Yes, he thought. She was a blue mystery.

He couldn’t tell if he was delirious or not. Perhaps it was from the lack of sleep and blood, but the light in the room made her hair look like a halo. A halo of red hair. He had to have been fucking delirious.

During his musings, he noticed that he had gotten blood on her blouse.

“I’m sorry about your shirt.”

“Oh,” Anna glanced down at it and shook her head. “Don’t mind this old thing.”

He scoffed and turned away from her for a moment.

“You said you’re from a place called Eastcliff, right?”

“Ah,” She looked up at him from under her eyelashes. “You have a good memory.”

“What’s it like?”

“Well, it’s rather a long way from here, as you know.” She explained while softly gripping his forearm to keep it steady. “It’s right by the sea. Absolutely freezing in the winter, but pleasant in the summer. If you have a map handy, I could show you.”

The drawn-out words. Rather. Absolutely. Pleasant. It was all so painfully upper class.

“Do you like the ocean?”

“Yes,” She started grinning. “I love it in every season but the summer.”

“That seems a little backward.”

“I suppose it is. I hate the heat, and I always look like a lobster when I leave.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest.

“Does everyone in Eastcliff have that accent?”

She blinked, lips parting slightly. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I can’t imagine everyone in a little seaside town sounds like they’ve come straight from the Queen’s drawing-room.” He meant it as an earnest jest, truly.

“Yes, well,” She squeezed the excess water from the rag and back into the bucket. “I went to a boarding school in London and spent the summers at home. In Eastcliff.”

His question seemed to stop Anna short, in a way that nothing else had so far that evening. Nothing else meant him, showing up to her place of work, covered in blood and mud. He really didn’t have much to say after that. She kept squeezing water from the rag until it went taut.

“How’s that cut on your forehead?”

Tommy tilted his head toward her and raised an eyebrow. He didn’t even realize that there was a cut on his forehead.

Anna narrowed her eyes at him and clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Let me.”

She leaned in close to him now, close enough that he could see the dusting of freckles on her face, the smell of her perfume, the graceful curve of her neck. While she dabbed at his forehead, she never looked at him directly. When their eyes would meet, Tommy noticed the slightest flush on her cheeks. How did she go from a little seaside town, to this fucking city?

“May I ask you something bluntly?”

“I think you’ve earned it.”

“What happened today?”

“A horse.”

She raised her eyebrows.  “Must’ve been some horse.”

“It was.” He replied, his voice dreamy. “An Appaloosa.”

“Ah, a nice horse then.”

He blew air out of his nose. “Are you much for horses?”

“Truthfully?” A smile appeared on her lips, it was a real one, because it made her cheeks dimple. “No. I’m terrified of them, ever since one bit me as a little girl.”

“A shame.”

“A shame indeed. But I still think they are beautiful, for what it’s worth. I enjoy watching them, and attending a good race now and then.” Even her voice started to have a dreamy lilt to it. “Are you much for horses, Mr. Shelby?”

“Yes,” He answered with a smirk. “I’m much for horses.”

“Except for Appaloosas?”

“Perhaps.”

They sat in silence for a long while after that. He thought it was amicable, and pleasant enough. The only other noises between them were the sounds of a rag being torn in two, and water sloshing about in the iron pail. Tommy started speaking again when she finished tying a fresh bandage around his forearm.

“Do you need someone to walk you home?”

“Mr. Shelby, if I can be quite blunt- again,” She said with a grin. “If anyone needs someone to walk them home, it’s you.”

He shook his head with a scoff, lips forming a tight-line.

“It’s Tommy, by the way.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name.”

“Tommy,” Anna repeated his name slowly, almost as if she was testing it out on her tongue.

“When it’s just us, call me Tommy.”

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 40- Forged in Fire

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

While the other hermits forage in Redland, Wels and False forge ahead in Alphasgard, where the best fighters train and best swordsmiths learn. But it’s not just the Arcane guard that is after the two- some old ‘friends’ of Wels want a rematch. 

________________________________

“Halt by order of the Council of Guilds!” False drops the khopesh in her hand, grabbing Wels and dragging him away from the merchant. 

“Thank you for the offer but we have to get going. Right now.” False nods her head over her shoulder, and Wels spots the incoming arcane guard. As soon as he locks eyes with the captain of the patrol, the soldiers push through the busy open market and unsheathe their weapons. 

“Yeah, time to scram.” Wels lets himself be pulled away by False, and the two take off into the crowd. They laugh as they hear the sound of guards yelling, followed a second later by the crash of metal against stone. 

Through the open market, the two blonds make their escape into the heart of Alphasgard. The city traverses over multiple hills, and as the two flee down the slope, houses made of stone and terracotta turn to wood and clay, until the dry pathway becomes a sandy beach at the edge of the Ashioll fjords. Wels ducks between a cart towing raw iron ore and the loud cheering of an archery event along the shore. 

False gets ahead of the guards and Wels. She’s not wearing armor, not left to sink in the sand. But Wels gives himself a speed boost, and quickly catches up with her. Unfortunately, their chase through the beach did little to confuse and confound the arcane guard still after them. “We should split up, Wels. I’ll go over, you go through. Meet me at the Tower of the Blade.” 

“How long should I wait?” He questions, silently cursing having to split up. It’s just the two of them here in Alphasgard, among the square buildings and stout towers. Their magic deals in this physical combat, and they had hoped that just being the two of them would mean they wouldn’t draw the attention of the arcane guard. Fat lot that did. 

“Ah, give me an hour, then assume somethin’s gone wrong. But don’t do anything stupid, just get the supplies and report back to the Order. You know I’m no damsel in distress. I’d do the same if you get caught.” False tightens the weapons strapped to her, preparing to jump and climb. 

“I feel bad for the poor guards that would have to deal with you.” He snickers, before breaking off. The two flee into the city, two different directions.

False takes the high road. Clambering up a ladder made of driftwood, her boots clatter against the wooden roof as False runs across the flat planed shelters. She summons a set of daggers, and throws them into the clay wall, vaulting up the side of the home, each blade a foodhold. Her wild locks of blonde hair dance in the heated tropical sunlight, only tamed by her forging goggles, which sit secure to the crown of her head. 

Over her shoulder, she can hear curses and shouts as the guards struggle to chase after her. Over tall keeps and through windows, she feels almost like a bandit, just finding the best way across the city. Or an assassin, moving above where most won’t look. She clambers up a smooth stone pillar, and jumps from it’s crest to a tower, rising far above most other buildings. From this height, she can feel the cold wind from the fjord whipping at her cheeks. No other building in this district reaches quite as high. 

“Looks like you’re outta roof.” False turns around, her eyes catching on a cart full of palm fronds and a banner on the side of the tower, and faces the three arcane guard before her. The guard at the forefront twirls his shortsword. False can only scoff as she sees how shoddily made the blade is. It was quenched too quickly. One good hit and it could shatter on him. 

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” False snickers, shrugging and putting her hands up. Taking one step back, until her heel is drifting over open nothingness. “But looks can be deceiving. See you later, boys.” 

With a two fingered salute, she lets the other foot slip off, and she plummets towards the ground. Arms outstretched, she can’t help but laugh at the shocked and terrified faces of the guards above her. She continues to plummet, like an eagle diving towards it’s kill. When it seems like she’d be crushed against the sandy street below, False reaches out and slows her fall by digging her sword into the banner of the building, and buries into the cart of palm fronds. A second later, she hops out, unharmed but heart racing, and continues on her merry way. Leaving the guards shocked and stranded at the top of the tower.

Wels lost sight of False when she hopped over the large square building in the distance. But he has to deal with his own tails he’s kiting through the city. He runs through the crooked streets, somehow managing to squeeze his armored body between the flow of people, trying to keep his head low and disappear among the crowd. 

But the guards aren’t quite as gentle. They barge through people, knocking families apart and sending tailors stumbling for their bobbins and spools. It’s like a bull barging through, eyes trained on the red tassel that swings from his helmet. He can’t keep going straight, they’ll catch him. He has to be clever. 

In a sharp turn, he disappears into the open forges nestled beside an eclectic mix of drink stands. With the blasting ovens baking the smithers and the beating sun against the dry desert sand, the canteens are bustling with people. What Wels wouldn’t give for a sip of the bright blue drinks that are slid across the counters, the clinking of ice against the glass, refreshing as he sweats under his armor. But he doesn’t have time to stop. 

Until fingers wrap around his lion-like tail, and throw him into the ground. He rolls away from a blazing hot rod of unfinished iron. “I got em guards!” 

A bladesmith, mid heat treat, has halted Wels in his tracks. Alarmed by the scene before them, the crowd parts until it was just Wels and the guards. He has no choice now but to fight. Wels frees his blade from it’s scabbard, defending himself but refusing to deal the first blow. Hels would’ve cut down all three guards in an instant. Wels could easily destroy them. But he’s not Hels anymore. 

A guard breaks the silence, swinging his saber to cut down Wels. It’s a stupid move, and Wels easily blocks the attack, the thin metal caught in the twists and curls of his sword. From behind him, another guard shouts out his orders. “Cease and desist this instant! You are under arrest by order of-” 

“Yeah, I’m not really listening.” Wels sneers, twisting his blade and pulling the saber free from the guard. With a flourish, he points the tip of the sword at the shocked guard. “Anyone else want to give it a go?” 

Those words, spoken in a crowd among the city of combat, brought the chaos that Wels needed to escape. It was an invitation to anyone with a sword and a bit of stupidity to start a duel. And from the swarm of people, a dozen different weapons are drawn and brought into the ring. Among the chaos, Wels slips away, dipping behind a drink stand. He can’t help but grab a glass on his crawl past, but he makes sure to leave a few rupees- including tip- for the server. 

Escaping the crowded forge, through a weapon shop, Wels nearly runs face first into a cart full of palm fronds. His tufted yellow tail flicks to the side to balance him out, but someone takes his hand and keeps him from being stranded on his back in his armor. “Saved ya.” 

“False!” Wels grins, happy to see his friend and fellow swordmaster, safe and even smiling. “Looks like you lost your tails.” 

“And you kept yours.” At first Wels thought she meant his actual tail, but when he hears a crashing from the weapon shop he just emerged from, he realizes he hasn’t quite lost the arcane guard after him.Without wasting another second, the two take off towards the Tower of the Blade. The tallest building, rising above and towering over everything else in the city by leaps and bounds. 

It was their goal, not just because it was easy to spot all across the city, but was also a safe haven from the arcane guard and Dolios’s far reach. It was a place of training and bettering oneself. It was the masters of the dojos and training grounds that determined who could enter and who could find safety among their ranks. It was there that Wels found a new purpose in life, after being betrayed by his bandit gang. Here that a master brought him in, despite his dark past, healed him and gave him a reason to change. Even when he thought he was evil, she saw the good in him and trained him. 

It’s here they’ll be able to find solace, to get trained in being an army all their own, for False to learn new ways to forge new weapons, and for Wels to hone his skills with his magic. 

The two disappear down a thin passageway in between two buildings, hiding in the shadows and staying quiet. Wels casts a spell to better camouflage them, and they hold their breath. Seconds feel like hours, until they watch the arcane guard run past the alleyway they’re hidden in. The two don’t move for another few minutes, waiting to be sure that the guards are gone. Only then do they emerge from hiding, and continue on their way. 

In the shadow of the Tower, Wels finds he’s able to untense his shoulders. This was his home before the hermits. A place he found peace, stopped being Hels and welcomed Wels. It’s here he became the man he is now. How he became a hermit. They’re welcomed in, False and Wels splitting apart to learn their individual skills. 

False finds herself in a class on layering metal types, and quickly impresses the master bladesmith with her even heating and precise strikes of the hammer to make just the right curve in the blade. But with the master, she learns to create thick blades, axes and hatchets, cinquedeas and even patas. 

As she pulls the five finger wide blade from the oil it was treated in, False is grinning from ear to ear. “Let’s see how Dolios will handle our new toys.” 

The hermit bladesmith tosses the new weapon to Wels, and he finds himself in the sandy promenade, among a group of students learning the sword style of arnis- martial arts similar to that found in and around Shellor. Wels can’t wait to challenge Etho the next time they’re on Eremita. His blade may not be from this fighting style, but Wels wants to practice his flexibility among weapons. Not just his massive zweihander, but all weapons in all fighting styles. 

Wels is about to test the sharpness of the sword by cutting through a series of bamboo enemies, when an all too familiar voice- to only him- rings loud and clear in the vaulted halls of the Tower. “You never know when to quit, lionheart?”

The healing scar on Wels’s shoulder burns, but he turns around and faces the group of rogues. “And you never know how to keep your prisoners tied up. That was a pretty easy escape, if I say so myself.” 

It was this group of bandits that he was investigating before he returned to Eremita. They who captured him while he infiltrated their numbers, they who made him unable to respond to the hermits. They who scarred him, but he came out stronger. And he’s not running from a fight this time. 

“You’re so damn cocky, what I wouldn’t give to cut that stupid smile off your face.” The bandit sneers. 

“If you want to duel, you just have to say?” Wels turns his back, his nonchalant attitude and snarky remark infuriating his opponent. Across the promenade, Wels sees False draw her own weapon. He waves her off. So long as the rogue will play fair, they won’t have to become the center of False’s wrath. No person should dare be on her bad side. “I just learned a very unique style of fighting, you wanna see?”

The bandit leader, with a scraggly mess of brown hair hastily tied in a bun, pulls out his blade. Wels may not be a bladesmith like False, but even he can see the cheap craftmanship of the heavy weighted sword. The training grounds clear out at the scent of a duel, and both Wels and the bandit assume fight ready stances. Wels stands as noble as the paladin he is, feet firm in the soil, blade between him and his opponent, his other hand tucked behind his back. 

The bowlegged bandit spits to the side. “I’ll make the last scar we gave ya look like a paper cut.” 

The duel starts, and False can clearly see Wels is already ahead. The bandit stumbles to the side, his blade unbalanced as his stance, and Wels digs the thin pommel into the square of his opponents back. The bandit plays quick and dirty, and soon the two are locked in combat. But even when he has to retreat after the blade slips between his armor and wounds him, Wels is still ahead. Last time, he was outnumbered, not outmatched. 

This time, he has the upper hand, so long as his opponent respects the art of the duel. Respects the rules of the Tower. The battle continues, with each hit his opponent makes on him, Wels gets two. He retreats back, looking over his shoulder after admiring the craftmanship of his sword in comparison to the shoddy blade of his enemy. “This is one hell of a sword, False! Great job, friend!” 

His words, although kind, seem to only enrage the bandit. When Wels turns around, he’s no longer dueling the bandit leader. He’s back in that dark speakeasy, fighting off twenty or so of these rats before being overwhelmed and captured. The other bandits have joined in on the fight. “To hell with decorum, I just want to see your blood staining this entire place.” 

Despite the encroaching axes, clubs, spears, and swords, Wels can’t help but chuckle. He backs up, towards the forge. Towards his fellow hermit. “I hate to disappoint you, but you’re quite… False.” 

His grin only grows when the forge wizard appears before him, summoning a blade as hot as an oven’s flame. He brandishes the newly made weapon. Two hermits against ten or more bandits? 

Too easy. The rogues don’t know what’s coming to them, but False and Wels fight like dragons, as graceful and strong. They have each other’s back. If False gets into a pushing match, Wels gives her a strength buff, and she sends her opponent skittering into the dirt. If Wels is surrounded by rogues, False summons throwing knives, and Wels can step over the ambushing party to get back into the fight.

The rogues weren’t prepared for the strength between two hermits. Wels alone was a struggle, but they managed to overpower him. But Wels and False? The fight is over quickly. Any rogues left standing flee, leaving behind their peers and disappearing into the city. Wels sneers, remembering how he was once left that way. 

False runs a bloody, muddy hand through her hair. “Well, I think we got enough training in that one fight. What do you think of the cinquedea?”

He turns, testing the weight of the sword False made. “Strong, balanced, good for cutting and stabbing. It will kill.”

[1stunseeliefaelass]

Darksiders Arthurian Tales Revisited

Chapter 22: Fresh With New Messes

Fury notices the two women gawking at her and snickers, "Seems I don't just turn the heads of men."

"DAMN...you must work out a LOT." C comments.

"Well any warrior does girl. Male or female, keeping in shape is integral to a battle ready body." Fury points out.

"As someone who was a knight once, I can concur with that. Nor can I blame you for your confidence Fury. You clearly have the right to be prideful." Morgen states simply.

"I wouldn't have guessed you were a knight myself Morgen. You're so lithe. Granted I know most Fae are, but to be this lean as one who wields any weapon is quite the predicament. Granted this body type is perfect for a mage, but if you wish to reenter the fray I'd advice some workouts. Perhaps Death would assist you in that."

"Uh huh. Aren't you considered the mage of the family though Fury?" Morgen asks her.

"Oh please. If anyone's the mage it's Death. Sure I use some magic, but not as much as my elder brother. He's practically a nerd around magic that he hasn't seen before too. Seriously it can be VERY adorable."

"What?" Morgen asks trying not to snicker.

C gets a skeptical look, "Death, adorable? I don't know about that Fury."

"Of course you don't. Though judging by what I overheard you lack confidence in your body. Even Morgen has some for her own, which I can respect despite what my words to her may suggest."

"Like I told Morgen, I've got a lot of scars."

"And that's completely normal in our line of work. A warrior's life is never easy, as my elder brother likes to say. So believe me, you having many scars isn't unheard of." Fury tells her.

"Ok I'll show you guys what I mean. If you show me some on you." C responds.

"I planned to anyway." Morgen replies.

"It's only fair I suppose." Fury states before standing up from the underwater bench she was sitting on.

C and Morgen see a scar around her gut, "This one I received from quite the cheeky demon. Little did he know that getting as close as he did was a mistake. I did have a healing potion luckily, among other things. But it scarred over nonetheless."

Morgen then moves her hair onto her back to reveal a small but noticeable scar just below her sternum. "I never saw who it was, all I know is that an archer got in a lucky shot during a battle. I was an older teen at the time. Mina hounded me for days on end after the arrow was removed, as did Barrcus."

"Well obviously, a few inches higher and you may not have been here to tell that story." Fury responds.

"If anyone was lucky, it was you Morgen." C tells her before taking a deep breath and dispersing the steam around her with a snap. As she stands the two older women look at her curiously.

Fury is a bit worried at the amount all over her, and how deep a few of them look. Morgen of course just wonders how painful things must be for her.

"I knew Gregory wasn't capable of much from what I saw of your 'training' yesterday, but THIS is concerning. You really need someone who can actually teach you without hinderances such as old age slowing them down."

"I agree, you need extra help clearly. Also how much pain are in on a daily basis?" Morgen questions C with worry.

"Oh it's really not that bad. Not even any stinging these days. Although...not all of them are from battle..." C begins to say before trailing off.

"What are you implying?" Morgen presses.

"Indeed, what's wrong?" Fury asks sensing something's up.

"It's nothing....don't worry about it ok?" C implores them before ducking back under the water.

Before Fury can go into detective mode, Mina comes in with Miriam as they're speaking to each other.

"And then the stupid ninnie said....OH DEAR. Uhm oops." Mina quickly says.

"Should we come at a later time?" Miriam asks.

Fury, not wanting to make C anymore uncomfortable than she already was, chooses to drop the subject of her scars for now. But makes a mental note to ask later. Morgen meanwhile tells Miriam, "Oh it's fine Miriam. A little girls' time never hurt anyone."

"Besides, I can't be the only golden girl here." Fury remarks looking at Mina.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh come on Mina I'm teasing. We're both old and we know it. At least our appearances haven't been marked by it." Fury states.

"Ugh right." Mina says before getting ready to hop in.

Miriam meanwhile already places her clothes on a drawer handle nearby and hops into the water. Surprisingly enough she's a fairly decent swimmer for her stature. "So whatcha talking about?"

"Oh just uhhhhh..." C says trying to find the words to express it.

"Trying to boost a young lady's confidence in her body." Fury states saving C on that one.

"Oh really? Well let me just say that you're not entirely alone. I've had my own days like that. Just ask Strife." Miriam tells C before paddling over to her.

"Thanks Miriam." C says with a smile.

Mina then steps in after revealing her short and stout self. "Me, I'm only short because I chose this form to hide me true self from Uther. It's not preferable, but I don't hate it. I got curves, but I know I still look good to me own man."

Fury actually asks Mina, "Your true self, what exactly does that mean?"

"Oh well I'm half Huldra." Mina states.

"Well technically she's a Skogsrå, as half of her lineage is in Sweden. You can probably tell where the other half is from." Morgen adds on.

"Oh hush Morgen."

The ladies then share a laugh together as they relax. Miriam then notices all of C's scars whilst swimming near her and asks, "Oh my....is that why you're not comfy in your body?"

"Yeah.....I've got a lot of em so..."

"It's ok. I've got some too. It's a little hard to see on this tiny form, but it is what it is." Miriam says before showing C the recent scarring from the night Leatherbeard tried having his way with her.

"Oh damn. Those probably sting like hell still huh?"

"Only at night when I'm sleeping. Although I try to not let it show. I don't want Strife to worry about me you know?" Miriam replies.

"As his sister, I believe he should know this Miriam. You'd best tell him if you're in any pain. Otherwise he may panic if he finds you randomly trying to manage the pain on your own." Fury tells her.

"Well you are his sister so I guess you have a point Fury. He does often eye me when it gets bad enough though." Miriam softly states.

"Probably because he's already worried Miriam. Try telling him when you're in pain. I'm sure he'd want to ease it where he could." Morgen tells her.

"Right of course. Although since we're on the subject, do you have any scars Mina?"

"Oh no, I'm only a mage little lassie. But being a Skogsrå I do have a hollow back." Mina responds.

"Oh now you say the proper term?" Fury inquires teasingly.

"Oh like ya wouldn't keep calling me out for using the Norwegian term ya bitch." Mina retorts to Fury's laughter.

Mina then stands up to reveal her back to them and begins to let loose. But only enough to reveal her hollow back. Once she hears the girls' surprised gasps, she goes back into the disguise. She then takes the time to catch her breath. "Well....*huff*...that took a lot outta me. But there ya are lassies. The hollow back of a Huldra."

"Skogsrå." Morgen muttered.

"I said hush."

The ladies then share another laugh together. They're then finally joined by Esmie. Who is only doing it to be a good example for Arn. And because she promised to bathe if he did. Since he's keeping his end of that Esmie will too.

"Damas de Hola."

"Hello to you too. Although did we ever catch your name?" Fury inquires.

"Name's Esmerelda, but Esmie works fine."

She then gets in and enjoys the company. Meanwhile the men are having their own moment. At first they're all fine aside from War who's hiding underwater a teenie bit. But Strife ends up breaking the ice.

"Soooooo...how's everybody doing?"

"Fine." Puck replies.

"Fine." Harker adds.

"Fine." Sygr says before eating more of the fruit.

"Just fine." Arn states simply.

"I'm good." Bardak replies.

Gregory however says all embarrassed, "I'm..doing alright.."

War just grumbles, muffled by the water as his mouth his submerged. Only the top of his head and nose are above the surface.

Strife then looks at him, "Ok grumpy head you're doing just fine."

War then lifts his head back up to comment, "I'm used to you, but NOT other people."

Then as War goes back down Puck looks at them weird, "Uuuhh what? Phrasing my gents phrasing, yer about to give Harker here a bloody nose."

"HEY!"

"Oh ye know it and so do I shut up." Puck tells an offended Harker.

Sygr just stares on with no care, which prompts some questions, "Some men were bored in the ring. I do NOT wish to go into detail."

Arn just shudders a bit, leading Sygr to pat his back gently. "Thanks for making sure I wasn't part of that."

"And I'm sorry you witnessed it too early. Seriously a few of them were way too eager to show off."

"OK CAN WE MOVE THE HELL ON?!" War suddenly shouts in more embarrassment.

Puck nods, "I'm getting a little bit discomfort here. Although I can't really say much against it given my extracurricular activities."

"OK MOVING ON!" War shouts again.

Bardak meanwhile just chuckles, "Ya make it sound as though ya don't get sex War."

War blushes hard and sinks even deeper. Causing Strife to explain, "He's a cinnamon roll."

"Wait....what do ya mean by that?" Bardak asked a little confused.

"Strife....is yer brother...'pure'?" Puck inquires.

"As pure and uptight as an Angel. And just as dense sometimes too." Strife remarks.

"HEY!" War yells at him annoyed.

Strife then gets a call and answers it. He's expecting Miriam at first and isn't paying attention, "Hey baby?"

"Pardon Atan?"

"Oh...sorry Ma."

War starts laughing a bit in background. It coming out as little bubbles from under the water.

"Quit laughing at me." Strife demands of him.

"It's funny."

"Says the man who couldn't grasp a knock knock joke."

War then grumbles under water again as Strife tells Ale, "Ok so how are you doing? Doing good."

"Just fine....Atan...", Ale responds trying not to giggle.

"You're never gonna let this go are you?"

"No." Ale admits.

"Please don't tell Death, it'll make this worse." Strife begs before hearing strained snickering in the background, "You heard ALL OF THAT?"

Ale then looks at Death as the vines tell her to and they describe the sign language he's using. She then translates for Strife, "Yes you....ugh...bitch..I did."

Ale then smacks Death upside the head as Strife snickers a bit to himself at Ale's discomfort at saying the word bitch, "Really Ma? It's just a word."

"I'm a grown ass man." Death tries to say in an intimidating way only to end up with a crack in his tone.

He only groans as Ale tells him, "You need your rest Atan go back to sleep."

"I don't need to sleep." Death retorts before letting out a single cough.

Ale then raises her shoe, "You want one to the head?"

"You're not Spanish Ceise."

Death then gets it to the head and Llildan sticks him with a needle right as he's hit. Death then slowly begins to fall asleep, "You....cheated...."

Once he's out Strife asks Ale, "So why'd you even call me to begin with?"

"To let you know that your brother is in Russia with your Grandfather. It should be a faster process, and it's via an injection. One he needed to have injected whilst asleep." Ale explains to him.

"Ah...I really don't wanna know what that looks like. So...what else are you doing?"

"Not much else, you Atan?" Ale inquires warmly.

"Ah me and boys are soaking in some water. You know if Stormbeard were here, we'd probably be electrocuted. Not on purpose but still."

Suddenly they hear a crackle of thunder, and Harker tells Strife, "Let's not piss off a cousin of Thor, several times removed."

"Yeah yeah...what can he do?"

"Strike us with a bolt of thunder."

"We're indoors."

"Strike us with a bolt of thunder.", Harker repeats to Strife.

"What seriously?"

"Yes, he's that powerful."

War then lifts his head up again, "Strife, get out of the water."

"Wait a minute why are you saying that? Why is he saying that? I'm now paranoid why is he saying that?"

War then tries getting out himself and Strife does too before getting a tiny bolt to his ass, "OW! What the?!"

"Like I said, powerful." Harker informs him.

"Wha..a..geh...How did he do that? I didn't even see it, where'd that come from?"

Sygr chuckles, "That storm giant is more skilled than we thought."

"Wait how did he know that? Wait....you did not." Strife says immediately to Harker with an accusatory tone.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Hand it over." Strife states firmly.

"Hand what over?"

"Hand it over."

"No."

"Bitch, I said hand it over."

"Oh please why would I cave to that?"

"Come on Stormcaller hand it over."

Harker then cocks his head, "Call me that again, and you'll learn why I got the name.", his tone is surprisingly dangerous sounding.

"Come on Stormcaller, show me what you're made of."

"Are the Horsemen always so ready for battle?"

"That's Strife on a normal day." War explains.

"I thought that was usually you." Harker says.

War gets an awkward look on his face, "Fair point."

Harker then sighs before turning into his true form and telling everyone in the room, "I'd cover my ears were I you gentlemen."

They all do so and Harker lets loose a call akin to a banshee scream in volume. Sending Strife flying into the wall before he stops it.

"The heee-he-he-hell dude?!" Strife exclaims in excitement.

"You actually enjoyed that? What are you a masochist?" Harker inquires.

"What?! NO HELL NO! What the fuck dude?!"

"You're the one getting excited over me slamming you into a wall." Harker explains.

Strife then notices the crystal isn't active anymore, indicating Ale hung up during all of that. Course now Llildan is having to make sure Ale's alright as she scratches at her ears a bit.

"What's wrong Atari?"

"Oh dear....uhm pardon?" Ale asks scratching further.

Llildan finally just stops her from scratching anymore and snaps his fingers by both her ears. She has a delayed response which leaves him having to ensure she gets her hearing back to normal. He gets an ear drop from close by and gently works to get a drop or two in each ear. Ale isn't used to it and naturally flips when the first drop goes into her ear. "Easy Atari, this will help just stay still."

Ale takes a moment before finally staying still whilst Llildan gets the drops into her right ear. He then has her lay down on that side and holds her hand gently. He can't even remember the last time he did.

He sighs and says quietly, "If only you were here."

Ale holds her Ceiser's hand tighter and calls out to him, "Ceiser?"

"Steady Atari, you're fine. Just lay there until the liquid comes out. It's cleaning your ears right now, and it's fixing a few things as well to stop the swelling."

She gives a little nod and continues laying there. Death meanwhile begins groaning and Llildan gets up to prepare another bottle. Course Ale grips him all the more when he does. "Ale it's alright, you'll be fine Atari. Just lay there and I'll be close by. I need to prepare something for your Atan. It'll help his throat."

Ale finally relents for Death's sake and lets Llildan get to work. He gets a bottle similar to the eye drops but tweaked for throats instead. Death comes to just as he's done.

"Ugh....ack my throat.."

"Easy Gras Atan, just open your mouth and stay still."

"Gras Ceiser? Where's...Ceise?"

"Hush for now. Just open wide." Llildan requests simply.

Death does so reluctantly and feels a few drops go down his throat. Naturally he has the urge to cough but holds it back as best he can.

"That's it. Now let it do it's work. And coughing is a little bit required for this."

Death nods before finally letting a few coughs loose. It was akin to the feeling one gets when choking on their own saliva. He then lay there for a while as Llildan prepared the last step, a strange looking device. Death was apprehensive of course but stayed as still as he could. Llildan noticed the concern and told him, "You've nothing to worry about, this is completely safe I can assure you."

"What....is this thing?"

"Just need to get some warm liquid in here and we'll be golden? I think that's the right phrase...anyway...What sort of liquid do you drink Gras Atan?"

"Why is it important?"

"Just need to know." Llildan tells him.

Death thinks a moment and replies, "Nice warm cup of earl grey."

"Hmm, alright." Llildan responds before typing something into the A.I. system of his home.

From there Death watches as water makes it's way to a heating system before being transferred through a filter for purification purposes. After that is done Llildan takes the vessel the water lands in by hand to the machine and pours it inside. He then places a tea bag into a compartment below where the water was placed. Finally Llildan places a thin tube into Death's mouth.

"Just don't forget to swallow, and also use this remote here to either slow it down or stop it."

Death just nods and takes the remote, hoping for the best. Llildan then starts things up and soon Death sees the tea traveling down to his mouth. He's extremely confused but doesn't have much time to think on it as he's forced to focus on swallowing the tea. He's surprised it doesn't burn him, but only for a moment. Eventually he gets the hang of things and soon the machine cuts off naturally as the tea runs out.

Llildan then tells him, "Now drink up the rest if you can. Makes cleaning up this thing easier."

Death does so and finally releases the tube once he's done, "That...was weird."

"But it helped."

"Yeah it did actually. Still a bit scratchy but I can manage that with my own blends later. Where's Ceise?" Death inquires.

"Oh just over here. Your friend Harker shrieked over the crystal at Strife and Ale's ears took a bit of an unintended hit. Although she should've hung up beforehand."

"Logically, is she ok?"

"Partially deaf in both ears, tinnitus." Llildan states.

Death sighs, "Tell Ale to call me whenever she's well."

"And take it easy on yourself. You're going to need to rest frequently."

"Understood."

With that Death teleports back to Titania's and decides to make his own cup before resting up. Course Fuzzball sees him and is ecstatic. Hopping up and down and rolling over all cute.

"At least Ale managed to take care of you beforehand. Glad to see you're back to your usual self. Perhaps you can go find the girls, I'll need to be resting soon."

Course Death hears a door open and the sound of the ladies talking. Looking behind him he notices one of the bathing rooms' doors is open. "Uh I should probably vacate the area now. Come on Fuzzball."

Fuzzball follows him with a little bark that catches Morgen's attention. She sees Death and is glad he's doing alright. Wren then comes on down from the other end and notices the party she missed.

"Ok ladies next time invite me ok? Can't go leaving me out."

"Last I checked you were still training Wren." Fury replies.

Meanwhile as all of this had been going down, finally someone woke up. He yawned deeply as Verdak came to rest at long last. He has black wooly hair with horns the same color that held lines of magenta. They curled like those of a ram, and his eyes were also bifurcated like one's with the same magenta color of his horns. His skin was completely grey and his clothes are black silk with magenta stripes. Large moth wings suddenly dazzled his weary vision before a moth like woman landed in front of him. She bowed low as he sat up in the bed.

"Good Morning, my sweet Dream King."

"Morning, my Queen of Dreams. Must've had a doozy of a dream last night. What did I miss by chance?" The King of Dreams asked his wife whilst cracking his back.

"Well Aries my love, we have a new one. Or rather, one we've been waiting for, for so long." She says coming onto the bed with him. In her arms is a wrapped up bundle. She unwraps it to reveal a teenie tiny newborn periwinkle lamb. It lets out a cute baa, leaving the Dream King glad.

"Ilona. She's alive. I....ehhh...I...." He says in shock as the happiness hits him tenfold.

He can only laugh as his wife explains, "Yes, she's soon to come back to us. Although...she may need some convincing."

"Why is that? What happened?"

"Verdak has pushed our girl so far. She's angry and I fear she may want nothing to do with our home after the horrible things he's done." His wife replies hugging him in worry.

He growls angrily before getting up and immediately smashing something, "THAT BASTARD! ANYTIME ANYTHING GOOD IN OUR LIVES HAPPENS HE RUINS IT! HE RUINS IT HOW DOES HE?! HOW DOES HE KNOW?!"

His wife shudders a bit in fear as does the tiny lamb which huddles into her. Only then does Aries calm himself down. "I'm sorry. I'm good now. How's this little one doing?"

"Scared but otherwise fine. Just needs more nutrients. Hopefully Ilona will find more for herself soon. She's starting to grow."

"She is? I can't wait...t-to see her again. I need..that is we need...to find a way to reach...no...to find...no uhm...Ah I'm already stuttering." Aries says as his wife works to calm him down.

Nergal overhears whilst hiding nearby and leaves a message for Lunara, Aries' wife. Aries goes to prepare something, anything to reach his child. But Lunara finds the note in the meantime.

"I have a way in, meet me in the woods you left me in. I have the secrets you require. Oh and I go by Nergal now, remember that."

Lunara sighs and heads off to go see what's going on, bringing the teenie lamb with her. Course as she looks around she calls out, "Nergal? Nergal?!"

"Over here, also not so loud. I don't want Aspen hearing anything." Nergal tells her.

"Aspen? Who is she?"

"A story for another time. For now I want to help you reach Ilona. Although she is quite adamant about her name being Morgen. Her memories are also lost to her. I have tried to slow down her growing, but VERDAK KEPT INTERVENING. I could sense the raw nightmare in her the last time we spoke." Nergal explains.

"What all happened, what must I be aware of?" Lunara asked of him.

"Ilona has found interest in a mortal. A different version of the Nephilim we knew before the rise of the First Kingdom. He subjected the Horseman Death, the Nephilim in question, to one of his own nightmares. I tried to aid him, but Verdak's persistence has always been so great. He's convinced he's doing this for Morgen out of love. He's even twisted Uther. I tried to help the man, to stop the breaking of his mind. But I've already lost, and Morgen has suffered for my failures. Uther has.....'deflowered' her. The way a gardener would with an axe. And he has continued to do so." Nergal says in deep anger. Clenching his fists as his tattoos light up briefly.

"Steady Nergal. We WILL FIX THIS. For now just let me know if there's anything else I should know before speaking to her."

Nergal sighs, "She does not wish to know her lineage anymore. And I have already alluded to the relationship between Verdak and Aries. And one of our dear sisters is in her mind. That is all I know. Just...help her in the way I was unable to."

Lunara places a hand on his shoulder, "I'll do all I can for her. Both me and Aries will do all we must. Thank you Nergal. Know that you did your best, and that in itself is a good sign. I'm glad you're stepping up for a change. Hopefully one day you'll be able to do so with your..."

"DO NOT mention that. Not here. And certainly not in any worlds at all. We are NOT FAMILY, WE NEVER WERE. Good day." Nergal growls at her before walking away.

Lunara watches him sadly before whispering, "I'm sorry we didn't love you enough."

She then flies back into the Dream Realm, still sullen and depressed. The lamb nuzzles her gently, and receives a little cuddle in return.

Aries notices her though, "What's wrong my love?"

"A man named Nergal told me some troubling things. He has a way to help us reach Ilona. But he's mentioned things that trouble me in regards to her." Lunara tells him, not wanting to reveal Nergal's identity. As it would likely anger him deeply.

"What did he speak of? What's wrong?"

Lunara explains all she was told and watches as Aries grows angry. At first she's worried he realized who Nergal truly was. But she gets a twinge of relief when he speaks again.

"When I get my hands on Verdak he's going to know what my fury is. WHAT MY RAGE IS. And Uther? OOOOOOOOH. I THOUGHT WHAT HE DID TO MY FATHER WAS ONE THING, BUT THIS?! SICKENS TO MY CORE!" He growls whilst punching through a wall.

Lunara and their daughters outside give various yelps. Lunara in particular jumps as well.

"I'm sorry. I just...after what happened I can't...I'm starting to lose it. I can't handle losing anymore of our children." Aries tells Lunara whilst holding her close. Course he's suddenly hit with the secrets of how to reach Morgen and where she is. It comes so fast however that he can't tell who sent it. "What...how...uhm....ok I don't know who sent that but I think I know a way now. Was that you Lunara?"

"He did say he wanted to help, and he did." Lunara says simply.

"Oh. Give him my thanks if you ever come across him. But for now we have a family to reunite."

Lunara then helped her husband to transport to Death's mind with her. He finds it ridiculous that they need to go through Death first in order to see her. But he goes through it for her sake.

"Do we really have to ask a Nephilim for permission to see our daughter?"

"I see no other way, do you?" Lunara asks him.

Course something stops the two in their tracks, and they find Death has wards on his mind. Not to mention feeling the presence of a very old deity around for some reason.

"Well then, is it considered breaking and entering to blast through these things?" Aries inquires.

"How should I know?" Lunara questions him.

Aries then blasts through the wards like nothing. Course they're met with Crom not too long after. He doesn't speak though, rather just directs the two to a current dream of Death's. Clearly the trauma Verdak left him with has reawakened old nightmares again. Aries can see that much when he and Lunara find him.

Aries sighs, "Now what should we do with this?"

Lunara looks on in the nightmare as it finishes up for Death. He only wakes up briefly, or rather he thinks he does. Lunara and Aries both look at each other before watching further. They notice Death looks troubled by something. Course what they don't know, is that Death is hearing the cries of an infant. Part of him tells him he shouldn't recognize it, but the other is certain that it's Coventina. He begins looking around frantically for her. Wandering the darkened void for the little baby. Death suddenly stops as he hears a sickening crunch. With it the sounds of the infant's cries cease. He drops to his knees, sensing what just came about. Then he hears a familiar voice, one he's not heard in eons.

"HOOORSEMAANN...It's been such a LONG TIME...."

Death goes to respond but hears another crunching of bones. He glances up nervously to see Black Annis looking more deformed than she'd been when he battled her. Course he also sees a bloody bundle. Looking more closely, he realizes what it is. He saw a now faceless baby within the bundle, and just broke. Black Annis faded away with laughter as Crom's flames lit up all around him.

Death paid no heed to this or Crom's words, "There isssss....no hope...."

Death heard a distorted cry from in front of him and finally looked up again. Only to suddenly scurry backwards as an infant shaped pile of worms began to approach him. When he finally chose to run, he realized the flames had trapped him in there with this....thing.

"ENOUGH OF YOUR GAMES! ENOUGH OF THIS MADNESS! I've had enough for now! JUST LEAVE ME BE!" Death shouted out to Crom.

Aries chooses to wait for now, as so far nothing too dangerous has come about in his opinion. Lunara looks at him expectantly though, clearly being worried for the man they were visiting.

Crom's laughter came next, "Give in.....what do you truly have to live for...? You began alone....and so it will be when you die....so just end it....It'd be so easy...."

"FUCK OFF!!!" Death screams in pure rage.

Crom only laughs again, "I will have you someday Horseman....you can't escape me forever.....you can't be rid of me.....I will forever be a thorn in your side.....the crawling beneath your skin....everything you fear."

Death goes to take a swing, but only hits empty space and air as Crom continues to laugh at him.

"Damn you. Come out and fight me like a man!"

"Like a man? Funny....since when were you ever a man? I AM A GOD....and you are but the mindless thought of a whore...who didn't even give birth to you..." Crom inquired with chuckles.

"Shut up. SHUT. UP." Death growls at him.

"What's wrong? Did I bring up.....'painful' memories?"

[thaisibir]

La Vie en Rose (Bede and young!Opal time travel fic)

La Vie en Rose (Life in Pink)   Rating: T (for character deaths and language)   Chapter 6/10 - One Fell Swoop (length: ~4k words)   Summary: Bede doesn’t get why that loony old bat Opal wants him to be the next Fairy-type Gym Leader. To help him understand, Opal has Celebi take Bede back to the time of her youth.

(For other chapters, look up the tag “pokemon la vie en rose” or go to my profile)

Bede thought that he would have to sit through a funeral next, but Celebi took him back to Ballonlea Town instead, specifically back inside Opal’s house. Bede was able to figure out how much time passed by noticing the calendar pinned up on the kitchen wall. He jumped a week ahead.

Life seemed to return to normal very quickly for Opal’s family. She was reading and acting out a bedtime story to Jasper—The Three Little Tepigs, by the sound of it—while Roger was editing a script on the dinner table. Several loud raps at the front door startled the three. Jasper stopped giggling at his mother’s impression of the Big Bad Lycanroc and clung to her nightgown. No one moved, but the knocking persisted.

Opal frowned. “Who on earth could be banging on the door this late at night?”

“I’ll get it, my dear.” Roger ran up to the door. Mightyena and Obstagoon quickly joined their Trainer’s side, ready to defend the family from a dangerous, unwanted visitor. Roger cracked open the door, and an inquisitive male voice slipped through the crack.

“Hello, is this Opal’s house?” Roger neither confirmed nor denied it. Instead he asked tersely, “Who are you? What do you want? It’s late.” “I know, I’m sorry. I just flew in from Unova. I’m Kestrel Roy, Opal’s younger brother.” That prompted Opal to shut the book, gently detach herself from her son’s grip, and leave his bedside to join her husband at the door. “Kes? Is that really you?” She scrutinized the man with narrowed eyes, then she gasped. “It is you.” She opened the door wider. “Come in. You look exhausted.” Kestrel didn’t come alone. He came with his Pokemon. A Corviknight, a Staraptor, and a Pidgeot followed him into the house, their heads hung low and feathers ruffled in apparent fatigue. Like his siblings, Kestrel had curly dark hair and blue eyes, but he had a stubble while Randall was clean-shaven. Opal quieted down the tide of curious questions from Jasper and had Roger send him to bed, so that only she and Kestrel occupied the kitchen. Not counting Bede and Celebi, of course. Opal made tea for her brother and fed his three bird Pokemon. Her hospitality, however, ended there. “Dad died last week. Where were you?” She snapped. Kestrel shrank in his seat at the dinner table. “I had no idea until I heard about Dad from the international news. I flew back here with my Pokemon as fast as I could.” “Yes, well, flying overseas still makes ‘fast’ a long time.”

His face sank at her barbed reply. “I’m so sorry, Opal.”

“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to Randy.”

“I tried going to him first. He didn’t want to talk to me.” Kestrel’s downcast gaze settled on his cup of tea. “Pyroar and Boltund wouldn’t let me near him. They almost bit my hands off. I wasn’t allowed inside the very house I grew up in.”

“I could excuse you for not coming to my wedding. I can’t excuse you for being a no-show when Randy called for you. You weren’t there when he needed you.”

Kestrel squeezed his eyes shut. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ve been terrible.”

“Terrible is a bit of an understatement.” Opal drew in a deep breath before going on, “First you wasted family money on throwing huge parties at the mansion, whenever Dad went out of town for business. Then you went hopping to every bar and casino in sight, from job to job, wasting your own money on drinks and women. Then you dropped off the radar, went hopping from region to region, and none of us had heard anything from you since.”

Kestrel’s fingers went white over the sides of the teacup. “You don’t have to remind me on how much of a screwup I’ve been,” he said in a strained voice. “I think about that every day.”

Opal spared no pity for her brother in what must have been years worth of frustration and anger, all packed into seconds now. Her stern harshness took Bede aback.

She wouldn’t meet Kestrel’s eyes. She kept her gaze fixed to the tile floor, while he pinned pleading eyes on her, pleading for her to look back at him.

“I’ve tried really hard to patch my life back together,” he said. “I took up Pokemon battling again and saved up enough for therapy. I’ve been sober for three years. I haven’t spent a coin since the Mauville Game Corner in Hoenn shut down five years ago.” A tinge of pride slipped into his voice. ”I’ve been killing it in Unova, Opal. My Pokemon team and I were good enough to challenge the Elite Four.” Dismay then drained what little pride he had showed. “I dropped out of the challenge when I heard about Dad. I came back here as soon as I could. Please, Opal. Please don’t kick me out like Randy did. You two are all I have left.”

Opal’s eyes softened, and finally she tipped up her chin at him. “I’m glad you came back, Kes,” she murmured. “This is the first time in a while that I don’t smell alcohol on you.”

Emboldened by the slightest hint of forgiveness, Kestrel made a resolute fist on the tabletop. “I want to make things right. Please let me stay here for a bit. At least until I can find a job.”

Opal paused to consider—probably remembering how Roger had been in nearly the same position when they had met. She even glanced at where he must be now, behind the bedroom door. Then she said, “All right. You can stay. But you had better get back on your feet soon.”

“Thanks so much, Opal. I won’t let you down.”

She didn’t smile and nod in reassurance at that. Her blank expression implied skepticism, as if Kestrel had let her down too many times already. But she made no comment about that. Instead she said, “Dad was really proud of you, you know. He would be thrilled to hear that you were going to take on the Elite Four.”

Kestrel’s eyes grew wet with tears. “I know.”

Opal closed the gap between them to rest a hand on his shoulder, letting him weep and properly grieve since he returned to Galar. They shared a period of somber silence, then Kestrel broke it.

“You’re married and you have a kid now...I can’t believe it. I’ve really been missing out.”

That made her smile at him for the first time since he arrived. “I’ll introduce you to them tomorrow.”

#

The next morning, Roger left for the theatre early to manage rehearsal of the play he wrote, and Jasper barely ate his cereal as he ogled at Kestrel over the dinner table. Finally, he looked over at Opal to say, “You never told me that I had another uncle, Mummy.”

Despite his innocent remark without accusation, she averted her gaze. “I wasn’t sure if he was ever going to come back home, darling.”

Kestrel saved his sister from her awkward guilt as he grinned at his nephew. “Well, I’m here now. Say, Jasper, have you ever wanted to fly?”

The boy gasped and nodded.

“Let’s take a ride around town with my Pokemon, shall we?”

“Yay!” Jasper jumped out of his chair and was a hyperactive ball of excitement as he followed Kestrel out of the house. 

Opal trailed behind with alarm and less enthusiasm. “You’re doing what, now? Wait just a minute.”

Kestrel already led Jasper out by the hand to the front yard. He gestured to his bird Pokemon assembled outside. “Staraptor is too small for the two of us to fit on his back, so you’ll have to choose between Corviknight and Pidgeot. Which will it be?”

“I want to ride that one!” Jasper pointed at Corviknight.

Opal raised her voice now. “Oh no, you don’t. Absolutely not.” She looked aghast at Kestrel. “My son’s not getting on that thing.”

“It’ll be fine, Opal. Corviknight is as stout and sturdy as any good Steel type Pokemon.” Kestrel rapped his knuckles on the Pokemon’s solid-sounding chest.

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”

Kestrel chuckled. “Oh, right. That’s the Gym Leader in you talking, Opal.”

She didn’t return his amusement. “Jasper is not going on that Corviknight. Period.”

Bede knew that Opal wasn’t fond of Corviknights. They tended to give her Fairy type Pokemon the greatest challenge and hardest time during Gym matches, and it didn’t help that they were hulking, mean-looking bird Pokemon. Apparently her dislike of them went way back. And apparently, Kestrel’s Corviknight didn’t appreciate being called a “thing,” as it stared her down with intense red eyes.

Jasper pouted, and Kestrel said, “How about Pidgeot, then?” He smoothed back its long yellow and red plumage. “See all the harnesses? I’d strap in for a flight and I’m perfectly safe every time. I’ve flown overseas with her, and I survived.”

Hands propped on her hips, Opal sized up the Pidgeot with no-nonsense scrutiny. “That’s a bit better than your Corviknight, I suppose,” she admitted.

“Give me the chance to be a good uncle,” Kestrel pleaded. “I just want Jasper to have a bit of fun. I’ll keep my eye on him at all times. No fancy tricks like nosedives and loop-the-loops. I won’t let your boy fall, I swear.”

Jasper tugged at Opal’s long black skirt. “Please, Mummy, I want to fly with Uncle Kes.”

Opal looked between her younger brother and only child for several moments, then she let her hands fall from her hips in resignation. “Oh, all right.”

Kestrel and Jasper beamed and shared a high five.

“But don’t fly over the treetops so I can still see you,” she added. 

Jasper threw himself into a hug around her legs. “I love you, Mummy!”

She folded arms across her chest and allowed a small smile as Kestrel lifted Jasper onto his Pidgeot and strapped him into place.

At Kestrel’s command, the Pokemon gently took off into the air. Jasper’s delighted laughter could be heard even above the sound of Pidgeot’s beating wings. Opal craned her neck back, keeping her sights trained on them, and the small smile grew into a wide grin.

Later that day, Kestrel treated Jasper to ice cream. Roger finished rehearsal to join the rest of the family on a stroll to the Stow-On-Side end of Glimwood Tangle, so they could catch the famous Stow-On-Side sunset. Kestrel and Roger spent that stroll getting acquainted, sharing many stories on their roaming adventures across many regions.

Unbeknownst to the family, Bede had been taking the stroll with them. It was clear to him that Kestrel adored his nephew. They had been chatting nonstop since morning.

“Do you want any brothers or sisters, Jasper?” Kestrel asked.

“Lots!”

Kestrel’s dark eyebrows shot up. “Lots? Wow, you want a big family, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” Jasper had thrown his hands wide in response to Kestrel’s question, to show him just how many brothers and sisters he wanted.

“And what do your mum and dad have to say about that?”

Opal’s cheeks took on a bright shade of pink that Bede could see even during a sunset. “Roger and I have been trying for a second.”

Kestrel beamed. “Are you? That’s great.” He winked at the couple. “Keep up the good work.”

Finally tired from running and jumping around and spending all his ice cream-fueled energy, Jasper flopped onto Opal’s lap. “Mummy, can Uncle Kes stay with us forever?”

She smoothed out the sweaty tangles in his hair with her fingers, and her answer came out carefully worded. “Well, darling, that depends on what kind of job he can get. His job might take him somewhere else.”

Jasper’s little face sank. “I don’t want him to go.”

Kestrel reached out to pat his head. “I’ll try to get a job that lets me see you a lot. I think I might have an idea of where to look.”

“You do? Sounds promising,” Opal remarked.

“I want a fixed salary, but I don’t want to give up my sense of adventure. I think I’ve found a job that perfectly combines both.” As Kestrel said this, only Bede noticed that he glanced at his Corviknight roosting nearby.

#

Time traveling with Celebi, and becoming a passive observer of the past, Bede found that he noticed all sorts of things he wouldn’t have when living in the present moment.

For example, he noticed that over the past few days since Kestrel’s arrival, Opal had been hiding all the alcohol in the house, locking them away with a key only she kept with her at all times. She even stopped by the Dancing Impidimp to warn the manager about Kestrel, to keep him from drinking the town’s only bar dry.

“Kestrel’s drinking problem must have been pretty bad,” Bede remarked to Celebi. His own parents didn’t have that problem, but he knew plenty of other boys and girls in the orphanage whose parents were too drunk to even function and take care of their own kids. Bede snuck in a sip of beer once on a dare and hated it. He couldn’t understand how adults could not only chug down mugs full of that stuff, but get addicted to it. There was a lot about the world that he didn’t understand.

Oddly enough, Kestrel never asked for a drink since he stayed with his sister, so she never had to tell him that he couldn’t have any. Instead, all of his attention was on Jasper—playing with him, talking to him, making him smile and laugh. The rides on his Pidgeot became routine. The boy seemed to be a bright ball of sunshine that Kestrel desperately needed in his life.

Opal noticed, of course. After many occasions of monitoring her son’s escapades with Kestrel on his Pidgeot, she became less uptight and protective. Since her father’s death, she had been talking more to Randall over the phone, checking in on him to make sure that business in Wynwall was going smoothly, and always, at the end, talk about Kestrel.

“Listen, Randy, I really think that Kes has turned over a new leaf,” Opal murmured into the phone late one night. “You’ve heard enough about how much fun he’s having with Jasper. I think it’s time you see that for yourself. Will you let him come up to Wynwall again?” She paused for Randall’s response, which Bede couldn’t hear, but the man on the other end must have said yes, because Opal smiled. “Wonderful. He’ll be thrilled to hear it.”

The next day, she broke the news to Kestrel over breakfast. “So, Kes, I convinced Randy to let you come up and visit him,” she said brightly. “How’s that for a good start to your day?”

Kestrel blinked in disbelief, then he grinned. “Th-that’s great. Actually, I’ve got news for you, too. I wanted to surprise you after breakfast.”

Opal raised her dark eyebrows, draining her cup of morning tea in a single go instead of sipping at it. “Sounds like good news,” she said after dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “I better see what that is.”

Kestrel led her family to the front yard, then let out a whistle. A Corviknight descended through the treetops, gripping a dark carriage in its talons. Under the Corviknight’s careful flying, the carriage settled onto the ground with a soft thud instead of a crash

Jasper let out a long “oooh.”

“A Flying Taxi,” Roger exclaimed. 

Opal blinked many times in disbelief. “Isn’t that your Corviknight, Kes?”

Her brother beamed at them. “It is. I got a job as a cabbie!”

Her mouth dropped open. “Kes, that’s...that’s marvelous. It suits you and your Pokemon.” Then she grinned. “And I believe it pays well to boot. Good job, Kes.”

He winked. “I got hired weeks ago. It was hard keeping my training a secret. I wanted to surprise you once I became a full-fledged cabbie. And to top it off, I owe Randy a visit.” He rested a hand on the carriage, then his face lit up like the anglers of a Chinchou. “Hey, it’s not a proper family reunion without all of us there. Let’s go together. I’ll give you a ride—free of charge, of course—right on my Corviknight!”

That proposal dampened Opal’s celebratory mood in an instant. “Kes, I’ve already made arrangements for a chauffeur to drive us to Wynwall.”

“Call Randy to cancel it,” Kestrel replied with a wave of his hand. “Take a Flying Taxi instead. It’s so much better for the environment. You know how much gas you put into the air with a car?”

”No, I don’t. Still, I’d rather take the car.” Opal frowned up at the carriage, and at Kestrel’s Corviknight perched on top. “Maybe other people are willing to take the risk, but I wouldn’t. This Flying Taxi service is still so new. It doesn’t look very safe.”

“I’ve been to Motostoke, Circhester, Spikemuth, and back with no problem,” Kestrel replied, unfazed by his sister’s doubts. “I picked up and dropped off every passenger in one piece. Everyone got where they needed to be just fine, and so will you.”

“I’m interested in hitching a ride,” Roger said.

Opal shot her husband a shocked, wide-eyed look. “You’re taking his side?” “It might not be so bad as you’re making it out to be, dear.” He kept his tone reasonable and gentle, in an attempt to smooth down Opal’s ruffled feathers. “We’ve seen for ourselves how much Kestrel has been taking Jasper around on his Pidgeot, and he was just fine every time. I trust your brother. Don’t you, Opal?”

“Well, I want to, but...” She trailed off as she eyed the carriage like it was a bomb about to go off any second.

Kestrel walked up to her and took her hands into his. “Come on, Opal, let me prove to you again that I can make things right. We’ll make it to Wynwall and back, then I’ll be out of your hair and your house with this job.”

She sighed and gently pulled her hands away. “I...I’ll think about it. Give me a day.”

“Okay, Opal. But I’m counting on that yes.”

Bede peered closer at the carriage. The Flying Taxi back then didn’t look the same as the one he knew in his time. Besides the more antiquated design, this one was a lot bigger, with just enough room for two adults and a small child. The Flying Taxi he was familiar with seated just one passenger.

Opal later went about her Gym Leader duties being quite distracted as she mulled over the decision. Jasper asked her every five minutes if they could all take a ride with Uncle Kes and his Corviknight.

The next day, Opal caved in and agreed to have Kestrel fly her family to Wynwall. But not without being extremely cautious and wary in the process. She hiked up her skirt with both hands and gingerly climbed into the carriage after Jasper. “This thing has seat belts, doesn’t it?”

“Of course,” Kestrel replied, cutting a smart figure in his cabbie jacket and fur cap with ear flaps. “Wouldn’t want you to go flying off on the way.”

She tensed, and he quickly added, “I’m just joking. Come on, Opal, don’t bail out on me now.”

“I’m not. I just really want to make sure that this is safe.” She tugged at the seat belt across her chest for good measure.

Sitting by the other window, Roger took her hand and squeezed it. “Don’t be such a Worry Wartortle. We’ll be fine.”

His touch calmed her down a bit. Between his parents, Jasper wiggled in his seat with barely contained excitement. Kestrel shut the doors tight, and the carriage squeaked under his weight as he climbed over its back to mount Corviknight. He took a long swig of the large canteen strapped to his hip, then tucked it under the flap of his jacket.

“Off to Wynwall we go,” he called. “Off to see Randy!”

Corviknight signaled its launch with a loud caw, and whipped up a cloud of dust as it beat its wings. 

Bede stared after the ascending carriage, rooted to the ground. “Are we supposed to follow them?” He asked Celebi. “There wasn’t enough room in the taxi for me.” Then a blue glow formed around the outline of his body, startling him.

Celebi lifted its arms, lifting Bede off the ground by telekinesis. He yelped and kicked his legs in the air several times before he uprighted and steadied himself. Celebi giggled, and with its kind wide eyes seemed to say, “Don’t worry, let me handle all the work.” Bede tried to imitate Celebi’s pose by keeping his arms and legs outstretched, and thanks to its psychic powers, he glided along effortlessly with it. Celebi and Bede closed the gap between themselves and the Flying Taxi, soaring up with it over the treetops and towards a cloudless sky.

Heart pounding and blood rushing through him like a Hydro Pump, Bede couldn’t resist smiling and letting out a whoop. He was level with Opal’s family in the carriage now, and he could catch a glimpse of their reactions through the glass windows.

Jasper laughed, held up both hands high, and let out a long “wheee!”

Opal was even paler than her usual pale, tense in her seat and with her eyes squeezed shut, refusing to look up or down.

Roger was a mix between the two, torn between wonder and nervousness as he put an arm around Jasper to both join in the laughter and keep his son away from the windows.

“Look, Mummy, we’re flying so high!”

Her voice quivered as she attempted to reply, “I don’t think I’d like to take a look, Jasper, darling.”

The trees and the famous Ballonlea mushrooms dwindled to a size that Bede could pretend to pinch between his fingers, and at that point, Kestrel’s Corviknight didn’t climb any farther and shifted to flying in a straight course over the sprawling Galarian landscape.

“The worst part’s over,” Kestrel called from above. “It’s smooth sailing from here. You can open your eyes now, Opal.”

She blinked them open, and after several seconds, she let out the breath she’d been holding. “Oh, that’s much better. I don’t think I mind this.” Then she smirked and called out so Kestrel could hear over the wind, “How did you know that I had my eyes closed?”

“You’re my sister,” he replied with a laugh. “Of course I would know you well.”

Opal further relaxed in her seat, enjoying the bird’s eye view of a clear sky for the first time.

Kestrel guided his Corviknight towards the mountains that surrounded Route 10. Opal and her family had come prepared with coats and scarves for the flight through chilly alpine air. Gray overcast clouds quickly overtook the blue sky above them. Opal was fitting the scarf she had knitted tighter around Jasper’s neck when the carriage shook. One of her hands flew for the grip on the door.

Roger placed a comforting grip on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, it’s just turbulence.”

She leaned toward his embrace, edging as far away from the window as she could.

Despite Roger’s attempt to assure her, the turbulence didn’t let up. Instead, the updraft continued to shake the carriage to the point of buffeting it back and forth.

“Is it supposed to be this windy?” Opal called out.

A flurry of snow assaulted the carriage along with the wind. Bede squinted, trying to make out the Flying Taxi ahead of him and Celebi, despite the snow not getting into his eyes. A full-blown snowstorm soon descended upon them. Though Kestrel’s Corviknight kept an iron grip on the carriage, it suddenly dipped several feet at one horrifying second. Bede’s heart dropped with them. Startled cries came from the carriage and Kestrel uttered a swear. Bede caught a glimpse of Opal and Roger clutching at each other, with Jasper squeezed in between them and crying. He peered closer at the man steering his Corviknight to notice that he was doing a poor job of it. Kestrel scrambled for control, red-faced and angling his body this way and that on the saddle in attempt to direct his Pokemon to the way out of the storm. Corviknight pumped its wings furiously against the gale, squawking in mingled exertion and confusion.

The direction Kestrel ended up choosing didn’t pull them away from the chaos. Instead they dove even deeper into it. A surging current of wind suddenly overtook Corviknight from its right, a current so powerful that it wrenched off the Pokemon’s hold on the carriage. Kestrel and his Corviknight flew into a tumbling downward spiral, while the carriage plummeted straight to earth. The Flying Taxi, now a falling one, struck the side of a mountain first. And again, and again, and again. Each time a sickening, metallic crunch. Bede’s stomach turned at each impact.

On the third one, Bede saw Opal get hurtled through the glass window headfirst. She sprawled into the snow, while the carriage flew in a long arc ahead of her. It struck a boulder in a great rend of caved in metal and shattered glass.

Opal stirred with a groan Bede almost couldn’t hear amid the wind. She lifted her face from the snow. Small shards of glass had cut bright red gashes through her cheeks, forehead, and chin. She curled her hands into fists, pushing herself off the snow. Or tried to. She fell back onto her stomach and blood trickled down her lip as she cried out in pain. Her left hand could make a fist, but her right remained open and trembling in the frigid, snowy air.

Bede choked back a gasp of horror. A huge long shard of glass, sharp on both ends, had run through her right palm. Blood almost formed a sort of glove over her hand. He knew, from many years later, exactly what kind of scar it would leave. 

Corviknight had crashed nearby. Its hard, lustrous feathers served well. The Pokemon unfurled itself to reveal that it had protected Kestrel from the brunt of the fall. He staggered to the mangled carriage and peered through the broken window. His face was ashen as he drew back.

Another cry of pain from Opal alerted him of her presence. “Stay where you are,” he called. “Don’t come over here.”

“Kes,” she groaned. “Roger, Jasper, where are they? Are they okay?”

“Stay put, Opal,” he said, and his voice shook. “I’ll get help.”

She gritted red teeth and drove her left fist down into the snow. “Damn it, Kes, tell me if they’re okay.”

His face was drawn in tight as he nodded at his Corviknight. At the wordless command, the hulking bird Pokemon flew over to Opal and gently yet firmly pressed a foot over her back to keep her from getting up. Opal ignored the warning caw from Corviknight. She struggled helplessly against the weight, joining her screams of agony and rage with the howling wind.

Bede hated to see Opal so hurt and covered in so much blood. He felt like on the verge of passing out. He couldn’t stop his body and voice from shaking. “Celebi, get me out of this. I can’t watch anymore.”

To his immense relief, Celebi took his hands and granted his request. Light replaced the tears in his eyes.

[hercycleface]

Global inventory of wonderful beer: What I drink is not wine, but creativity!

Isn't beer just yeast, barley, water and hops? Well, it's also right and wrong-for some beer, this statement is simply wrong. The brains of the beer brewer are too big, and sometimes the brewed beer-how to put it-is quite "interesting". The following wonderful beers are the best examples.

Collagen beer Speaking of weirdness, the Japanese definitely do their part. Suntory launched a collagen beer called Precious, which is said to remove wrinkles left by the years and make you look young and invincible. This 5-degree Talrag comes in 330ml cans and contains 2 grams of collagen per can.

Cat Shit Beer You must have heard of the famous cat feces coffee: a civet living in the tropics eats coffee cherries and is discharged from the other side of the body. The action of stomach acid can make coffee beans produce a different flavor. Beer Geek Brunch Weasel from Megele is a breakfast Shitao with an alcohol level of 10.9-be careful, the wine is full of strength.

Bloody (Mary) Beer Well, strictly speaking, it is not based on Bloody Mary, a good brunch partner. However, Short's Brewing Company of Bel Air, Michigan does use cherry tomatoes in its Bloody Beer, as well as black pepper and celery. Rapeseed, wasabi, and dill, so it’s similar to Bloody Mary. This "Cool Beer from Bel Air" has long been discontinued, with an alcohol content of 7, and an international bitterness index of 40.

Fossil beer The Lost Rhino Brewery in Virginia and PaleoQuest, a non-profit organization that promotes the excavation of dinosaur fossils rather than food trends, have teamed up to create a beer that will attract attention to science. They collected yeast from whale fossils 35 million years ago and made a 5.5-degree beer named Bone Dusters Amber Ale. Cool! It's a pity that the yeast is not collected from the fossils of the long extinct rhino or Tyrannosaurus.

Sheep dung beer After reading this list, you will find that Icelandic brewers really have a lot of free time and a whimsical spirit of adventure. The Borg Brugghus brewery is a good example: due to lack of wood, they lighted the sheep dung pile to smoke and roast the malt when making Fenrir Nr26. American IPA smoked and roasted with sheep dung, alcohol content 6, and international bitterness index 63.

Beer older than whale fossils Fossil Fuels Brewing Co has a product called AY108, which uses yeast found in bee fossils. This bee was wrapped in pine resin and turned into amber in the Eocene Eocene 45 million years ago (is it so shocking that it can’t close its mouth?). Professor Raul Cano figured out how to separate the yeast from above, and then wondered how to make the best use of it. Finally, he chose to brew beer instead of bread. The first result is this Dan Aier named after yeast, and there is also a Saisen.

Beer made with money The evil twins collaborated with the Norwegian craft brewer Lervig Aktiebryggeri in the port of Stavanger. The raw material is real banknotes. What's even more exaggerated is that they threw some frozen pizza into it. The alcohol content is 17.5 degrees.

Heavy beer from the toilet The Danish government and Norrebro Bryghus brewery are really fighting for environmental protection, and they even have the idea of ​​urinating. They recovered a large amount of urine from the famous Roskilde Music Festival and used it to brew a Pearson called Pisner. Do you want to contribute to the cause of sustainable development? Then taste the piss of these hippies.

Colorful beer Abashiri Brewery in Hokkaido, Japan uses seaweed and other natural ingredients to brew red, blue and green beer. They also used beer and excess milk to produce a malt drink called Bilk. Apart from other things, at least it is colorful.

Beer made from sewage The sewage in the sewer sounds as disgusting as dirty waste oil. I'm afraid no one can drink anything made of it. The Jushi Brewery in San Diego brewed an IPA using recycled water provided by the city's water purification project. This Dan Air, called Full Circle, is limited to five barrels, but it may indicate the future of beer brewing.

Roald Dahl Beer Yeast is ubiquitous and can be collected everywhere, so why not collect some yeast from the custom desk of the late children's literature writer Roald Dahl? London creative company Bompas & Parr entrusted this task to 40FT Brewery to brew Odious Ale for a pop-up restaurant based on Dahl's "Stupid Couple".

Beer from the moon Dogfish Head Brewery is keen to challenge the limit, but often thinks too crazy and circumvents itself in, but the time when they ventured into space may be their most rebellious exploration so far. With the help of the company that makes spacesuits for NASA, they got some dust on the moon, which was taken from NASA where the moon landed on the moon—well, no more obscurations, it’s on the moon— —Collected, and then spilled into this limited edition beer called Oktoberfest. Alcohol 5, International Bitterness Index 25.

Elephant Poop Beer The Japanese brewery Sankt Gallen wanted to brew a beer that will be unforgettable, so he thought of elephant poo. How does it work? They fed coffee cherries to elephants living in Thailand’s wildlife sanctuary, and then brewed a "chocolate shitao" called Un, Koon Kuro (a pun for "poop" in Japanese) from elephant dung coffee beans. It was also selected for sale on April Fool's Day, but this is not a joke.

Beer as dark as ink Cuttlefish juice—or more precisely the juice of cuttlefish, squid and octopus, or the juice of cephalopods—can be said to be everywhere now, so you can’t help thinking that these animals are scared when they face the extinction of humans. What is it like? Anyway, the master brewer of 3 Sheeps in Wisconsin created a black IPA called Nimble Lips Noble Tongue No3, using cuttlefish juice.

Too private beer We are all adults, but the Internet will always surprise us head-on, especially when you see a page on the crowdfunding website Indiegogo for the world’s first vaginal beer fundraising-this one is called Bottled Instinct's acid ale uses lactic acid extracted from a Czech model. We don't know if anyone will drink it, because this project has not even raised 1% of the final goal of 150,000 euros, and it should be a joke on April Fools' Day at all? Otherwise, it really makes people get goosebumps.

16. Add a whole chicken to beer

Over the years, the rooster Al almost cast a layer of mystery. It is said that it was very popular in England in the 17th and 18th centuries. In fact, it is an ordinary Al, but a whole rooster was added during the brewing process. Hand Pulled Cock Ale from Willimantic Brewing Co in Connecticut-7% alcohol, only available in barrels-is a modern version of Cock Ale, but its name still implies that old joke (you got it).

Fried chicken beer As the song in "Grease" sings, fried chicken and beer are good partners, so why not add some chicken to the beer? Veil Brewing Co of Richmond, Virginia, and the evil twins teamed up to brew chicken beer. Their Fried Fried Chicken Chicken DIPA uses a lot of Fried Chicken Nuggets.

Sheep brain beer Philadelphia's Dock Street Brewing Company brewed Dock Street Walker to pay tribute to "The Walking Dead," but it was more terrifying than zombies, using smoked lamb brains. This American Pale Shitao is 7.2 degrees, and cranberries are added to create a touch of acidity.

Whale testicle beer Icelandic microbrewer Steoji has launched Hvalur 2, which is an upgraded version of Hvalur 1, which was produced in cooperation with the whaling company Hvalur and caused a huge controversy due to the addition of full whale meat (fish meat and fish bones). As the second seasonal crossover, it uses whale testicles smoked and roasted with sheep dung—well, one is added to each winemaking cycle.

Masculine beer The Rocky Mountain Oyster Stout of Wynkoop Brewing in Denver was originally just an April Fools' Day joke, but I didn't expect it to become a reality because of the public's enthusiastic response. With an alcohol content of 7.5, three cow testicles are added to each barrel-this "gourmet" is nicknamed Rocky Mountain Oysters locally. A set of two cans is quite appropriate.

Bull Heart Beer Portland's Upright Brewing and Burnside Brewing collaborated to produce this Captain Beefheart. The ingredients include 27 kilograms of charcoal grilled beef heart and a lot of spices. Similar products include the Burke In The Bottle, a collaboration between Jim Koch of Boston Beer Company and chef David Burke.

Sunday barbecue beer Conwy Brewery in Wales caters to the close relationship between locals and sheep and brews a lamb beer. Sunday Toast is a Victorian-style Porter beer with the juice from slow roasting of Welsh lamb. Perhaps lamb-ic is more appropriate.

Truffle beer Truffles are very expensive. Using them to brew beer seems a bit risky, but some people have succeeded. Chicago Moody Tongue's black truffle crumbs Pearson is highly sought after in some of the top high-end restaurants in the United States, while Miki Le has chosen to use black truffles to brew a dark beer called The Forager.

Stag semen beer Green Man Pub in Wellington, New Zealand, and local brewer Choice Bros brewed a beer with stag semen, which caused a huge sensation for a while. We will not continue to discuss the name Lu Jing Shitao to obtain such a subtle beer, let's stop here.

Mushroom beer In the past few years, the brewery seems to have used all the mushrooms imaginable. Jester King of Austin, Texas used locally grown oyster mushrooms in this Snorkel. 4.5 Alcohol, Goss style.

Oysters (really real this time) beer The encounter between Oyster and Shi Tao gave birth to many interesting stories. We used to drink Shitao while sucking oysters beautifully. Now we use oyster shells to clarify the beer, or put them in a boiling pot, or even throw whole oysters into it. Flying Dog Pearl Necklace Oyster Shitao did just that.

Natural green beer Free Tail Brewing Co of San Antonio, Texas adds blue-green algae to a 4.2-degree rye white beer to give it a charming blue-green color. If the advertisements of Mandalay Brewing in Myanmar and Red Dot Brewery in Singapore are accurate, Spirulina beer has another magical effect-anti-aging.

Seaweed beer Bladderwrack is a good name for beer, but it is actually a kind of seaweed. Williams Bros Brew in Alloa, Scotland added it to its own Kelpie Seaweed Ale. This Scottish Groot-an ancient beer style-is intended to recreate the traditional style of beer from the coastal regions of Scotland.

Real gold beer We have all drunk golden Al, but have you ever drunk gold? Golden Queen Bee brewed by Golden Bee Beer contains edible 24K gold leaf. There is no need to throw gold like this, but if you can get another bottle of The Lost Abbey's Gift Of The Magi-a golden Al with frankincense and myrrh, then you must be full of every cell in your body The joy of Christmas.

Pizza beer Mamma Mia Pizza Beer is produced by the Chicago Pizza Beer Company. The ingredients include Margarita Pizza soaked in malt. We don’t know if the crust is Chicago-style.

Donut beer Voodoo Donuts Maple Syrup Bacon Al is the first beer launched by Voodoo Donut Bakery in collaboration with Rogue Brewery, also in Oregon. The series includes six products so far. They want to use these beers to reproduce the best-selling single-product flavors of this bakery in Portland. The latest flavors currently launched are Guerrilla Grape and Mango Spaceman.

Pig head beer Mangalica Pig Porter uses the head and bones of Mangalica Pig. This breed of pig is quite precious and is known as Kobe beef in pork. Right Brain Brewery in Traverse City, Missouri uses whole pig heads when brewing this beer, and even the eyeballs are still in the eye sockets. The winery also brews a series of more delicious pork pie beers, with raw materials including whole pork pie from a local bakery.

Expired bread beer The raw material of toast air is leftover bread that cannot be eaten, and it aims to eliminate food waste. All the profits from this beer brewed with excess bread are donated to charitable organizations, and even a factory is set up in the Bronx, New York. The recipe is public, so you can try it yourself with the leftover bread you eat.

Just put your crying beer There is a resonance between Chili Control and Beer Mania, which is why countless beers have combined these two things in one in pursuit of a mixed effect. The grimace killer at the Twisted Pine Brewery in Colorado—named after the Wudang rapist of the same name—uses six different varieties of peppers. Among them, the hottest pepper is the Devil Pepper (also known as Broken Soul Pepper). Scoville's index exceeds 1 million-the pepper is only about 2000. You can imagine how spicy it is.

Bearded beer Rogge Beard Beer can be regarded as one of the most weird beers in the world. Brewmaster John Maier extracts yeast from his beard and brews an American wild ale. Maier once vowed that he would never shave his beard, so the raw material of this beer can really be said to be

[jademoniquewrites]

Robbie Borrelli

I never adored any of my mother’s boyfriends the way I did Robbie. When the final school bell rang, I remember sprinting from the doors of the P.S. 158 Bayard Taylor School into the arms of a stout man waiting for me outside his black pick-up truck.

Robbie always wore a dull t-shirt splattered in a bit of egg yolk from breakfast, loose light wash jeans and wheat Timberland’s scuffed from the day’s work doing construction and roof-fixing. He was an Italian man with low cut, spiky hair and clear blue eyes you could see your reflection in. He also always looked sunburnt. For years, Robbie filled in the gaps of my adolescent mind that constantly craved the answer of what it would be like to have a father again.

Each time I entered the vehicle scattered with loose tools and buckets of paint, sitting in the cupholder was a Smart water and Reese’s Cups, as he knew were my favorite. He would greet me with a throaty but gleeful call of my name and ask me what I learned that day in school. From there, we swerved on the FDR Drive heading to the Animal Medical Center to pick my mother up from work. As we waited for my mother to be released from the sliding doors of the animal hospital, Robbie and I would make up songs about the adventures we’ve been on together; riding the Cyclone at Coney Island, seeing who could eat a Katz’s pastrami sandwich the fastest and the endless pranks we played on my mother, scaring her shitless with every given opportunity. It is hard to pick just one fond memory out of the years I spent with Robbie and the Borrelli’s, but if I could pick one, it would be our summer, weekend rituals.

The air feels different in Park Slope, a comfortable kind of warmth that made riding my pink and white Barbie bike up and down Douglass street an activity I could do for hours before the other kids came out of their brownstones to play. Besides the usual double-dutchin, hop-scotchin’ days us children of Douglass street had, cooled down with perfectly scraped cherry mango icees part of my routine involved Robbie’s mother, Marianne.

At her glass table, I always watched Marianne and my mother put out their cigarette ashes in the tray and signal me to explore the garden once more so perhaps I wouldn’t become a chain smoker myself. 

Marianne’s garden was the kind that makes you question if you’re really in Brooklyn. It was a serene setting, sprawling with curling vines and an assortment of blossoms, but my favorite part was the small pond that held the turtles and fish I fed bi-weekly. As my mother and Marianne chatted for hours and prepared dinner for Robbie’s arrival, I would dance through the backyard shoeless, the naked soles of my feet catching small pebbles and soil. I remember sprinkling the flakes of turtle food like fairy dust into the pond, my young eyes bulging with zeal as small turtle heads bobbled up and snapped their mouths at the pellets. When I heard the wind chimes, that was my indication that Robbie was home and it was time for dinner.

On a typical weekend it wouldn’t just be me and my mother eating dinner at the Borrelli’s. The rest of my family would join us, and so would the rest of the Borrelli’s, each journeying from different parts of the Brooklyn borough for some of Marianne’s tomato sauce. As we ate, Buster, Robbie’s small Maltese scurried around our legs and scratched on our calves, begging us to throw him a chicken leg covered in the pungent tomato sauce. Dinner usually was baked chicken legs, browned to perfection then smothered in sauce that also covered spaghetti noodles garnished with basil and homemade mozzarella. The adults had red wine and I had ice water with my favorite kind of ice cubes, the cylinder-shaped ice cubes I don’t have at home.

If conversation had color, ours at dinner would burst the brightest of yellows, oranges and greens. The air would be filled with endless chatter and the strong cackle of my mother while swatting at Robbie with her hand for teasing her. My grandma and Marianne clucked in their sector of the table about new teas and regimens for arthritis.

I on the other hand, always ate slow and would talk with Robbie’s niece Alaisha, born just a month after me. We planned the next time we would race up the block, how huge our bubbles would get in Marianne’s backyard and the possibility of us really being like sisters if my mother and Robbie ever got married.

After dinner, we all would sit out on the front steps, the dense food sinking slow like anchors in our bellies as we watched the bustle of the neighborhood.

In these moments I would think to myself how identical our families look to when it was my mother and fathers’ families that were woven. I would think about my white family, carrying the same blood I do. A distant memory of steamed cabbage, corn beef and rye bread because the only time I was allowed to be around was when I was Irish, not Black.

As the sun began to set, I would lace my sneakers up, knowing it was time for the Borrelli’s and Tate’s to go to their respective homes. This tradition would go on for over five years despite the bumps in my mother and Robbie’s relationship.

Sometimes I still see him. His pick-up truck pulled into our driveway, the sound of the doorbell echo through our house only for there to be a brown bag spilling with sesame seed bagels and tubs of chive cream cheese. From the window of my room, I peak my head out and see his scratched chubby legs dangling, and his arms banging away at our neighbor’s roof. As I look up at Robbie Borrelli and up at the sky towards another man I adore, my eyes water -- I smile for what I had.

[littlecrookedheart]

Imagine • Prompt Request One Shot

Prompt : “You come to my room and wake me up at 4am, to cuddle?” / “You’re getting crumbs all over my bed”

Requested by some anons!

Pairing : Maxwell x Farrah

Rating : None! Pure fluff.

Word Count : 2,561

Author’s Note : This variates from canon but...most of my stuff does? I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer : I do not own these characters. I’ve added a bit of a flare to them for the sake of this piece, but they do not belong to me.

Typically, during these hours the castle was still, even the staff remained quiet as they dozed off sitting upright at their stations, security being the only select few ridden with energy. But tonight, as it had been for nearing a week, one man roamed the halls, clanking around the kitchen for a late night snack, slipping across the polished floor on the balls of his feet.

At the foot of the staircase, just before the turn into the kitchen, a stout man with graying hair and a long moustache sat at his position, shining a row of shoes.

"Lord Beaumont," he nodded, his nose whistling as he breathed.

"Just Maxwell, Grover. No formalities necessary."

"As you wish, 'Just Maxwell.' May I suggest something?"

Maxwell raised an eyebrow and smiled to the man, who looked up to him over thinly rimmed copper frames.

"If you'd like to continue these midnight walks through the halls, perhaps you'll wear shoes. You slide so quickly 'round the corners, I fear you'll knock your head into the wall."

Maxwell chuckled softly, sticking one foot into the air, admiring his doughnut printed socks.

"They're so fashionable, though."

"It would be more so a tragedy if their owner could only wear them while in an infirmary, yes?"

"Good point, Groves," Maxwell said, giving him a small salute. He peeled his socks off, leaving them in a bundle at the bottom step, making his way into the kitchen.

"What's for breakfast, Marjorie?"

Marjorie, a young girl with braided blonde hair, blushed from behind a large bag of flour, slowly peeking around to see his face. She was small and likely ten years his junior, but there was no doubt she awaited his company each day. She never said much, and neither did he, but he made it a point to share a smile with her as often as possible.

"Can you believe it, Maxwell? Queen Mother has requested berries and waffles yet again."

Maxwell hopped onto the counter, grabbing a handful of chocolate chips from a nearby tin.

"I don't mind that, so long as I get some, too."

Marjorie's lips curved into a small smile, looking away as she said, "Yes, but you aren't the one who leaves for the day smelling of frying oil."

"You fry the waffles?"

"Yes?"

Maxwell's forehead creased, a grin spreading across his face as he shrugged. "You learn something new every day." He slid off the counter, walking over to the pantry doors. "But you know why I'm here. Do you mind, Marjorie?"

"Of course not. Just be sure to let King Liam know to clear my panel so I'm not accused of stealing."

"Have I ever forgotten?" Maxwell smiled, grabbing a plate of saran wrapped cookies from a higher shelf. "Are these fresh?"

"They're from this evening, yes."

"I'll take these. Thanks, Marj. Gotta take these to Farrah."

"Lady Farrah is up so early? Today's festivities don't begin for six more hours."

"She's an early riser," he lied, rushing out of the kitchen and up the stairway, handing Grover a cookie as he passed by.

Farrah's room was second to the end of the hall, a far walk, one that socks helped speed up. The sound of Maxwell's feet on the floor made him cringe, but he didn't care enough to back track to his own room for slippers. He knocked four times, nearing a fifth before the door flew open, Farrah's face riddled in confusion.

"Morning, sunshine!" He said, squeezing in through the crack in the door. Farrah rolled her eyes, locking the door behind him and flipping on the switch to her bedside lamp. Maxwell had already propped himself in her bed, unwrapping the cookies.

"What time is it, Max?"

"Late. Or early, depending on how you'd like to see it."

"What I'd like to see is me asleep in that bed."

Maxwell smiled at her, gazing at her in awe. He adored the way the waves in her hair scattered across her shoulders, a few flyaway strands poking up from her head. She always seemed to glow in the morning, so soft and beautiful he couldn't believe it.

"Come sleep, then." He patted the bed beside him. "Or have a cookie. I grabbed these for us."

"What did you need, Max?" She asked, climbing into bed next to him.

"The truth or a lie?"

She glared at him and he laughed, ruffling her feathery locks in his hand. She grabbed his arm, reading the watch fastened around his wrist.

"I just kinda...wanted to cuddle."

"You come to my room and wake me up at four in the morning...to cuddle?"

He nodded, eyes widened like a puppy dog, lower lip pouting. Farrah drowsily smiled, handing Maxwell the plate of cookies and sliding over to him. She lay her arm across his chest, head on his shoulder, lulling herself to sleep to the sound of his heart beat.

And then a crunch, cookie crumbs raining down his shirt and onto her sheets.

"Aw, damn it, Max. You're getting crumbs all over my bed."

"Sorry," he mumbled, holding a hand to his lip.

"Bite it?"

He nodded, wincing. Farrah got up and made her way to her en suite, gathering a warm washcloth and healing salve from the cabinet. She sat next to him, soothing and tending to his bloody lip.

Maxwell caught the hazel reflections in her eyes, holding in a dreamy sigh as she softly dabbed his lip with the tip of her thumb. Her lips looked like roses, supple with morning dew, shining in the lamplight as she spoke to him.

"Next time, come to bed with me, and you won't have to sneak around so late for a cuddle."

"Maybe I like the sneaking," he teased, pulling her to him.

"I mean it. Come to bed with me."

"Farrah...you know the castle will be in talks the moment the lock clicks."

"So let them be," she whispered, drawing his lips to hers in a tender kiss.

"We aren't in New York. Cordonia...expects...more from us."

"Can I be honest?" She asked, Maxwell's hand caressing her hair.

"Of course."

"I hate that."

"Me too." Maxwell sighed, breathing in the fresh coconut scent of her hair. "If I could write our story, there would be so many nights where I just held you."

"Why can't we? I mean.. I know why. But convince me to believe it."

"There's nothing that can convince you. Nothing convinces me. But we do what we have to."

"Don't you get sick of playing by these rules?"

"I'm sick of anything that prevents me from loving you to the fullest."

Maxwell held her close to him, draping a knit quilt around her shoulders.

"Let's play the imagine game," he whispered, leaving a kiss on the tip of her nose.

"You first."

His fingers ran along the length of her back and to her neck again, gentle yet secure.

"Okay. Imagine...we could skip festivities today."

"Oh my god, please. What would we do?"

"Play cards in the sitting room at the Beaumont estate. You could teach me how to bake. I could give you my best Jerry Maguire impression."

"I've seen that impression, I think."

"Would you say it's...impressive?"

"Well, now I'm not going to."

"Wow! Sometimes, Farrah, I don't know how I fell in love with a bully like you."

Farrah laughed, nuzzling her face into his neck.

"Imagine we could buy a little house somewhere far away. Somewhere on the beach, maybe."

"We could watch the turtles."

"And eat so much ice cream."

"In fairness, I already eat a lot of ice cream," Maxwell said, reaching to grab another cookie. This time, Farrah grabbed it away from him, shoving the whole thing into her mouth. Maxwell bent his brows and burst into laughter before saying, "They're really good, right?"

"Does Marjorie still have a crush on you?" She asked, leaning to her bedside stand for a drink of water.

"Are you still jealous?"

"I've never been jealous, you goon, just observant. I think she made these cookies for you, they might be perfect."

"I've never met a cookie that I didn't like."

"True," Farrah smiled, "This could be pre-made dough and you'd love it."

"What?"

"It's a joke, Max."

"Pre-made?"

"You know, the tube kind."

Maxwell looked into space, a confused expression on his face.

"Tube cookies?"

"You can't be serious! You've never seen pre-made cookie dough?"

"What does that even mean!" Maxwell cried, dramatically chomping two cookies at once.

"Imagine a life where my fiancé didn't litter my silk sheets with cookie crumbs."

“Imagine a boring life, why don’t you?”

Farrah took the plate of cookies and walked them to the other side of the room, jumping on the bed, Maxwell’s strong hands catching her mid air. She pulled his shirt off and nestled her head on his chest, meeting his gaze.

“Hi,” he whispered, kissing her forehead sweetly.

“Hey,” Farrah sighed, filling the spaces between his fingers with her own.

“Imagine sitting in a cute little café where nobody recognized either of us.”

“Or how about…adopting a sibling for Chance?”

Maxwell’s face lit up at the idea. “How about two?!”

“Dare I say three?”

“Dare. But not four, that’s so much puppy love. I don’t know if I could keep up.”

“I have no doubts. Hmm, what if we went in one of those underwater tunnels to watch the fish swim all around us?”

“We could order pizza and watch reruns of Fresh Prince all day.”

“That sounds like a dream.”

Farrah listened to Maxwell ramble off ideas for while before drifting to sleep, the sound of his voice carrying her off like a lullaby.

Maxwell looked down, hazily brushing fallen strands of hair from her eyes before closing his as well.

–

In the morning, a quiet, repetitive knocking sound came from the door. Maxwell clamored over, opening it to reveal Marjorie.

“Maxwell, you’ve missed all of your morning calls, breakfast, and your ride. Your brother was so preoccupied with a phone conversation that I’m not so sure he noticed. I’ve let you sleep a bit, but I thought I’d try to let you know.”

“What? What time is it?”

“Nearing noon.”

“We slept…two hours…past time to leave?”

Marjorie nodded, a solemn look on her face.

“Thanks, Marj. You’re the best.” He closed to door, hopping into bed next to Farrah.

Her eyes opened slowly, becoming more alert when she noticed the amount of sun soaking through the curtains.

“What time is it?”

“Time to skip today’s festivities.”

“Good one. How behind are we?”

“Farrah, I’m serious. We’re not going. I have a better idea.”

Farrah sat up, checking the time on her phone, swiping through dozens of missed calls and messages.

“Max, what have we done?”

He was profusely padding away at the keypad on his phone, grinning as he looked up.

“We overslept. And I hearby decree that today we have an imagine day.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Never had one to begin with, baby. Put on your best pajamas.”

–

Marjorie handed Maxwell and Farrah each a small packed linen bag, nodding toward an empty hallway.

“Head straight out. Just beyond the trees.”

“Thank you, Marjorie,” Farrah said, a warm smile on her lips.

Maxwell took her hand, running out the door and past the trees, surprised that no security had returned to their postings yet. There was a parked car with tinted windows and civilian license plates, a set of keys tucked under the driver’s side tire. He unlocked the doors and got in, Farrah’s face lit up in excitement as he started the engine.

“Where are we going?”

“Anywhere but here.”

Farrah connected her phone’s output to the radio, playing a throwback playlist from when they were growing up.

“Oh, make sure our locations are turned off,” Maxwell suggested, knocking his knee gently against the center console.

“You’re brilliant.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

–

After belting out ‘Bye Bye Bye,’ and a few handfuls of other classic 90s songs, Maxwell turned down an unmarked road. Farrah straightened her posture as they approached a modest yet grand looking house with old Victorian architecture.

“Whoa,” she exlaimed, looking to Maxwell with curiosity gleaming in her eyes.

“Welcome to tiny House Beaumont.”

“What? What is this place?”

“Come on,” he chuckled, elbowing her playfully. He walked to her door, opening it for her and taking her hand, unlocking the entrance with a small iron key from his pocket.

The foyer was dark but inviting, like a cozy house you’d see in a film. The wallpaper was ancient but beautiful, colorful florals strewn with vines and hummingbirds with more detail than anything you’d find in modern time. Maxwell locked the four steel locks on the door, turning into the sitting room and drawing two sets of curtains hanging over large bay windows. Along the walls were built in bookshelves, a dark oak shade, the scent of antique pages lingering in the air. Farrah sat back on a large sofa, its high back comforting her bones after the car ride.

“Maxwell, this is incredible.”

“Wanna know a secret? It’s mine.”

“What?” She leaned forward, grabbing his wrist and pulling him to her. “How?”

“I bought it during an auction a few years ago. I was sick of Bertrand and needed a break.”

“And it’s just been empty since?”

“I came here a few times since then. But there’s a staff that tends to it bimonthly.”

“How does nobody know about this?”

“I know how to cover my tracks when needed. Plus, the staff doesn’t know I’m who owns the place. They think the guy’s name is, 'Reed Starling.’”

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

“Not necessary, baby. Sometimes we all need a break. Plus, I did promise you an imagine day.”

“There will be chaos at the castle when they realize we aren’t there.”

“I called in a favor. Liam…he gets it. He will keep this a secret for us.”

“How long do we have?”

“Until morning. It’s as good as I could do,” he said, frowning.

“That’s perfect. So which one are we having, then?”

“Hmm?”

“Imagine day. What are we doing?”

“Well…Reed Starling may have placed an online order for pizza delivery.”

“Don’t tell me-”

“And my collection of Fresh Prince happens to be in that bag Marjorie packed for me-”

“Maxwell!” Farrah shouted, climbing onto his lap, scattering kisses over his face. She met his lips with intensity, fingers in his hair and happiness in her heart. She could feel him smiling against her, which made her do the same, leaning into the couch as they gleefully held one another.

“You deserve this, Farrah.”

“We deserve this. There is no 'me,’ when it comes to my happiness.”

“Maybe our life won’t be like this every day. Maybe when we marry and we reside in the duchy, things will be a little bland and a lot busy. But you’ll be with me and I’ll be with you, and that’s the happiest thing I’ve ever realized.”

“As if anything could be bland with you next to me,” she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “Imagine being so in love you didn’t know how to comprehend it. So in love your heart could burst.”

“Imagine being in love with someone who loves you even more than that.”

[chrisv73-blog]

Secrets - Part 1

Word Count: 3,712

Warnings: None mostly fluff.

Panic. The emotion gripping me as I all but sprinted from behind the bar and into the ladies room. I couldn’t believe what was happening. Being alone with him in my environment- his smell, his sounds, his skin, his hands, thighs- everything made any self-control evaporate into thin air. I was unraveling.

Two long years since I’d set eyes on him. This man had a hold on me unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Now he was here and I was so stunned- I ran. His ghost still haunted me like a secret you can’t tell.

I felt like such an idiot. Facing myself in the cracked mirror of our dingy employee restroom I rubbed my hands under the faucet splashing water across my cheeks.

A light knock came at the door. “You okay in there?”

“I’m fine.” Embarrassed. Stupid. Flustered. But Fine.

I stared, disheartened at myself in the mirror. “What the hell was I going to do now?” This was my job. I had to go back; smile, pretend, sling some drinks and make rent. Whispered dirty things, winks, grins, napkins full of phone numbers with broken promises was expected as a bartender. Give the experience and make them love you.

Having him walk through the door was never part of the plan. He is not the plan. A kaleidoscope of flashbacks were scattered in my mind. “Fuck, shit, shit, shit!” I slammed my hand down on the cracked ceramic sink.

I cracked the door and stepped out hoping that whoever I replied to was long gone.

Leaning against the wall there he was, waiting for me. Gorgeous and dripping, of course, he had to be even better looking than I remember. He couldn’t go from 19 to 21 and not be every woman’s fantasy now, a fucking international pop-star. I could not mortify myself in front of a less famous ugly- ex. No, definitely not.

I avoided eye contact. “I’m not fine. But I will be.” I hesitated before continuing.

Surely he knew how bad he broke me. He knew that some scars don’t heal. He had heard the stories from his friends by now.

Lifting my head, his smile made me nervous. Not the kind of nervous where I’m going to grab my mace from my purse when a patron gets a little too fresh and waits for me in the parking lot after work. No, his smile was cocky and hit me in the knees amongst other places. He made me nervous.

“How you been Shawn?” He didn’t need to know that I’d woke up at midnight to buy a copy of his most recent album as garbage men clanged and newsstands opened. He didn’t need to know that I cried for weeks after he broke my heart in his driveway with four simple words only to never hear from him again.

“I’ve been good, are you okay, you don’t seem okay?” Shawn’s eyes are distracting. I close my eyes and I’m back on the tattered couch of my apartment watching him perform on some music awards show. But after a blink I’m still here standing in front of him in my cut-off tied t-shirt, jean shorts with black ripped fish nets, combat boots, dark lips, cat lined eyes and messy blonde top knot. A far cry from the girl he knew. I’d changed and I knew it, he knew it.

I shoved past him, walking briskly toward my bar, determined to forge forward.

“Shawn you already know you fucked up, let’s not do this.” My supersize nerves were camping out in my body, but I would be damned if I would let him know it. Because if I think about what might happen in the next few hours - if I let him in even an inch then I’ll burst with anxiety.

I feel a lump rising in my throat. I swallow it down while my emotions live close to the edge. All I need is that trigger and the tears that dwell beneath the surface will bubble up and roll like gritty sandpaper down my cheeks.

Shawn is so good looking now that my co-bartender Melissa once called him fucking lickable when she was checking out a magazine picture of him online. Of course, she knows nothing of my past with him. Now he was here and our past was about to collide like a freight train.

“Wait, Kameron, wait a fucking minute, Jesus!” Shawn’s two strides caught up to my ten and I felt his long fingers grasp my elbow and turn me toward him.

Shawn is looking at me with reverence, his touch sending shivers down my spine. I wanted to be adored by someone, but it can’t be Shawn. Not after crawling back from the abyss I found myself in the last time he decided he was done with me.

“No we’re not doing this again.” I find my voice to verbally shout what I want to say but won’t, that he can’t walk all over my heart and leave me bewildered and confused when his next tour starts. “This isn’t a game I’m playing with you anymore Shawn.”

“Actually, I never play and tell,” he teased. Now I clutch my hands to my side even tighter as I suppress a sarcastic smirk. “I’m fucking thrilled for you,” I quickly add.

He winces as he slides his hand off my elbow, clearly contrite. “I’m actually really sorry about everything and how I handled it all.” Shawn hides his hands in his pockets head hung low.

Suddenly I’m laughing, not because I want to hurt him. It’s because I realize that this is in essence is the final phase of a breakup. The denial, the begging, the pathetic tender long goodbye “but I thought you loved me” pleas, whether it’s public or private, it feels the same. No one ever really knew about me and Shawn except for our friends, so I suffered in silence while he mended on a stage. Yet, here in this moment, there is no more argument, no more pointless debate I would never win and emerge victorious, the entire universe begins with the words I’m sorry: closure.

Shawn stands here in front of me. The crowd melts around me and I’m colder than ice. This is what we are now. I’ve moved on.

I decide quickly what my next move will be. Grabbing his shoulders I hug him and his cologne wafts through my nostrils. My palms start sweating and butterflies take flight in my belly, nothing more than aftershocks. I pull away as Shawn’s long arms squeeze me back and he buries his head in my shoulder. I pull away with more force and push an errant strand of hair off my cheek, then answer.

“Shawn, I live my life now based on my positive decisions. When I look back at the things in my life that really hurt sometimes the easiest thing to do is forgive.”

I mean it, truly, just now, I have forgiven the 19 year-old boy who broke my heart. He stands there feet melted into the ground as the bitter but blunt words hit him like a wounded animal. I take the opportunity to walk away with my pride, head high, the lioness.

(Hours later)

Shawn is so ridiculously handsome that it’s almost not fair. Now that I’m back behind my bar, in my element, on my stage, he watches me from the distance of his roped off corner. Melissa cornered me at the trash can as soon as I lifted the access gate. I told her only what I wanted her to know of course. Shawn wasn’t helping me keep the gossip from reaching maximum peak.

Time passes in the frantic pace of pickle backs, buttery nipples and lemon drops. I’m at least 3 deep at every corner. My memory puts Shawn aside as I pull them in, I make memories for my patrons and let them believe I’m the best friend they never had.

Turning around I’m disarmed to see Shawn and Geoff standing in front of me, looking over our beer list. Shawn motions me over and I lean down to hear him over the now thumping bass beat of some familiar dirty rap song. “Is there anyone waiting for you back home?” I laugh, a truly self-deprecating one. I have to, really. There had been no one romantic since Shawn. There had been men, but no one permanent. “Definitely, no, nobody waits for me.” I bite back.

Its then that I notice the familiar glazed over look I’ve seen on so many men here. I lean forward because I want to torture him and show more cleavage. I already worship at the altar of the genius who invented a push-up bra. Agent Provocateur has nothing on me.

Shawn licks his lips and burning desire is present in his eyes. “Kam”, he begins slowly, too drunk, but also clearly enjoying the taste of my name in his mouth as if he’s trying it on, rolling it around on his tongue like a cherry. “I am the biggest idiot in the world because you loved me wildly, crazily and passionately. I fucked it all up so bad.”  Words tumble off his lips like verbal diarrhea. I take a deep breathe, reassuring myself that I can deliver what Shawn needs. “You don’t want me tonight Shawn, you’re just lonely and drunk.”

“Nope, not drunk, wrecked for you,” Shawn stutters. His eyes blink ever so slowly another tell-tale sign an observant bartender recognizes. This is the longest conversation I have had with Shawn in two years. I can see that he has developed this uncanny ability to hop from witticism to raw and very honest emotional insight. It’s making him even more attractive if that’s possible.

I push back from the bar and swivel my hips around to the side, grabbing two stout beers from the cooler below. Twisting the cap I push them across in friendship. “Tell you what, those two are on me”, I say as I walk to ball cap Joe one of my favorite customers. “I’ll call you tomorrow, is your number still the same”, I shout.

Because I don’t know how I can begin to trust Shawn again I’m not so eager to agree to just have him come over. I’m pretty sure that’s where that conversation was headed. This could be especially complicated when the ex is an international pop-start and flirty and when I’m already entertaining after-hours thoughts about him. I’m in desperate need. My gauge is so far out of whack that I don’t know what’s up or down anymore.  What good could possibly come from any friendship with Shawn Mendes?

Next Day

Turns out I didn’t have to call Shawn. He managed to get my number from Matt and sent me a drawn out apology text for his unforeseen interruption at my place of work begging me to please meet him for coffee that afternoon.

I put my books away on my desk and take a quick shower. Twenty minutes later, I’m staring at my bed littered with outfits I have tried on and rejected. This is just a coffee, no big deal. It’s definitely not a date with an insanely hot ex-boyfriend who’s a popstar treated like teenage royalty. Whichever outfit I chose next will be the winning one. I reach for my favorite black jeans, an intentionally distressed torn grey sweater that’s soft on my skin and my chucks. It’s very me and with just a quick swish of powder, blush, mascara and lip balm on my bee stung lips I’m ready to go. I grab my coat and bag, head downstairs and take an Uber to our determined location.

When I arrive I swipe to pay and head into the little coffee shop painted emerald green tucked into the corner of a building. It’s a little out of the way, but I figured it would be a better location for less potential fan sightings. Shawn and I agreed to meet at three o’clock and I am only ten minutes late, so it feels like I’m on time.

He’s already here. Damn, I arrive nearly on time and I’m still late. Then again, Shawn was always the type to be on time, hold doors, and rise when I came in the room. Shawn was very chivalrous.

I walk up and he clicks to lock his phone and pushes it deep into his pocket of his $250 designer black denim skinny jeans. Damn he looked good. The olive green shirt he is wearing makes his eyes look hazel. Standing to give me a barely there kiss on the cheek my eyes flutter closed for the briefest moment at the feel of his soft lips near me.

I restrain myself and tuck away my emotions even if the sensation feels so good to me.

“Let me take your coat?” Shawn offers as he automatically slides it off my shoulders. I feel his hand gently graze the back of my neck. I decided last minute to pull my hair into a high pony. His fingers send shock waves down my spine. He folds my coat and lays it over the chair, waits for me to sit and finally pushes his long limbs into the seat next to me.

“So thank you for fitting me into your busy schedule, even though I wish you would have at least bought me dinner before taking me home”, Shawn joked.

I laugh. “Nice try. But we’re not there yet.”

He reaches across the table to clasp my hand in his, and my breath catches. He squeezes my hand three times reassuringly and the barest form of touch from him is dizzying. Maybe it’s because it’s been so long since I’ve been this physically close to him and had him touch my hand, but I pull away like he’s burned me. He places his hand on his lap and I miss it instantly.

“So where should we start Mendes.” I chatter anxiously.

Shawn takes a big gasp of air. His brow furrows and he wipes his palms anxiously on his jeans. I can tell that whatever comes next is weighing heavily on his mind.

“We could start with I’m a fucking fool. I got scared. I didn’t know how to have you and a career at the same time. So I shoved you away and spent the last two years living with that regret ever since.”

“Where is the tape recorder”, I laugh nervously. My eyes dart back and forth from his face to my hands.

Looking around the room anxiously I scan to see if anyone has their phone out. “I could so take down your career in one second if the story of us ever leaked out. You know the whole internet’s boyfriend thing and all.”

Shawn smirks, wagging a finger at me playfully.

“This guy, the guy you’re sitting in front of, he isn’t a pop-star, you know that right?”

Swallowing, here he goes again racking up more points in his favor.

“Because I can tell I’m making you a little nervous and I just want you to know it’s me, Shawn apologizing to you, meaning every single fucking word of regret. So let’s grab some coffee eh?”

We sit and chat about old times. We remember fond memories of public park scandalous rendezvous. I hold up a hand and stop him as he starts to recall the juicy parts with a mischievous glint in his eye. Slowly as each minute passes and Shawn discarded the beanie he was wearing we’re drawing more eyes on us, but Shawn doesn’t seem to care. In fact, the more people that begin to notice us the more unaffected by it all he is.

Shawn will excuse himself for a few minutes to take a few selfies and then slide back into the conversation like he never left. We did this for almost two hours. I tell him that I fucking loved his first three albums and I can’t wait to hear what he does next. He admits that he wrote a few songs about us.

Eventually he leans in closer across the table, looks me straight in the eyes and when he does that my resolve starts to weaken because his eyes are so beautiful and he doesn’t break my gaze. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this moment. How many ways I have played this dialogue back and forth in my brain?”

All I know about this moment is my body is buzzing, alive with possibilities. The exact opposite of the chill demeanor I had in the bar last night. Something shifts in Shawn’s expression too. His eyes, which I remember from 19 as playful and twinkling are now darker with an intensity to them. Neither of us says anything, and the electric quiet makes my blood turn hot. I don’t want a single thing to ruin this moment. Just as fate would be a young fan tugs at Shawn’s shirt, she can’t be more than 7 years old.

Whatever spell I was about to succumb to is broken. Holy Shit, that was close. I reach for my coat and bag before Shawn can stop me.

“Thai or Sushi for dinner,” Shawn winks.

I smile at him, giving him a flirty tilt. “You’re presumptuous.”

“Optimistic”, he counters with just enough swagger that tells me he hasn’t lost a damn thing in 2 years.

Shawn does that thing again – where he reaches for my hand, clasping his on top of mine. I’m suddenly aware of the pressure he is gently putting on my wrist, the small ridges from callouses on his otherwise smooth palm, not doubt from countless hours spent perfecting his craft. His skin feels hot on my skin. The taste of his lips would be deadly. I’m dying for him to slide his fingers through mine like old times but I can’t go back on this rollercoaster.

I slowly rise from my seat and Shawn follows me out of the quaint coffeehouse. I reach up to place my hands on his shoulders. He’s way taller than me. I catch the faint scent of his cologne again and I’m so tempted to lean in and inhale deeply. But I do resist.

But the look in Shawn’s eyes is full of hunger and then I feel the softest touch on my hair. He’s fingering a strand and I am so far gone that I’m not sure what to do next. All I know is I’m leaning in closer to him because this kind of touch from him I have missed so much. My body is racing and the moment is full of so much anticipation. “I really want to kiss you, Kam; you better stop me now or…..” Shawn sighs.

I can barely process his words. My head is so woozy, his smell and the feel of his hands. My fog is replaced by Shawn’s lips as he presses against mine with such softness, sexiness that my knees threaten to buckle. I keep my arms looped around his neck so I don’t fall. He wraps his long arms around my waist, tugging me closer as he deepens the kiss. Shawn’s lips exploring mine, his tongue tangling with mine, his hands yanking my pony tail. His sexy sighs and moans tell me that he is savoring this kiss as much as I am. He yanks me even closer and for a brief second I can feel him pressed hard against my upper thigh. He’s aroused and that snaps me out my kiss induced fog. I pull away.

“Shit”, he stumbles backward. “You okay? Kam, I honestly didn’t expect that to happen. Please speak sweetheart.”

“I have to go, Shawn I’m not your sweetheart, not anymore”, I stammer.

“But I want you to be. Let me drive you home”, he pleads.

“No Shawn. I know where that will lead.”

My hand touches my lips as we exchange a sidelong glance and Shawn clears his throat shoving his hands back deep in his jeans. Feeling his eyes on me I glanced back a few times, and his gaze was always waiting for mine.

Shawn takes his phone out placing a quick call mumbling something like plan B. A small black SUV rounds the corner and stops at the curb in front of us. “Kam this is Kevin, he’s one of my security team and he’s going to take you home. I’m going to call you tomorrow because I don’t want to push my luck.”

My breath catches as Shawn moves closer then presses his hips into mine while pushing me against the door of the SUV.  Lining his tall frame up against me in a way that makes it clear how much he wants me, he delivers a scorching kiss, deep and hungry and desperate in a lot of ways. It’s threatening to send me up in flames. I feel it across every inch of my body as he continues to explore my mouth with his tongue. One hand drops away from my face and I feel his fingers graze underneath my sweater along the waistband of my jeans. Shawn draws a simple feather trace line across my belly with his index finger and my back arches into him. I wish we were not here in public and he would undo the button, slide the zipper down and push his hand inside my panties to save me from this now excruciating ache between my legs. But I have no such luck because just like that he is reaching for the door handle.

I slide into the seat as Shawn shuts the door and bangs on the top of the car two times. I’m in this giddy drugged out state now that I’d like to stay in forever, but I needed some space to clear my head. I am tempted to shake it like I’ve just emerged from a pool of water. But yet amidst my confusion, four words are loud and clear like a drum in my ears- but they are not those four words from two years ago. The opposite. “I want Shawn Mendes.”

[creativitytoexplore]

Died Rich by Mitchell Toews https://ift.tt/3mPjo2r In Mennonite Manitoba, hard-up teenager Diedrich Deutsch is getting bullied at school, and tries his hand at basketball; by Mitchell Toews.

Part 1 - The New Shoes "I am a true sea-dog with balls the size of cantaloupes!" Diedrich shouted, slashing at a snowy tree branch with a cutlass made from a broken broom handle. "Diedrich! Diedrich Deutsch!" Doctor Rempel shouted from an open window. His breath turned to frozen vapour as soon as the words left the warm sedan. "Do you want a ride to school?" Diedrich dropped his weapon but not his swagger. He walked towards the waiting car that sat idling on the rutted ice of the street. A plume rose from the tailpipe, fouling the blue of the Manitoba sky, and when the engine backfired a perfect white smoke ring shot out, twirling with delight. "Hurry up, swashbuckler!" Doctor Rempel said with a friendly smile. He hawked and spat, then tossed out a cigar remnant and rolled up the window with a pumping arm. Diedrich got in and slammed the door. His window fogged immediately. "Now, did you say, 'cantaloupes' or 'antelopes'?" the doctor asked, steel wool eyebrows wagging. His nose was a purplish red and the pores on his cheeks stood out like moon craters, complete with a coating of grey dust - the same fine material that accumulated on the interior surfaces of the round-fendered four-door. Diedrich offered a winking reply, "Which is bigger?" "Ho-ho! You sounded like your dad just then. You did. Looking like him too. Seen him lately?" How likely is that? Diedrich thought. He held back the bold words and just shook his head no, adding a quiet scoff. "How about your aunts then? They are doing alright? Still living in that farmhouse on the edge of town, right?" "By Plett's potato fields," Diedrich said. "How long you been with them now? What's it, two years?" "Yes. Since Grade Seven," Diedrich said. "Yeah, yeah. And now you're in high school. A future matriculant in the class of '65. Cum Laude, no doubt. Your family has a fine history of brains and determination - and not a little of either! I delivered your daddy, you know? I swear he tried to kick me after I slapped him on the bottom." He grinned at the thought, then grunted with effort to steer the lumbering car onto the high school street. He halted, tires sliding, in front of the steps. A muster of teens stood on the curtilage just off school property, the snow packed down with footprints, sunflower seed shells, and cigarette butts. They turned to watch Diedrich disembark, the door squawking as he pushed at it. "Swing it hard!" Rempel hollered. "Give my greetings to Myrtle and Rosalyn, buccaneer!" The door clanked as Diedrich flung it shut with two hands. The boys watched him. "Hey, buccaneer," one of them sneered, "how come the doctor has to give you a ride?" "Yeah, what makes you so special? You sick?" The biggest of the boys stepped forward and grabbed Diedrich's sleeve. The old woolly garment, a refugee from the church basement, threatened to part at the shoulder seam. "Hey," the boy said. "Us guys are talking to you." His name was Morton, and he was the son of the Phys. Ed teacher, Mr. Smullett, a new resident who was an "Englisher" from Winnipeg. It was only the Smulletts' second year in Wenkler and the family was a gossip favourite, discussed by residents with mild, unspecified suspicion. Morton had earned the unfriendly Plautdietsch sobriquet, "Moazh". It meant "ass". Moazh was over a head taller than Diedrich, but Diedrich was most concerned for the well-being of his jacket, the only one he owned. Without stopping to think, he lifted his boot and stomped down on Moazh's foot. Protected only by a Converse basketball sneaker, the result was as Diedrich hoped. Moazh jumped back cursing and Diedrich made a streaking getaway, churning through fresh snow and up the steps, shouting, "Moazh!" into his floury wake. In Miss Feeblecorn's classroom, his new home room this semester, he found his name written on a piece of masking tape affixed to a desktop. "Deidrick Deutsch". He stared at the penned name tag as he hung his jacket on the chair back. "Young man," the teacher said, raising her voice and pointing at him with a ruler from her post on the raised floor near the blackboard. "You should put your jacket in your locker. I think you know that..." He nodded and said, "Yes, ma'am, from now on. I forgot." She mouthed "OK" as the announcements crackled from the loudspeaker.

He steered clear of Moazh for the rest of the day. After school, he snuck out of the janitor room door at the back of the building. On his way through he scooped a handful of green granules from the paper drum marked, "Sweeping Compound". He held the mixture under his nose, sniffing the refreshing chemical tang, and then put the crumbly concoction in his pocket. For later. Cutting diagonally across the playground, Diedrich set a course for the Thrift-T Car Wash. He found his tools in the pump house: a square edged spade, a wheelbarrow, and a stout length of steel reinforcing bar bent into a "J" at one end and a welded "T" at the other. One of the pumps hummed a short electric tone and then jangled to life. The copper water pipe that led out through the block wall to the car wash stall quivered like a hard-struck tuning fork. In the unoccupied stall, Diedrich began his after-school routine. He blocked the entrance with a sawhorse and left the waterlogged overhead door open for light. He coaxed the re-bar tip into the grillwork of the steel grate. Lifting and backpedalling, he skidded the cumbersome cover off, revealing a grave-sized pit in the concrete floor. At the bottom of the cement-walled tomb lay a six-inch thick layer of grey-green sludge. A compost reek grasped him in a foul embrace. He dug the minty sweeping compound from his pocket and took a deep solvent scented breath. "Ahh... ambrosia," he sighed, squinting one eye and then discarding the compound into the hole. After placing the wheelbarrow next to the edge and armed with his spade, Diedrich hopped down and began scraping out the half-frozen slurry of car wash residue. The loud rasp of the shovel hid the sound of a vehicle approaching. When he finally heard it he looked up in time to see the sawhorse lying on its side. A pick-up truck rolled towards him, its crooked teeth spelling out "Mercury". He ducked under the low-slung front axle. The truck pulled up to the wheelbarrow and then continued more slowly, the wheelbarrow chattering and screeching as it slid sideways against its will. The vehicle stopped above him and the doors opened. Feet appeared, including a familiar pair of Converse high-top runners. "Hey, hey, little Deutsch! Who's the ass now, eh? Eh? Now you're the morch - Ronny, is that how you say it?" "Yep, moarrzzzhhhh," was faceless Ronny's phonetic reply, emphasising the buzzing-shushing last syllable sound. "Ha-ha! Hear that, moarzzhh? We're goin' for a Pepsi now. You wanna watch my truck for me while you're down there? Tell ya what - I'll shut the garage door so you and my truck stay nice and warm in here, eh." Diedrich watched as the feet drew near to the wheelbarrow, dumping the dead-rat-motor-oil stinking muck on the sloping floor. A few seconds later he heard a quarter clink into the coin box on the wall and then the rush of water from the wash wand. Soapy water ran into the pit. He scraped a canal in the sludge so it could drain away. The wand fell with a clatter and then propelled itself backwards like a fleeing cuttlefish until it jammed in the corner of the bay. Moazh and Ronny left, their laughter echoing above the hiss of the spray. As soon as they were gone, Diedrich began crawling out, turning his head sideways to fit under the truck. Watery slop smeared his jeans and the chest and sleeves of his black jacket. No sweat, he thought, it'll all wash out. But once he emerged, he noticed the rip, on the seam where the sleeve attached to the shoulder.

Walking home in the failed light, he thought of all the things he could have done, retaliation planned with malicious precision: piss in the gas tank, empty the tires or drench the pick-up's interior with the wash wand. As he cut across Plett's plowed field, pebbly white snow capping dark furrows, he shook away his scheming and began preparing the lie he must tell his aunts to lessen their anger and dismay. He'd accept the black spot of their blame he decided, but not the punishment.

"Dear Miss Feeblecorn," Diedrich wrote in his neat cursive. "I have hung my jacket in my locker. Thank you for reminding me. Also. I noticed that you are spelling my name wrong. There is an easy way to remember: died rich. That's what I'm going to do, live a long life and die rich. You can remember it easy this way - I'm going to be the student who died rich, indeed. Spelled died but pronounced deed. Diedrich." He stuck the tape from his desk to the bottom of the page as evidence. Folding the note carefully into thirds, the way Aunty Myrtle taught him, he put it on the teacher's desk before school started. After the class sang "God Save the Queen" and recited "The Lord's Prayer", Miss Feeblecorn taught them about decimals, her tall, slanted numbers gathering like a crowd of bystanders on black pavement. The chalk dust lit on her green sweater, and she picked bits off her sleeve as she assigned a problem to them. Walking slowly down the aisle, arms crossed, she approached Diedrich's desk. He looked up when the soft tap of her square heeled shoes paused beside him. She bent down from the waist and whispered, "See me at lunch, please, Diedrich." He nodded, detecting the faint fragrance of Jergen's Lotion that reminded him of his mother. "I just wanted to confirm that I received your note," she began when he went to her desk at the break, after eating his sandwich. "Okay." "That's a very creative way to help others to remember the spelling of your name. I appreciate your telling me - I use tricks like that to remember names all the time." Diedrich blushed. He put his hands in his jacket pocket. He glanced at the shoulder seam, now neatly re-stitched courtesy of Aunty Rosalyn. She had washed it too, hanging it to dry in the glowing orange-toothed grin of the kitchen's portable heater. He caught a whiff of detergent and the outdoors smell of clean wool. "Of course we don't want to think about dying, necessarily, but it's okay to have big dreams. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, are we not?" "Pass it!" a high-pitched shout from the playground soccer game interrupted his consideration of her comment. He took a half-step back with one foot. "Oh, I'm holding you up. Sure! You get out there and get into the game with the others." As Diedrich turned to leave, Mr. Smullett came in, a whistle dangling on a lanyard around his neck. "Anita," he said, then glanced at Diedrich and corrected himself, "Miss Feeblecorn. Here are the sign-up sheets for the boy's basketball team. Please announce it to your class and invite anyone who wants to try-out to put their name here." "Shall do, Coach. Here you go, Diedrich, you could be the first to sign up. That way," Miss Feeblecorn added, her eyes shining, "everyone will see the correct spelling of your name!" Diedrich shrugged but stopped and looked at the foolscap sheet. It was divided into three columns: Name, Grade, Position. "Does it cost anything?" he asked, looking up at Smullett. "Only your time and sweat," the coach replied. "When do you play?" "We practice at noon-hour in the gym - that way the bus students have a chance to make the squad. We play in the evenings, four home games and four away games and then the championship tournament is on a Saturday." Diedrich pouted his lip, thinking of his job at the car wash. He could play. "'Kay give it here, once," he said, reaching for the sheet. He took it to his desk and wrote his name and grade into the spaces provided on the top line. Pausing, his gaze passing back and forth between the two teachers, he asked, "What should I put for 'Position'?" Smullett held out a flat palm to the top of Diedrich's head, "I'd say, 'Guard'. Can you dribble, shoot and pass? Can you run fast?" "I can run fast. I can shoot, I think." Diedrich smiled at Miss Feeblecorn and she replied with a determined face paired with a stabbing, upward hand gesture. Shooting? he wondered. He smelled the Jergen's Lotion again and handed the paper to Smullett, thinking, what does he mean, 'dribble' and 'guard'? "Okay," Smullett said, shuffling backwards, "I'll mark you down as a guard. See you tomorrow at twelve. Wear your gym clothes."

"When it's this cold, it always occurs to me that some of the creatures from Hell, the ones who were the borderline cases, the ones who just barely missed going to Heaven, get a short furlough. A vacation from Hades. I imagine the gatekeeper of Hell to be wearing a sharp business suit with a tailored shirt and tie, and that he would not be sweating, not even armpits or ass crack. He would just be there at the gates, surrounded by flame and molten sulfur, near the hounds. That fiend would be crisp and clean as a brand new twenty-dollar bill, frosty as a Fudgsicle," Doctor Rempel said, his bushy Roosevelt moustache cantering as he spoke. Since basketball try-outs started, there had been a cold snap and he had taken to driving Diedrich to his job at the car wash each afternoon. He also bought a pair of lined, leather work gloves for the boy. These were kept in the old Lincoln so that the doctor could also use them when he scraped the frost off his car windows. Rempel continued, "'Where the Hell do you think you're going?' the gatekeeper would ask - his little joke - and the borderline hellions would hand him a note. On Satan's private stationery, stamped in blood, a short message from the devil. 'Please allow these lost souls a brief respite from the heat. They may walk from the Wenkler Collegiate Institute to the car wash, accompanying young Diedrich Deutsch to his after-school job. Once they cool off to their satisfaction, they are to promptly return. No playing billiards, no consorting with women, no consumption of strong drink. No dancing, either," he added with a sly grin. Diedrich snickered, enjoying the forbidden topic as Doctor Rempel likely knew he would. The two drove in silence for a block and when the car stopped at an intersection, the doctor waited patiently for a number of boys and girls to crouch down behind the Lincoln and grab the bumper. He pulled away slowly, gradually accelerating until the kids could be heard squealing and laughing as they slid along the ice-covered street behind the car. "But what if they did some of the things they weren't supposed to?" Diedrich asked. "What if they played pool or drank a cold root beer from the Dairy Whip, or what if they didn't go back? Then what?" Doctor Rempel toggled the indicator switch as they turned onto Hespeler Avenue, towards the car wash. The bumper-shiners let go because Hespeler, freshly gravelled, was too gritty to rutsch. "Well, exactly!" Rempel said, reaching into his tweed coat and finding a cigar of reasonable length. He lit it while Diedrich waited for him to continue and the Zephyr idled at an intersection. They watched as a teacher led her line of waddling children across the street in their bright snowsuits, two-by-two. "If the lost souls are already in Hell, borderline or not, they can receive no further, greater sentence, right? Here on Earth, if you receive the death penalty, that's the maximum. In the same way, if you're in Hell, what worse place is there? If there is a Super Picante Hell, it's not mentioned in the Bible, and you'd think they might have pointed that out!" His conversation tailed off as the car wheeled onto the car wash yard. "So, okay," Diedrich replied. "They can't be punished any more, they are already ten out of ten, so they play hooky. Then what?" He looked around for the leather gloves. "Oh, Lordy, I wish I could figure that one out," Doctor Rempel said, puffing on his cigar. "On one hand, I suppose there's nothing matters at that point. They are hell-bound souls that have escaped, conditionally. If they come to this realization - if they see that they have beaten the system - what then? I hesitate to say this to such a tender boy as you, youth's impressions lasting lifelong as so forth, but that knowledge of having beat the devil might almost be better than Heaven!" "Oh, bah nay..." Diedrich said softly. "Listen. To get to Heaven, you play by the rules. You sacrifice some earthly pleasures, many examples of which you yourself will soon face in relative abundance in the coming years, even here in Wenkler." He tapped ash from the cigar. "These imaginary borderline folk obviously did not fully embrace self-denial and hence, wound up in the basement suite. Now, what if these prisoners of eternal damnation, out on their cold-weather day pass, recognize the infinity-sized loop-hole? Imagine the joy, imagine the freedom of knowing that, for all eternity - nothing more matters. My dear Diedrich, I suggest that wondrous revelation is not only better than Heaven, but worthy of a whole new religion in support of it. What say you? Are you my first convert?" "Thanks for the ride, I have to get to work," Diedrich said, sliding out the door into the frigid prairie gloaming. He paused, imagining the condemned, newly released from hell. Then he added, "Yeah... The worst punishment for them would be if they were sent back to you-know-where, and that was gonna happen eventually anyhow." He flipped hair out of his eyes, then pulled his toque on. "They couldn't be threatened!" "Yes! But would they feel brave because they were safe, or because they were totally, eternally unsafe? Eh?" Diedrich trudged to the pump room, confused by the strange conversation. He stopped and walked back to the open window on the driver's side, from which a blue cloud of El Producto emanated. "Yes, my acolyte?" Doctor Rempel said. "What you are saying is you want me to be brave? Period, end of story?" "You got it. Period, end of story." "Alright. I think I'm pretty good at that..." Diedrich said. "Be better than 'pretty good'. Be the best there is at being brave. You live in this little darp on the smooth, flat bottom of an ancient sea with your aunts, me, and some others here who know about you and the bad things you've endured. So you're safe. On the other hand, the things that have vexed you will continue to do so, and new adversaries and evils will threaten you on your path. So you are unsafe."  He stoked the cigar with hollowed cheeks, bringing the tip back to crackling life, then similarly revved the flathead when it sputtered and seemed about to stall. "It's cold and my window's frozen open, so hurry up," he said, nipping at a silver flask he slipped out of his coat. "You have exactly thirty minutes before my tail lights you will see."

Early on school day mornings, the thump-thump-thump of a basketball could be heard in the deserted hallways framing the cinderblock sanctuary that was the WCI gymnasium. Periodically, the echo of the ball dribbling would cease, followed after a few seconds by the metallic clash of the steel supports that held the basketball backboards. Diedrich Deutsch created this syncopated melody as he padded barefoot from end to end, practicing his dribbling - first lefty, then righty - and taking an awkward shot at each end of the court. Panting and red-cheeked, he stopped just before the bell rang to alert teachers and janitors that the front doors would now be unlocked. Diedrich had gained early entry through the janitorial staff entrance, courtesy of Mr. Schellenberg. "No work boots on the gym floor!" Janitor Schellenberg scolded on the first morning, kneeling as if in prayer to apply a wetted thumb to one of the black heel marks left behind by Diedrich's boots. "Vedaumpt groota oabeit Steewel!" he had said, rising up and glaring down at Diedrich's dirty footwear. He followed this pronouncement with a blast of air through his thin nose and a translation for Diedrich, who looked puzzled. "Shucks-darn, big work boots!" Then he beckoned for the ball and with unexpected skill, banked it into the basket directly above him, spinning it like a top off the backboard. "English, not Low German!" he said, winking and retreating quickly to continue his morning chores. After a few weeks, Mr. Schellenberg paid him no attention. Alone one morning under the buzz of the blueish lights, Diedrich sat on the bleachers and rubbed at the soles of his feet, pink and blistered in places from their taxing laps on the polished hardwood. Just then, Coach Smullett came into the gym on the way to his small office. "Hey-hey!" he shouted, "look who's here early workin' on his game!" He pointed at Diedrich's bare feet. "It looks like old Schellenberg gave you the heck for wearing street shoes on the floor, eh?" Diedrich nodded. He was on the team's "Spare" list and although still allowed to attend practices, he had not yet made the team, officially. Being discovered in the morning by the coach was a happy accident that he had patiently contrived. He wasn't a particularly guileful boy but knew that extra effort could not hurt his chances. "Why don't you have your runners on? Forget 'em?" "No. I don't have any. Ernie Froese lets me wear his old ones, but I can't keep them 'cause he has to save them for his brother Jake. They don't really fit me anyway." "Hmm. What size you take?" "My boots are tens, but they are a little big, yet. A lot, actually." Smullett spun on a creaking rubber heel and walked swiftly to his office. He swung the door open and reappeared a minute later carrying a pair of worn Converse All-Star high top runners. One lace was red and one blue. "These old clod-hoppers - they're eights - have been in the lost and found since last year. You are welcome to them. Also, we have a game on Friday night in Plum Coulee. Can you go?" Overcome with excitement, Diedrich held the shoes as if a priceless, fragile treasure. He flopped down on the gym floor and immediately began trying them on, first holding the dark gum sole of one flat against his bare foot. Tying the laces, Diedrich took some rapid stutter steps, each squeal like music to him. He licked his fingers and cleaned the rubber soles the way he had seen older players do at practice. "Grippy!" he said to Smullett. "Thanks, Coach! Danke seea! Thank you!" With that, he peeled away across the floor at top speed, rounding into a U-turn and flying back to Smullett, finishing with a bounding lay-up - sans basketball - his fingers riffling the dangling cotton string of the net.

Part 2 - "Gentle and humble in heart" The sweaty starters sat on the bench while the second string stood in an encircling crescent. Crouching low in front of them, Coach Smullett swallowed his excitement and carefully went over his notes. "We are behind by only four points and their big guy..." "Number five, that groota Schanzenfelder?" Ernie Froese asked. "Yes, yeah, five, he's got four fouls. One more and he's out!" Diedrich listened, arms folded, weight on one foot above canted hips. He stared intently into Smullett's eyes as, arms waving, the coach described how they would pressure the guy with the ball in the second half. ("Dutch Blitz!" was Ernie's uninvited translation.) As the scoreboard clock sounded and their huddle broke up, Diedrich spoke. "Not to change the subject Coach, but when do I get in? I can take the ball away from those guys, easy." Smullett ignored the comment and sent the team out onto the floor. When Diedrich turned to sit down, he found no room on the player's bench. He could stand or choose instead to sit on the first row of bleachers in the midst of the Plum Coulee fans. Several of the nearby spectators recognized his predicament and began mocking him, laughing and jeering. "Hey number nine, why don't you sit down? Ride the pine!" "Yeah, you make a better door than a window, not? Sat die dohl, Jung!" Anxious to get out of the spotlight, Diedrich spun around and backed in, wedging himself on the crowded bench right beside the coach. Smullett slid sideways, hanging one chino'd cheek over the end. With the game tied and only a few minutes left, Moazh fell heavily. He limped off the floor and when Smullett turned to look down the row of eager replacement candidates, Diedrich shot up, yelling, "I know what to do!" and sprinted out onto the court. Smullett sputtered, but the referee blew the whistle and the game resumed. Red and blue laces flashed and Diedrich was everywhere at once, frantically chasing the ball, his slim form darting in between and around the taller players. Within seconds he stole a pass and despite missing the open shot, and the subsequent one he gained off a scrappy rebound, he was there when one of his teammates scored. The same thing happened twice more. Diedrich did not contribute directly to the score, but WCI pulled ahead and the buzzer blared to signal a timeout by the home team. "Nine is fine!" said a pretty girl with bright blue eye shadow, calling from the stands. Diedrich hid behind the coach. Steve, a skinny boy who scored twice thanks to Diedrich's rabid dog antics, slapped him on the back. "Way to go, there, Deutsch!"

Doctor Rempel's breath wheezed in and out. He concentrated on the Converse All-Stars that sat in a box on the Lincoln's bench seat between him and Diedrich. He peered through smudgy glasses perched on his rutabaga nose. "And that's how you found them, in your locker..." Diedrich nodded, his chin lifting off his chest. "Yeah. I could smell something was wrong, right away. The melons are totally rotten." "Right, I'm getting that," the doctor replied, sniffing. He used the red tip of a wooden match to pull back at the tongue of one of the runners. They were packed with a viscous, runny filling of rancid fruit. The shoelaces were slit down the middle and the canvas uppers were in ribbons. "Kind of funny, don't you think, that cantaloupes were the weapon of choice? Eh? Remember?" Diedrich snuffled in reply. Rempel quickly said, "Coulda been worse, coulda been rancid antelope!" Diedrich laughed then, despite his best efforts. He forced himself to look serious. "What should I do?" Rempel mused. He retrieved and offered a clean folded hanky to the boy, who took it and blew his nose hard. "Hey! That's for polishing my glasses!" Doctor Rempel said, feigning anger. "Okay, look. What do you want? Justice? Revenge? A get out of jail free card? What?" "I just want my runners," Diedrich said. "Really? Whoever did this deserves some knuckle justice. Me? I'd want to kick his ass." Diedrich blew out a puff of air. "I'll take you home. Leave the shoes with me. Get a good night's sleep and I'll see you in the morning. Sound good?" After a long, clearing breath, Diedrich hummed, "Um-hmm," and wiped his nose on a jacket sleeve. "Here. Keep it," Rempel said, tossing back the hanky with a pronounced wrinkling of his sea lion nose.

The next afternoon at the car wash, Cornelius James Rempel, MD, sat in his rusting '46 Lincoln Zephyr and smoked. He watched the boy work, a study in efficiency and diligence. After scraping up a shovelful of sludge, he rocked its weight back and used the pendulum momentum to heft the load up to the apogee. Up and over the lip of the barrow it went, with a sudden twist of the blade at the last to spill the sodden cargo. Still so young, he thought. Whip smart. Mature too - a stoic. Unlike his weasel of a father on that count. "How far that little candle throws his beams!" Rempel said aloud. His speech disturbed a chickadee that pecked at cigar ash. He had asked the boy the day before what he wanted - justice or revenge. "What about you, Rempel?" the doctor said now to himself, eyes regarding his reflection in the mirror. "What do you want?" The chickadee, satisfied that there was no nutrition in the black bits on the snow, beat a whirring retreat. Rempel watched it go. What do I want? To have no regrets - free as a bird, he thought. Leaning back in his seat, he remembered Rosalyn, back in high school. A year after him, she had the best marks in her grade and beat him in the school spelling bee. He faltered under her confident stare and added a fatal extra "n" to "panache", giving her the win. Diedrich hurried towards the car, whacking the leather work gloves against his dirty pants and the sides of his boots, as if challenging them to a duel. "All done, record time!" he called out. Swirling back into the old Zephyr together with a shock of cold air, he rested a hand on the box that held the rotted evidence, his defiled All-Stars. "Okay, Doctor, what did you decide?" he asked, applying his hanky to his reddened nose. "I think you and your aunts - not me - should be the ones to decide. Not me, sir. But I have an idea." Diedrich waited for the doctor to continue as Rempel pulled the car up onto the macadam esker that was Hespeler Avenue. "Myrtle and Rosalyn will be home now, yes?" he asked. In the aunts' small 1-1/2 storey house, Rempel sat across the kitchen table facing Diedrich and his two spinster aunts. Following small talk and tea, he told the whole story to the sisters. He answered their initial questions, then laid out his plan. "First, I believe we need to confirm, with absolute certainty, who did this. It seems quite obvious to me that the vandal is the coach's son, Morton," he looked at Diedrich, who affirmed with a nod. "His father should be given the evidence and..." "Morton said something to me," Diedrich said. "Sorry I didn't tell you before, but at school today he bugged me about the shoes." "Who else knew about them, about your runners getting wrecked?" Rosalyn asked. "No one. Only Doctor Rempel, and now - you and Aunty Myrtle. Today, Morton, he said to me, 'How do your shoes smell?', or something like that." She looked at Rempel, "Go on, please Corny." "Fine. That's out of the way, then! Morton's as good as confessed. He's our man. That's no surprise to me. And that makes me even more certain that what I have in mind is the right thing to do! I say it's best to force a confrontation. I want Diedrich to challenge Morton to a fist-fight. After school, just the two of them." The room was quiet. The sisters looked at each other, then both at Diedrich. "That could get him in a lot of trouble," Myrtle said. Rempel nodded without commitment. "And what about 'turn the other cheek'? Don't answer violence with violence." she added, fretting with her napkin. The doctor sat still. The mantle clock ticked from the parlour. "He could get expelled." "Not to interrupt," Diedrich said, waiting for his aunt to approve before he continued. "But not if it's before or after school and off school grounds," Diedrich explained. "Helmut Reimer and Fats Wall had a fight behind the pool hall and they didn't get kicked out." "But Morton's dad is a teacher," Rosalyn said, smiling at her nephew and adding, "not to interrupt..." "Also, that Morton boy is three grades ahead of D'rich! He must be way bigger, not?" Myrtle said, her tone trembling, fragile as the mismatched plates on the table. "All that is true," said Doctor Rempel, taking a slow breath and worrying with fat fingers the pocket holding his cigars. "That's why I went and talked to Coach Smullett earlier today..." All eyes in the kitchen were on him as he continued - bedside manner activated, his voice rumbling like an advancing tank. "I believe Smullett is a decent man. I met him this morning where he gets his coffee before school. I went to his car and showed him the shoes. As soon as I showed him, his face turned bright red and he said, 'Morton!'" "He knew right away?" Rosalyn asked. Rempel nodded slowly, a hand cupping his beard, fingers combing the grey whiskers. "He did. Smullett was convinced. Is convinced. He said that he would get the truth out of Morton, and that the boy would buy new ones and apologize in front of the team." Doctor Rempel drew himself up and adjusted his glasses. "I said no to that..." "Why?" Myrtle and Rosalyn said simultaneously. "This kid is a bad egg. He's not gonna take his medicine, he'll blame Diedrich for calling him names, he'll blame anyone else but himself. He'll plot a revenge, too. I reckon that the only way to get him to lay off Diedrich, now and forever, is to push him right to the edge. Diedrich should challenge him to a fight." "Oh, my. But it's the Coach's job to manage the team and it's also his job as a father to discipline his son. Right? Plus," Rosalyn said, shifting in her seat, "the shoes were free in the first place. A gift from the coach. A very thoughtful one, too." She looked hard at Rempel. "You're right, Ros," Rempel stammered. Eyes that could stare an eagle blind. "But, in this case, I think this misery will visit us again if we don't cut it out entirely. Now's the time to excise it." The tiny kitchen was quiet again. This time the muffled clatter of the sump pump from the crawlspace below broke the nervous silence. It jumped to life with a throbbing beat. "You think that if Diedrich challenges Morton to a fight, the other boy will back out?" Rosalyn said, her voice raised slightly to overcome the rattling pump. "If I know my bullies, yes, that's what I think will happen. Between his guilt and his weak character, yup. One hundred per cent. I can be around - I am a doctor, remember - to make sure it's just a little dust-up. A cut lip never killed anyone." "How will that, excise the problem for good, as you put it?" Rosalyn asked, one eyebrow hitched. "Morton will be shamed, of his own doing. If he declines to fight... if he fights and loses... and - especially - if he fights and wins over Diedrich who is smaller and younger - he is shamed. If, however, his father, or the school, or I, or you and Myrtle step in, then Morton will be off the hook." "Why?" Rosalyn shot back. "He'll become the victim and our Diedrich will be nothing but a tattle-tale. Plus," he said, taking in a breath and tapping his fork handle on the tablecloth, "it will leave the door open to future animosity from Morton. Reprisals against Diedrich that could be even more serious." Rosalyn drummed her fingertips on the table-top, almost as if a Morse code reply. Her brow crinkled in concentration. The others watched her for a reaction. "Diedrich," she said, turning to face her ward. "I never thought I would push you into a fight. That is not our way! But Doctor Rempel thinks it may not come to fighting. What do you think, Jung?" "What took you guys so long?" he said. Rosalyn touched Diedrich on the shoulder. "It's your decision. Still, I'll pray on it."

The old Zephyr gurgled asthmatically, shuddering in place on the street in front of WCI. A small flock of chickadees took turns flitting to and from between the open driver's window and a cluster of young elms across the street. A shoebox under his arm, Diedrich was one of the first to skip out of the entrance doors after the final school bell rang. He trotted towards the gurgling car with a light gait and popped the passenger door open in a smooth one-handed motion. "So? How'd it go with Morton? What happened?" Doctor Rempel asked in a rush of words as soon as the Diedrich got in. "Oh, no big deal. At lunchtime, Morton bought me new shoes with Christmas money from his Opa in Altoona and he's gonna come to the car wash and help me for a week." "Huh! I hope you mean Morton, not his Opa," the doctor said, unable to resist the jab and using it to hide his surprise. He turned away and then kicked at the accelerator, suddenly annoyed with the halting idle. "I thought you were going to challenge him to a fight?" "Who, his Opa?" "Ha." Doctor Rempel slipped him a dour, side-eyed look, buttered with a smile. "I don't mean to change the subject, but Morton an' me are going to go to Winnipeg with his cousin on Saturday. To the U of M. They have glass backboards in the Bison fieldhouse. We're gonna shoot around and then watch the team practice." "So - what?" Rempel said. "That means you two are friends now?" The big V12 grumbled and Rempel adjusted the choke lever on the dash. "I guess. You said be brave. You said be the best at being brave. Period. End of story." Diedrich said this plainly, all the while with his eyes on Doctor Rempel, a frank expression on his young face. "It wasn't as scary as you guys figured." "Sure," Rempel said, imagining how this resolute young boy, the ruined shoes brandished like loaded pistols, would have approached the bully, pushing down his fear, looking up at his stronger, older foe. He could not have known what to expect, but he emerged with the best of all outcomes. "...for I am gentle and humble in heart," the doctor thought, the passage clear in his mind. "Anyway," Diedrich said, leaning forward to tune the radio dial. "You get the Stones on this old bucket?" He grinned playfully and then shoved the shoebox at his chauffeur. "Take a look, these runners are really neat! One lace red, one blue. Chuck Taylors!" Doctor Rempel put the car in gear and began up the street. The engine fell into synchronization, dropping down several octaves and then spitting out a white smoke ring that spun rearward, rising gracefully into the Prussian blue of the winter sky.

[cmtae]

Serve and Protect: 1

a/n: this took me so long to finish for no reason :(

{request}

word count: 2.9k

warnings: mafia!jin, violence, blood, {future mature content}

He was selfish.

He wanted her all to himself to admire. To taste. Such tenacious rapacity embodied the man, failing to realize that she was not his to have.

Only his to serve and protect.

“This would look great on me don’t you think Jin?” She asked, holding the burgundy brassiere up to her chest. The man glanced down at the flimsy fabric, his head snapping back up, a light blush crawling up his face. “Don’t you think it compliments my skin well?”

“Yes Miss ___,” Jin said gruffly, then added, “I thought I told you to call me Seokjin.” His hands were tucked behind his back wrapped around each other in a fist; his eyes flit to every corner of the store cautious. The gun pressed against his hip, ready to be fired at any moment to protect her.

“I know, but I like my nickname better.” She brushed up against him, stopping by his side, leaning up to his ear. “It rolls off my tongue much better.” A stray hand caressed the outside of his thigh. She smirked feeling him jump and move away, the blush growing darker on his face.

Jin watched her skip from store to store, her afro bouncing with liveliness, as she lit up with happiness every time she found a piece of clothing that surprisingly had her size. Eventually, she tired herself out, the abundance of shopping bags in Jin’s arms said it all. He was all but struggling, so she had the least amount of pity for him.

“I’m done,” she announced, turning around to face the man following her. A light sweat had begun to cover his face, his jaw clenching in annoyance seeing her amused features. “I’m kinda hungry, though…” She looked Jin up and down hungrily, dirty images of her innuendo clouding her mind.

“Anything on your mind?” Jin asked, readjusting the bags on his arms.

“Yes, I would tell you…but I don’t want you to run away from me, so I’ll just settle with an ice cream cone for now.” She sat down at a table, crossing her legs as she gazed up at Jin.

He looked at you flustered, setting the bags down next to her. “Wh-what do you—”

“Ice cream please.” She cut him off, smiling sweetly.

Jin took his leave, walking towards the ordering counter. He was dressed in a navy blue suit fitted perfectly for his broad shoulders and slim body. A black button-up dress shirt wrapped around his torso and chest a little too tightly, every movement caused the fabric to stretch around the buttons, nearly exposing his stout pecs

God, she wanted him.

Whether she was on him or he had his hands all over her, she was yearning his touch, ever since he had been hired to protect her—as she was the daughter of a prominent man in the mafia—she constantly dreamed about his touch, his lips, her nails decorating his smooth honey skin with angry red scratches.

She had to have him for herself.

And she would. She always got what she wanted.

Jin made his way back over to the table, handing her the cone with a bundle of napkins along with it. He sat down across from her, his legs open widely while he leaned back in the chair, stretching his neck with two pops.

Damn.

How could he be so fucking attractive and not even notice?

She shifted in her seat, desperately trying to ease the aching throb in her core. She scarfed down the ice cream messily, munching on the remainder of the cone while holding up a napkin to her mouth. After she had finished wiping the excess vanilla, she scooted away from the table trying to stand when Jin suddenly grabbed her, sitting her back down.

“Wait, you have something on your face,”  he grumbled, rubbing his thumb against the outside of her lips.

As he pulled away, she boldly licked the tip of his finger getting up before he could chastise her. “I’m ready to go.” She walked away, playfully swinging her hips with a sly smile on her face.

It took Jin approximately five minutes to find her outside leaning against the car, examining her nails. With a slight glare and an angry huff, Jin loaded her bags into the back of the car, circling to the driver’s seat. She hopped into the passenger’s seat bringing the seatbelt across her lap.

“Get in the back,” he demanded rudely, unstrapping the belt from around her body.

“I don’t want to.” She brought it back, clicking it back in.

“Miss,” he practically growled, “the back now.”

“What will you do if I don’t?” She asked innocently, holding on tightly to the seatbelt.

Jin didn’t answer, clenching his jaw to keep from voicing his thoughts. He put his own belt on, starting the car engine. She swallowed, rubbing her clammy hands onto her jeans.

She never figured that Jin could be so demanding, opposing his quiet and soft demeanor. But at this moment, he looked as if he wanted to rip all the clothes from her body and have her screaming until she begged for him to stop.

She wanted to break him.

“Jin?” She made her voice as soft as you could. “Can you call me princess from now on?”

As she expected, Jin’s grip on the wheel tightened, his tongue poking the side of his cheek in irritation. “Like hell I am,” he muttered, turning the corner onto her street. In the distance stood her mansion, surrounded by tall black gates, seven different types of security cameras, and guarded by at least two dozen bodyguards.

“Please.” She reached over and placed a hand on the inside of his lap. “I’ll be a good girl if you do.”  She gave a light squeeze, falling back into her seat with a grin.

At this point, she could see the white of Jin’s knuckles pressed up hard against the steering wheel. All she could think about was how much she wanted them around her neck, making her struggle to receive even one lungful of air.

The two of them ended up at the entrance of her house with her tapping in the password to the gate and Jin waiting impatiently with all her shopping bags.

“I’m so tired,” she moaned, stretching out her legs and arms as soon as her feet met the hardwood floor. She spun around facing the broad man behind her, nearly choking once seeing the look on his face.

He was mad.

Wait no, not even close to mad.

He was in complete and utter rage.

“Put those in the closet please,”  she stammered, biting her lips when Jin moved closer, his eyebrow quirked. He dropped a majority of her bags, blatantly staring at her mouth. “Jin?” you croaked.

“As you wish…princess.”

Shit.

She was absolutely drenched, and the man had barely even touched you.

When Jin disappeared upstairs, she quietly followed, making way to her room, hurrying to change into something more comfortable at last. She couldn’t tell why her heart could not stop beating so wildly.

Why was she so excited to fuck her bodyguard?

“Jin!” she called, topless in her bathroom.

There were quick footsteps to her location, two light knocks echoing through the empty bathroom. “Are you alright Miss ___?” Jin asked breathlessly. She licked her lips and smirked.

“Ah, ah, ah. What did I say?”

There was a hesitating breath behind the white wooden door.

“Are you alright…princess,” he forced out through gritted teeth.

“Would you like to check?” She wrapped her thick, kinky hair up into a high puff.

The doorknob slowly twisted open, and Jin entered with his eyes closed and head down. She chuckled silently, taking a step towards him.

“You can open your eyes you know. It’s not like I’m naked or anything,” she sang, running her hand up the buttons of his shirt, now noticing that he had taken off the jacket, only in his dress shirt and pants.

And fuck did he look delectable.

She popped open the first button, Jin hurriedly grabbing her fingers, opening his eyes.

“___.” Jin quickly clutched her hand in his, pulling her into his chest. She gasped, feeling the silk of his shirt brush against her bare nipples. He bowed his head down and said under his breath, “sorry Miss.”

He slowly opened his eyes, staring at her heatedly as if he was trying to devour her soul. His eyes flashed to her lips, his head seeming to dip closer to hers. She could feel her heartbeat spike, his arm circling her waist, seizing her body in his hold. Second after second, he moved closer to her until his bottom lip touched hers.

Before their lips could touch entirely, the doorbell rang. Jin frowned and released her from his embrace.

“Someone’s at the door,” he stated tonelessly, looking down at her flustered state. Not once had his eyes passed her neck. He pointed to the screen behind her, which displayed the camera placed at the front door. She looked closely at it, sighing and turning back towards Jin.

“I don’t need to answer it, come here.” She hooked her index finger into his belt loop to keep him from leaving. Suddenly, her phone rang, ripping the both of them apart again.

She cursed to herself, reading the name on the screen before answering.

“Yes Namjoon?” she spoke indifferently, her arm now crossing her chest to cover her erect brown nipples. “Mhm, I see you. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Jin was still in front of her with his hands placed firmly behind his back, a grave look on his face. “Namjoon? May I ask who that is?”

She rolled your eyes and grabbed the robe from a hanger, wrapping it around her body tightly, uncaring of her breasts protruding through the fabric. “My ex,” she muttered, tone dripping with disdain.

“And I guess things did not end well?” Jin moved to the side when she reached for the doorknob.

She faced him, chest to chest, purposely closing in on him. “You’re right,” her voice dropped an octave, bringing a finger up to touch his flushed cheeks, “but he’s not who I’m worried about anymore.”

Jin gulped steadily, exhaling shakily. A small smile formed on her lips as she twisted the doorknob and left the bathroom with Jin trailing closely.

“Shouldn’t you wear something less revealing M-Princess?” Jin questioned.

“Why? Is this bothering you?” she retorted, glancing behind her shoulder while descending the staircase.

“Yes. I-I mean no,” he faltered, a complete mess, “it’s just that your guest…”

“It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.”

“Oh, alright Miss,” he mumbled.

Just as she reached the front door, she spun around to meet Jin’s startled features. “You have one more time to call me that Jin or I swear on everything…” she scolded, grabbing his cheeks to look at her, “…you will suffer the consequences.” She unlocked the five locks on her door and took her precious time opening it.

Jin’s hand stopped her, jutting his chin towards the monitor near the door. For the sake of her safety, a machine was installed at the entrance to scan each and every part of any guest for weapons. There was a red glow around Namjoon’s mouth.

“It’s just a tongue piercing,” she giggled, opening the door.

Namjoon slipped through the doorway, towering over her like he always had. He grinned, dipping down to give her a hug, almost squeezing the life from her.

“You look good,” Namjoon complimented, gazing down her body, “really good.”

“I know.” She walked to the kitchen and picked up a water bottle from the refrigerator. “Anyways Namjoon. Why are you here?” She sat down on her plush tan couch and tucking in her legs, taking a sip from the bottle.

Namjoon began to make his way over to her, stopped by Jin’s arm, then his whole body. The two had a spontaneous hateful staring match before she waved her hand dismissively and laid her head back onto the couch.

“It’s fine Jin.”

Reluctantly the man stepped from in front of Namjoon and walked behind her on the couch. He wasn’t sure if he could trust Namjoon. There was something peculiar about the way he moved, even the way he spoke.

“I’ll ask again Joon, why are you here?”

Namjoon rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Honestly ____…I miss you.”

“I would miss me too,” she replied uninterested.

Jin continued to search Namjoon, his focus drifting to his hands. Namjoon shifted to move closer to her, revealing the snake tattoos covering the top of his hands.

“Are those new?” you pointed out, gesturing towards the newfound tattoos that decorated her ex.

Jin grabbed her suddenly, lifting her up and over the edge of the couch. He had one arm pushing her behind his back, the other reaching for his gun.

If he had one.

“Shit,” Jin cursed silently. “Miss, stay back.”

Namjoon hopped over the couch, striding towards the two of them leisurely. A wicked smirk along with an evil look had taken over his genuine smile. He opened his mouth, sliding out a small knife from the back of his gums.

“Namjoon, what are you doing?” Her voice was shaking with fear behind Jin.

“What I was sent to do,” he answered gruffly, extending the knife until it was at its full length. He stripped himself of his jacket, tossing it elsewhere. “I can’t wait to scratch up that pretty little face of yours up.” He chuckled, licking over his teeth in anticipation.

“You won’t get anywhere near her,” Jin countered pushing her into a random room near the kitchen. “Lock the door and don’t come out until I tell you to.”

She did as he told.

Namjoon charged towards Jin, swinging the knife down next to his neck, slicing the skin on his collarbone. Jin hissed in pain, grabbing his arm, twisting it behind his back and forcing the knife from his grip. As soon as the blade hit the ground, Jin kicked Namjoon’s feet from beneath him, slamming him face first into the hardwood floor.

Jin grunted, holding Namjoon down, grasping his long black hair and repeatedly bashing his head on the floor. He flipped the unconscious man over breathing heavily.

“Miss!” Jin called, placing his knees on Namjoon’s arms just in case.

She fumbled with the lock on the door, exiting the room in a hurry. A relieved sigh left her lips once seeing that Jin was okay.

“If it isn’t any trouble to you, can you grab the black bottle in your nightstand drawer please?” She nodded, rushing up the stairs and into her room. She searched around the mess in her drawer to find the tiny black bottle lying there.

When did this get here?

Staring at the container with confusion, she brought it back down to Jin, handing it to him. He had a cloth wrapped around his hand, carefully opening the bottle, lowering it onto Namjoon’s lips. He forced his mouth open, pouring the silver liquid down his throat.

“Miss, I suggest you look away,” Jin insisted coldly. She did.

With her eyes shut tightly, she heard Namjoon’s struggling gurgles and dry heaves until his movements were no more. She gazed down at Namjoon’s still body with apathy.

“Why didn’t the outer gate guards check him?”

“I-I sent everyone home for the weekend,” she replied guiltily.

“Call them back now.”

Following his orders, she pushed a button next to the front door. In about five minutes, they arrived, taking Namjoon’s body into the truck outside.

“I apologize Miss.” Jin stood up with his hand over his shoulder, flinching as the cloth around his hand met the oozing wound. “I should’ve been more alert. You could have gotten hurt, or worse.” He bowed his head, his hair hanging over his eyes.

She stayed quiet, her hands forming into fists.

“Miss?”

“How could you say that?” she cried, lips quivering. “How can you stand here and ask if I’m okay while you’re bleeding out?”

“It’s my job, Miss.”

“Bullshit!”

Jin jumped at her sudden exclaim, wincing when he moved his shoulder a little bit too much. She scrunched her eyebrows with worry.

“Are you okay?” She took the cloth from his collarbone, checking the wound under. “Fucking hell.”

“I’m fine. Just go to bed,” Jin grunted, moving past her to get to his bedroom. She trailed behind him quietly, making him huff. He stopped at the medicine cabinet, grabbing the first aid kit on the shelf. Continuing to his bedroom, his shoulders drooped still hearing her footsteps follow.

“Miss,” he said in a warning tone.

“You just don’t like to listen.” She grabbed the kit from him. “At least let me stitch you up Jin.”

“Fine.”

Jin entered his bedroom and sat down at the edge of his bed, pulling the blood-soaked rag away from his shoulder, setting it down on the nightstand. She unzipped the kit, taking out the rubbing alcohol picking out a piece of gauze from its pile in the corner.

“This is going to hurt,” she murmured, tipping the bottle just so a small amount of the liquid could dampen the cotton.

Jin speculated her features without her noticing.

There were some moments where he wished he could caress her smooth brown skin tenderly, tracing along her laugh lines delicately, as well as the moments where he imagined leaving marks of his lust and want all over the unblemished surface

She was perfection. Everything about her resembled a piece of artwork to him.

Look. But do not—under any circumstances—touch.

Don’t touch.

Those were the rules. And Jin always followed the rules.

[networkingdefinition]

Chili Quotes

Official Website: Chili Quotes

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• A little blue-eyed blonde in a red hot sweater, wants to spice my chili, I think I’ll let her. – Toby Keith • All this talkin’ about eatin’ is makin’ me awful hungry. I’ll have two chili burgers with an order of fries, onion rings and a chocolate milk shake. And a Strawberry Ice Cream Sundae-with pickles. – George Lindsey • Any man that eats Chili and Cornbread can’t be all bad – Carroll Shelby • Anything that improves people’s expectations of a meal is good for the world. Anything that weans even one kid or one adult away from Chili’s or T.G.I. Friday’s is definitely a win for the good guys. – Anthony Bourdain • As human beings, we are the only organisms that create for the sheer stupid pleasure of doing so. Whether it’s laying out a garden, composing a new tune on the piano, writing a bit of poetry, manipulating a digital photo, redecorating a room, or inventing a new chili recipe – we are happiest when we are creating. – Gary Hamel

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Chili', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_chili').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_chili img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Chili dogs, funnel cakes, fried bread, majorly greasy pizza, candy apples, ye gods. Evil food smells amazing — which is either proof that there is a Satan or some equivalent out there, or that the Almighty doesn’t actually want everyone to eat organic tofu all the time. I can’t decide. – Jim Butcher • Chili is much improved by having had a day to contemplate its fate. – John Steele Gordon • Chili is not so much food as a state of mind. Addictions to it are formed early in life and the victims never recover. On blue days in October, I get this passionate yearning for a bowl of chili, and I nearly lose my mind. – Margaret Cousins • Chili is one of the great peasant foods. It is one of the few contributions America has made to world cuisine. Eaten with corn bread, sweet onion, sour cream, it contains all five of the elements deemed essential by the sages of the Orient: sweet, sour, salty, pungent, and bitter. – Rex Stout • Chili, spice of red Thursday, which is the day of reckoning. Day which invites us to pick up the sack of our existence and shake it inside out. Day of suicide, day of murder. – Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni • Dropkick Murphys get me going, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Nirvana… plus, all the regular hip-hop stuff. – Kobe Bryant • Early readers assumed the Book of Mormon people ranged up and down North and South America from upstate New York to Chili. A close reading of the text reveals it cannot sustain such an expansive geography. – Richard Bushman • Embarrassment felt a lot like eating chili peppers. It burned in the back of your throat and there was nothing you could do to make it go away. You just had to take it, suffer from it, until it eased off. – Sarah Addison Allen • From 1973 to 1982 I ate the exact same lunch everyday . Turkey chili in a bowl made out of bread . Bread bowl George. First you eat the chili then you eat the bowl . There’s nothing more satisfying than looking down after lunch and seeing nothing but a table. – George Steinbrenner • I bet you a handful of Chili’s coupons that Jesus had a foot fetish. – Corey Taylor • I have my once-a-month nachos, but it’s soy cheese and turkey chili on it, so it’s somewhat safe. But it’s still a big vice for me, because I have a big bowl of it. – Jenny McCarthy • I like chili, but not enough to discuss it with someone from Texas. – Calvin Trillin • I love that whole princess mentality, but I also like throwing my hair in a ponytail and just wearing jeans, going on a hike and then eating a big chili-cheesebur ger. – Jennifer Love Hewitt • I love to cook. I make an award-winning turkey chili. – Joely Fisher • I once absent-mindedly ordered Three Mile Island dressing in a restaurant and, with great presence of mind, they brought Thousand Island Dressing and a bottle of chili sauce. – Terry Pratchett • I set up stations, buy a big vat of chili, and then guests do what they want to do – and I still get to party. – Emily Henderson • I used to like eating frozen corn straight out of the bag. But I also love microwaving frozen corn and adding butter and sugar and garlic powder and chili powder to it. And sometimes I just like to microwave it and add a little bit of hot sauce to it. My friends always laugh at me when they catch me eating it. – Thu Tran • If I were a food, I’d be a Chili because you know.. I’m hot. – Louis Tomlinson • If the waitress has dirty ankles, the chili is good. – Al McGuire • If you are a bad putter, you will not make a putt. If you have a tendency to chili-dip wedges, you’ll be chili-dipping them all over the place for sure. Whatever your weakness, it will come up in spades during the Ryder Cup. – Johnny Miller • If you want to make a chili, you’re going to break some cows. – Merlin Mann • In the Chili Peppers I’m a part of that world in a pretty big world and that’s just the way it is. – John Frusciante • It stinks of trains and that chili with the chocolate in it. Ooooh, books!” he exclaimed suddenly, making a beeline for the small library. (Al) – Kim Harrison • It’s a cold bowl of chili when love lets you down. – Neil Young • I’ve been on a team that won the world championship of barbecue. But barbecue’s interesting, because it’s one of these cult foods like chili, or bouillabaisse. Various parts of the world will have a cult food that people get enormously attached to – there’s tremendous traditions; there’s secrecy. – Nathan Myhrvold • Metaphors think with the imagination and the senses. The hot chili peppers in them explode in the mouth and the mind. – Jane Hirshfield • My dad gave me a haircut… and it wasn’t a very good one. When I went out of the house, my friends got on my case and said it looked like someone put a chili bowl over my head and cut around it. – Chili Davis • My music is rock. I listen to Red Hot Chili Peppers and I listen to one of my songs, and if I don’t give you the same emotion, then I go back and re-spit. – Kanye West • Next to jazz music, there is nothing that lifts the spirit and strengthens the soul more than a good bowl of chili. – Harry James • Oh God almighty, another Detroit monster is Chad Smith of the Chili Peppers. Their music is intoxicating between Flea and Chad Smith. They’re contemporary because they’re still making good records, but I don’t think there’s anything new that has a groove and soulfulness. The Chili Peppers just stink of soul-and that’s the ultimate compliment. They continue what James Brown created. – Ted Nugent • On Bill Clinton: “If left to my own devices, I’d spend all my time pointing out that he’s weaker than bus-station chili. But the man is so constantly subjected to such hideous and unfair abuse that I wind up standing up for him on the general principle that some fairness should be applied. Besides, no one but a fool or a Republican ever took him for a liberal. – Molly Ivins • On Hillary Clinton, who was an ardent Goldwater supporter in 1964: ‘If he’d let his wife run business, I think he’d be better off. … I just like the way she acts. I’ve never met her, but I sent her a bag of chili, and she invited me to come to the White House some night and said she’d cook chili for me. Someday, maybe.’ – Barry Goldwater • One day, I’ll be listening to a bunch of Ray Charles, the next day it’s nothing but Red Hot Chili Peppers. The next day it might be Tupac all day. – J. Cole • Opening cans of chili in zero gravity to see how it looks, that’s something that went wrong. – Trish Sie • People were going to geometry class and I was swimming through vats of chili on ‘Even Stevens.’ It was like a dream! – Shia LaBeouf • Remember, FDA employees are serious about fear. We pay these people to panic about an iota of rodent hair in our chili, even when the recipe calls for it. FDA employees are first-class agonizers, world champions at losing sleep. When Meryl Streep got hysterical about Alar, they actually checked the apples instead of Meryl’s head. – P. J. O’Rourke • She looks uptown, but she ain’t really. She’s into football, she likes my chili. – John Anderson • Take me ham away, take away my eggs, even my Chili, but leave me my newspaper. – Will Rogers • Tension translates to your guests. They’ll have a much better time having chili and baked potatoes than they would if you did roast duck with a wild cherry sauce and then had to lie down and cry for a while. – Nigella Lawson • The chili I ate made for an explosive bathroom experience. I don’t know how to put this delicately, but I missed the toilet entirely. – Seth Green • The Chili Peppers have a real strict two-week on/two-week off policy – aside from me, everybody has families. – Josh Klinghoffer • The guy we want to get is the guy who did the Aerosmith album which is coming out in two days, and a Chili Peppers album, and a couple of Pearl Jam albums. We want to get someone that will sort of bring out the high energy aspect more than the dreaminess that was on the last album. – Mike Gordon • The suit was so clumsy, being pressurized, it was impossible to get two hands comfortably on the handle and it’s impossible to make any kind of a turn. It was kind of a one-handed chili-dip. – Alan Shepard • This is my dream. I ain’t giving up. I see a band like the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and they’ve had their ups and downs, but they’ve continued with heart. We look up to that. I see Papa Roach being around for another 15 years. We’ve always wanted to be a career band. – Jacoby Shaddix • When I’m doing a book tour in the States, I’ll wake up in the room sometimes in an anonymous chain hotel, and I don’t know where I am right away. I’ll go to the window, and it doesn’t help there either, especially if you’re in an anonymous strip and it’s the usual Victoria’s Secret, Gap, Chili’s, Applebee’s. – Anthony Bourdain • When Lollapalooza started, and I was really into Red Hot Chili Peppers and Jane’s Addiction, Soundgarden. I went to that Lollapalooza tour twice, I think. – Adam Richman

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Chili Quotes

Official Website: Chili Quotes

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• A little blue-eyed blonde in a red hot sweater, wants to spice my chili, I think I’ll let her. – Toby Keith • All this talkin’ about eatin’ is makin’ me awful hungry. I’ll have two chili burgers with an order of fries, onion rings and a chocolate milk shake. And a Strawberry Ice Cream Sundae-with pickles. – George Lindsey • Any man that eats Chili and Cornbread can’t be all bad – Carroll Shelby • Anything that improves people’s expectations of a meal is good for the world. Anything that weans even one kid or one adult away from Chili’s or T.G.I. Friday’s is definitely a win for the good guys. – Anthony Bourdain • As human beings, we are the only organisms that create for the sheer stupid pleasure of doing so. Whether it’s laying out a garden, composing a new tune on the piano, writing a bit of poetry, manipulating a digital photo, redecorating a room, or inventing a new chili recipe – we are happiest when we are creating. – Gary Hamel

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Chili', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_chili').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_chili img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Chili dogs, funnel cakes, fried bread, majorly greasy pizza, candy apples, ye gods. Evil food smells amazing — which is either proof that there is a Satan or some equivalent out there, or that the Almighty doesn’t actually want everyone to eat organic tofu all the time. I can’t decide. – Jim Butcher • Chili is much improved by having had a day to contemplate its fate. – John Steele Gordon • Chili is not so much food as a state of mind. Addictions to it are formed early in life and the victims never recover. On blue days in October, I get this passionate yearning for a bowl of chili, and I nearly lose my mind. – Margaret Cousins • Chili is one of the great peasant foods. It is one of the few contributions America has made to world cuisine. Eaten with corn bread, sweet onion, sour cream, it contains all five of the elements deemed essential by the sages of the Orient: sweet, sour, salty, pungent, and bitter. – Rex Stout • Chili, spice of red Thursday, which is the day of reckoning. Day which invites us to pick up the sack of our existence and shake it inside out. Day of suicide, day of murder. – Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni • Dropkick Murphys get me going, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Nirvana… plus, all the regular hip-hop stuff. – Kobe Bryant • Early readers assumed the Book of Mormon people ranged up and down North and South America from upstate New York to Chili. A close reading of the text reveals it cannot sustain such an expansive geography. – Richard Bushman • Embarrassment felt a lot like eating chili peppers. It burned in the back of your throat and there was nothing you could do to make it go away. You just had to take it, suffer from it, until it eased off. – Sarah Addison Allen • From 1973 to 1982 I ate the exact same lunch everyday . Turkey chili in a bowl made out of bread . Bread bowl George. First you eat the chili then you eat the bowl . There’s nothing more satisfying than looking down after lunch and seeing nothing but a table. – George Steinbrenner • I bet you a handful of Chili’s coupons that Jesus had a foot fetish. – Corey Taylor • I have my once-a-month nachos, but it’s soy cheese and turkey chili on it, so it’s somewhat safe. But it’s still a big vice for me, because I have a big bowl of it. – Jenny McCarthy • I like chili, but not enough to discuss it with someone from Texas. – Calvin Trillin • I love that whole princess mentality, but I also like throwing my hair in a ponytail and just wearing jeans, going on a hike and then eating a big chili-cheesebur ger. – Jennifer Love Hewitt • I love to cook. I make an award-winning turkey chili. – Joely Fisher • I once absent-mindedly ordered Three Mile Island dressing in a restaurant and, with great presence of mind, they brought Thousand Island Dressing and a bottle of chili sauce. – Terry Pratchett • I set up stations, buy a big vat of chili, and then guests do what they want to do – and I still get to party. – Emily Henderson • I used to like eating frozen corn straight out of the bag. But I also love microwaving frozen corn and adding butter and sugar and garlic powder and chili powder to it. And sometimes I just like to microwave it and add a little bit of hot sauce to it. My friends always laugh at me when they catch me eating it. – Thu Tran • If I were a food, I’d be a Chili because you know.. I’m hot. – Louis Tomlinson • If the waitress has dirty ankles, the chili is good. – Al McGuire • If you are a bad putter, you will not make a putt. If you have a tendency to chili-dip wedges, you’ll be chili-dipping them all over the place for sure. Whatever your weakness, it will come up in spades during the Ryder Cup. – Johnny Miller • If you want to make a chili, you’re going to break some cows. – Merlin Mann • In the Chili Peppers I’m a part of that world in a pretty big world and that’s just the way it is. – John Frusciante • It stinks of trains and that chili with the chocolate in it. Ooooh, books!” he exclaimed suddenly, making a beeline for the small library. (Al) – Kim Harrison • It’s a cold bowl of chili when love lets you down. – Neil Young • I’ve been on a team that won the world championship of barbecue. But barbecue’s interesting, because it’s one of these cult foods like chili, or bouillabaisse. Various parts of the world will have a cult food that people get enormously attached to – there’s tremendous traditions; there’s secrecy. – Nathan Myhrvold • Metaphors think with the imagination and the senses. The hot chili peppers in them explode in the mouth and the mind. – Jane Hirshfield • My dad gave me a haircut… and it wasn’t a very good one. When I went out of the house, my friends got on my case and said it looked like someone put a chili bowl over my head and cut around it. – Chili Davis • My music is rock. I listen to Red Hot Chili Peppers and I listen to one of my songs, and if I don’t give you the same emotion, then I go back and re-spit. – Kanye West • Next to jazz music, there is nothing that lifts the spirit and strengthens the soul more than a good bowl of chili. – Harry James • Oh God almighty, another Detroit monster is Chad Smith of the Chili Peppers. Their music is intoxicating between Flea and Chad Smith. They’re contemporary because they’re still making good records, but I don’t think there’s anything new that has a groove and soulfulness. The Chili Peppers just stink of soul-and that’s the ultimate compliment. They continue what James Brown created. – Ted Nugent • On Bill Clinton: “If left to my own devices, I’d spend all my time pointing out that he’s weaker than bus-station chili. But the man is so constantly subjected to such hideous and unfair abuse that I wind up standing up for him on the general principle that some fairness should be applied. Besides, no one but a fool or a Republican ever took him for a liberal. – Molly Ivins • On Hillary Clinton, who was an ardent Goldwater supporter in 1964: ‘If he’d let his wife run business, I think he’d be better off. … I just like the way she acts. I’ve never met her, but I sent her a bag of chili, and she invited me to come to the White House some night and said she’d cook chili for me. Someday, maybe.’ – Barry Goldwater • One day, I’ll be listening to a bunch of Ray Charles, the next day it’s nothing but Red Hot Chili Peppers. The next day it might be Tupac all day. – J. Cole • Opening cans of chili in zero gravity to see how it looks, that’s something that went wrong. – Trish Sie • People were going to geometry class and I was swimming through vats of chili on ‘Even Stevens.’ It was like a dream! – Shia LaBeouf • Remember, FDA employees are serious about fear. We pay these people to panic about an iota of rodent hair in our chili, even when the recipe calls for it. FDA employees are first-class agonizers, world champions at losing sleep. When Meryl Streep got hysterical about Alar, they actually checked the apples instead of Meryl’s head. – P. J. O’Rourke • She looks uptown, but she ain’t really. She’s into football, she likes my chili. – John Anderson • Take me ham away, take away my eggs, even my Chili, but leave me my newspaper. – Will Rogers • Tension translates to your guests. They’ll have a much better time having chili and baked potatoes than they would if you did roast duck with a wild cherry sauce and then had to lie down and cry for a while. – Nigella Lawson • The chili I ate made for an explosive bathroom experience. I don’t know how to put this delicately, but I missed the toilet entirely. – Seth Green • The Chili Peppers have a real strict two-week on/two-week off policy – aside from me, everybody has families. – Josh Klinghoffer • The guy we want to get is the guy who did the Aerosmith album which is coming out in two days, and a Chili Peppers album, and a couple of Pearl Jam albums. We want to get someone that will sort of bring out the high energy aspect more than the dreaminess that was on the last album. – Mike Gordon • The suit was so clumsy, being pressurized, it was impossible to get two hands comfortably on the handle and it’s impossible to make any kind of a turn. It was kind of a one-handed chili-dip. – Alan Shepard • This is my dream. I ain’t giving up. I see a band like the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and they’ve had their ups and downs, but they’ve continued with heart. We look up to that. I see Papa Roach being around for another 15 years. We’ve always wanted to be a career band. – Jacoby Shaddix • When I’m doing a book tour in the States, I’ll wake up in the room sometimes in an anonymous chain hotel, and I don’t know where I am right away. I’ll go to the window, and it doesn’t help there either, especially if you’re in an anonymous strip and it’s the usual Victoria’s Secret, Gap, Chili’s, Applebee’s. – Anthony Bourdain • When Lollapalooza started, and I was really into Red Hot Chili Peppers and Jane’s Addiction, Soundgarden. I went to that Lollapalooza tour twice, I think. – Adam Richman

[clickbank-storefront-bestselling]

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jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'e', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_e').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_e img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'i', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_i').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_i img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'o', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_o').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_o img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'u', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_u').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_u img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

[charllieeldridge]

15 Things To Do in Halifax: Nova Scotia’s Waterfront Capital

Large enough to keep you busy for a week, but small enough that you don’t feel overwhelmed — Halifax may just be the perfect sized capital city.

Wander aimlessly down the picturesque streets, while stopping to sip on tasty craft beers and dine on scrumptious seafood. Relax in one of the many green spaces, or visit a museum to learn about the history of the city, and Nova Scotia as a whole.

Whatever you’re interested in, you’ll find it among the many things to do in Halifax. If you’re wondering what to do in Halifax during your trip, read on for my 15 best recommendations. 

Don’t Miss The Video of Things To Do in Halifax

1. Walk the Waterfront

This picture-perfect spot is the prized possession of Halifax. The waterfront walkway is a pedestrian-only zone, making it a great place to get away from traffic. Watch the locals fishing off the wharf, gawk at a docked superyacht, or pop in for some tasty snacks at the colourful outdoor food eatery.

Insider tip: try the beaver tails, poutine and locally made ice cream! 

This is a great place to walk any time of the day but is especially nice during the morning and around sunset. 

The Waterfront in Halifax is a great place to walk

2. Go To a Festival or Event (one of the best things to do in Halifax)

There’s no shortage of fun things to do in Halifax, and attending one of the many events and festivals is one of them! Whether you’re a foodie, a sports fan, a music lover, or are into the arts, there’s an event for you in Halifax.

If you’re in the city in July, try to time your visit for the TD Halifax Jazz Festival. During the beginning of July, many venues around the city are turned into outdoor concerts. We were lucky enough to visit on a night when American artist, Common and local artist, Shad were performing at the TD stage near the waterfront. What an incredible concert! 

This jazz festival is the largest in Atlantic Canada and keeps growing in popularity year by year. Tickets are affordable at around $45 CAD per concert, or you can buy a pass for the duration of the festival ($189 CAD).

Try to time your visit for the Halifax Jazz Festival!

Other events you don’t want to miss in Halifax:

The annual Royal Nova Scotia International Tattoo (the world’s biggest yearly indoor show).

Ribfest which is around the end of June.

Pride Festival which is held in July.

Busker Festival in early August.

Seaport Beerfest in August. 

…and so many more!

3. Cross The Harbour to Dartmouth

There are numerous neighbourhoods in Halifax. If you have a chance, get out of the downtown area and check out some of the other parts of the city. In particular, hop on a short 10-minute ferry ride ($2.50 return) from downtown Halifax across the harbour to Alderney in Dartmouth. 

Don’t miss the cool street art, fun craft beer bars, waterfront park, and the 3 km harbour walk trail. However, one of the best things to do in Dartmouth is to simply wander around and enjoy the quaint downtown area. 

Dartmouth has some nice street art

4. Eat Seafood

By far one of the best things to do in Halifax (and Nova Scotia as a whole) is to eat seafood. This province is known for its abundance of lobster, scallops, and salmon and you can’t leave the city without dining on a tasty meal. 

There are numerous seafood restaurants in Halifax, but I recommend checking out the Bicycle Thief and sampling the lobster roll. This is a great meal for lunch, as a snack or for dinner. Basically, chunks of rich lobster are tossed in a light mayonaisse, citrus, and herb sauce and placed in (and on top of) a grilled, buttery hot dog bun. Very tasty. 

Another must-eat meal is at The Five Fishermen. Go for a plate of lobster with a side of garlic butter for dipping and you won’t be disappointed.

For non-lobster lovers, you can always opt for a piping hot bowl of seafood or corn chowder or a fillet of salmon grilled to perfection. Plus, there’s always the classic fish n’ chips available! 

The lobster roll at Bicycle Thief is tasty

5. Hop On The Harbour Hopper

Admittedly, at first glance, this vehicle looks pretty touristy. However, once you’re aboard, you realize just how informative and fun the ride is. These LARC-V amphibious vehicles were used by the Americans during the Vietnam war to transport soldiers and supplies — they were able to carry 5 tons!

These days, unused vehicles have been sold to various countries to provide a unique tourism opportunity. Joining the Harbour Hopper tour is one of the top things to do in Halifax if you want to learn about the history, and enjoy a different vantage point of the city. 

The narrated tour takes you through the city’s streets to see some of the major sites and parks (including the Citadel), before converting itself into a boat and floating along the coastline! This is Atlantic Canada’s most popular tour, so make sure you get your tickets early. 

The trip is only about 1 hour long, yet is very informative. Don’t forget your sunscreen, camera, and a jacket (it can be windy on the water). Click here to learn more about the Harbour Hopper and to purchase tickets online. 

View of Halifax from the Harbour Hopper

6. Go North

While many people focus on Downtown Halifax, the North End is a cool, trendy district that you don’t want to miss. Home to an African Nova Scotian population, gentrification has crept in (as it does in so many cities worldwide), and these days the North End is now predominantly a university student area.

With gentrification, you’ll now find hip craft beer bars, fusion yoga and pilates classes, an up and coming restaurant scene, and cute boutique shops. This is a hipster area for sure with many musicians, writers, and artists calling this place home. Also, keep your eyes peeled for the city’s second-oldest building, the Little Dutch Church.

Hopefully, new emerging businesses will be mindful of hiring locals from the community, or host events that welcome everyone.

During the Halifax Explosion (the largest man-made explosion in the world before the use of nuclear weapons), the North End was hit hard, with much of the area being flattened, and numerous lives lost. Don’t miss the Halifax Memorial Public Library which was built in memory of the victims.

Needless to say, the North End is a very interesting place.

Look for bus number 320, 52 or 7 to take you from Downtown to the North End. It’s a 45-minute walk or a 20-minute bus journey.

☞ SEE ALSO: Exploring Nova Scotia – Our Experience on Canada’s East Coast

7. Relax In a Park

While city life is great, sometimes it’s nice to chill out in a green space for a while. Luckily, there are many spots in Halifax where you can do just that. 

Visit the 16 acre Halifax Public Gardens, which is a very well-manicured green space. In fact, it’s the oldest Victorian Garden in North America. Apart from relaxing with a good book or a picnic, you can often find events in the park as well.

Nearby, you’ll find the Halifax Common (The Commons) which is the oldest urban park in all of Canada — it’s more of a sports and activities park. The Commons offers a baseball field, tennis courts, soccer field, and a skate park.

Finally, check out the large, 185 acre Point Pleasant Park which sits at the very southern tip of the Halifax Peninsula. This is a great spot to do some walking, cycling or running on one of the many gravel trails — with amazing ocean views! Bring a picnic and enjoy the afternoon.

Sunrise at Point Pleasant Park

8. Sample The Official Food of Halifax

Have you ever tried a Middle Eastern doner kebab, shawarma or a Greek gyro? The donair is similar to that, but with a Halifax twist.

In the 1970s after running a pizza joint, Greek brothers Peter and John Kamoulakos tried to get Haligonians interested in traditional gyros, but it fell short as the city wasn’t keen on the yogurt sauce or lamb meat. So, they put a spin on it and invented the donair.

Using Lebanese bread rather than Greek pita, beef and chicken instead of lamb, and creating a sauce from evaporated milk, garlic, parsley, vinegar, and sugar, the donair was born. Luckily, Haligonians took to this creation and the donair is now the official food of Halifax! 

There are a few places to try them. Johnny K’s is located on Pizza Corner which is a late-night hangout or try them at King Of Donair.

**Don’t tell any Haligonians this, but I prefer the yogurt sauce!

Eating a donair is one of the must-dos in Halifax!

9. Visit a Museum

With so much history in the city, make sure to check out one, or two, of the museums. Pier 21 is a museum showcasing immigration in Nova Scotia — both past and present. From 1928 – 1971, nearly one million people arrived at the Halifax Seaport. At the museum, you can even search the database for your own ancestors!

During the high season, May 1 – October 31, The Canadian Museum of Immigration at Pier 21 is open 7 days a week from 9:30 am to 5:30 pm. Admission is $14.50 for adults.  

Another must-visit is the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic, which houses numerous artifacts, ships, and a collection of items found from the sunken Titanic.

In 1912 when the Titanic sunk, Halifax was the closest major port and played a huge role in the collection of bodies and wreckage. One hundred and twenty-one victims of the sinking are buried at the Fairview Lawn Cemetery, while many of the artifacts recovered are in the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic. 

In the high season, May 1 – October 31, the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic is open 9:30 am – 5:30 pm, seven days a week, except for Tuesday when it’s open from 9:30 am – 8:00 pm. Adult tickets cost $9.55. 

*Insider tip: visit the museum on Tuesday from 5:30 pm – 8:00 pm when admission is free. 

10. Try The Local Craft Beers

Halifax is making a name for itself in the craft beer scene. And, based on my personal research, I can say that sampling the beers on offer is one of the top things to do in Halifax! Whether you’re into hoppy IPA’s, heavy stouts, or light lagers, there’s a beer for you.

Garrisons brewing is located near the Pier 21 Immigration and the Seaport Farmer’s Market, making it a great pit stop during sightseeing. If you’re into IPAs, I recommend the Propeller Galaxy IPA, a foggy, hoppy delight (try it at the Stubborn Goat beer garden). You can find Propeller Brewing Co. a few blocks north of the Citadel.

Don’t miss the Propeller beers!

Many of the other breweries are located in the trendy North End, or across the harbour in Dartmouth. 

Head to Battery Park in Dartmouth to sample the Belgian inspired beers at North Brewing Company, or the small-batch production at Nine Locks. If you’re visiting the North End, check out Unfiltered Brewing, or the Good Robot Brewing Company — which offers a taproom, pub, and events.  

11. Visit The Farmer’s Market

The Seaport Farmer’s Market is the oldest, continuously running market in all of North America. Here you’ll find around 250 vendors selling a mix of produce, plants, homemade crafts, cheese, bread, jewelry, cooked meals, and more. To see the market at its liveliest, make sure you visit on a weekend, in the morning. 

Note: many of the vendors appreciate it if you pay by cash.

12. Go On a Day Trip

Some of the best places to see in Nova Scotia are located just an hour or so from Halifax, making the city a great place to base yourself. And, since Nova Scotia is quite compact, getting around is a breeze.

There are lots of day trips from Halifax, here are a couple of suggestions:

Peggy’s Cove: This stunning community and lighthouse is just a 50-minute drive from Halifax. There are a few ways to get here, either by car, taxi or tour. The drive takes you along the picturesque Lighthouse Route while stopping to enjoy the hidden bays and coves along the way. Either rent a car or join a day trip from Halifax to Peggy’s Cove. Another option is to join a tour that covers both Halifax and Peggy’s Cove (plus a lobster roll lunch!).

The lovely community of Peggy’s Cove

Lunenburg: The UNESCO listed fishing town is a great place to visit. If you have time, spending the night is best, but many people choose to join day trips from Halifax to Lunenburg. It’s about an hour’s drive from Halifax. 

Mahone Bay: Known for its 3 picturesque churches, this town offers great restaurants, a craft beer brewery, and many specialty shops. It’s a little over an hour’s drive to reach Mahone Bay, making it another great day trip from Halifax. 

Wine Country: Further afield than the above 3 options, you’ll find the Annapolis Valley. Many day trips from Halifax head out to wine country on a longer tour — around 8 hours. Enjoy tastings at the wineries, a gourmet lunch, and visits to other nearby sites. Click here for details. 

13. Join The Free Walking Tour

Many cities around the world offer free walking tours, which are typically run by university students. One of the top things to do in Halifax is to join the walking tour.  

Starting at the top of the Citadel, you’ll meet up with your guide who will show you around the city. While walking and enjoying the sites, you’ll hear personal stories from the guides, and learn about history. Make sure you ask for their recommended restaurants and bars at the end — local advice is always the best. 

From June 1 – September 1, tours run twice a day at 10 am and 3 pm. While the tour is advertised as “free”, as with anywhere in the world, it’s based on donations/tips. Typically, $10 per person is the going rate, but feel free to pay what you think is fair. 

An aerial view of the Citadel

14. Watch Glass Blowing

If you’re wondering what to do in Halifax to spend a few minutes, head down to Nova Scotian Crystal and be mesmerized by the glass blowers there. Irish immigrants brought their European glass blowing techniques with them and passed them down to the next generation.

This is the only place in Canada that makes hand-cut, mouth-blown crystal items.

The colourful melted glass is spun, blown and molded into beautiful crystal glasses, bowls, office items, wedding gifts, sculptures and more. This is one of the most fascinating things to see in Halifax. 

15. Get Active

If running, walking or cycling aren’t your thing, you could always try your hand at bouldering. Located just a little bit north of the citadel, Seven Bays is a fairly new indoor bouldering gym/cafe. This is definitely a popular spot to visit in Halifax.

They offer climbing for all levels, and actually, since the walls are just 13ft high, when you’re done, you just jump down onto the thick padding or climb down the wall — no harnesses or ropes are used here. 

If climbing really isn’t your thing, their cafe is a great place to grab a cup of coffee and they offer vegan and vegetarian items on the menu as well. 

Where To Stay in Halifax

If you’re keen to do lots of sightseeing, your best base would be the Downtown area near the Waterfront. If trendy, hipster vibes are more your scene, then the North End might be more for you.

We stayed at the Westin Nova Scotian which is located right near the Waterfront, Pier 21, Seaport Farmer’s Market and Garrisons Brewing. The newly renovated room was great and offered an amazing view of Georges Island and the Waterfront. The staff at this historic hotel are very friendly and helpful, there’s (paid) parking available, and you can dine at the onsite restaurant and bar. 

Now that’s a room with a view!

Plus, the hotel has a fitness center, pool, salon and spa, and the Yuk Yuk’s Comedy Club is located in the lobby. We enjoyed our stay here (including the huge breakfast buffet!).

On our second visit to Halifax, we chose an Airbnb in one of the historic homes near the waterfront. Since we had been dining at restaurants for almost 3 weeks straight, we were looking forward to cooking a couple of meals for ourselves, which is a great perk of Airbnbs. Don’t forget your Airbnb coupon code.

To search for places to stay in Halifax on Booking.com, click here. 

Ready For All The Things To Do in Halifax?!

Nick and I spent 5 days in the city and easily could have spent 10. With so many cool neighbourhoods to explore, restaurants to dine at, and craft beers to sample, you’ll never be bored here.

Visiting in the summer months will ensure you’ll be able to catch a festival (or 3), while the off-season means you’ll have the city and locals all to yourself. Enjoy your trip to Halifax and let me know what I missed in the comments below. 

A special thank you to Visit Nova Scotia for making this trip possible. As always, all thoughts and opinions remain our own. Some images in this post are courtesy of Shutterstock.com.

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[wolf-with-no-pelt]

Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone

Mood music.

It'd never really been the sound. The sight. Or even the noise. It was the fuckin' smell. Death had a scent. Copper and iron. Hot, then cold. Shit. Bile. And something inherently missing. Maybe if he was more poetic or some bullshit, he'd be able to name it. But all he had was some kinda lack that stung and burned, and made his stomach upheave.

That was why he liked being out and above, away from the reek. But Sean and Connor had gotten that duty and were holed up somewhere above the prison safe and out of sight where they wouldn't be found so they could watch and be sure shit didn’t hit the fan. Probably all sorts of fuckin' cozy too, with dinner and being in the heat away from the goddamn rain. 

When was the last time they'd had a dry day? He was pretty sure it’d been raining since Alannah had come home tattered and broken, big blue eyes glassy with disbelief and detachment. All that light gone.

It was like the heavens were weeping for what had happened. 

He silently scrubbed his worn fingers over Celty's head, the Shepard sitting in the passenger seat of his beat up truck. For a split second, he glanced at the dog who panted quietly in the humid damp, then looked back up to the dim light of the prison's release doors. He couldn’t afford to lose focus, or the anger would get the best of him before he was ready to let that devil free.

All this fucking cold and dampness made his knee ache, stabbed into his bones. He shoulda brought another dose of meds, but he hadn't thought he'd be outside so damn long.

He was pretty sure it'd been close to an hour when the doors finally fucking opened.

Squinting through the downpour, he finally clocked Albie as he came through the doors, out of his uniform. Shunting the truck door open, Riley swung out onto the pavement to hustle through the rain, feeling grim. His knit cap quickly became sopping wet, and he could feel each cold trail of water slinking past the collar of his shirt and down his spine as though some portent, but he gave up on trying to wipe it away. 

What a shit fucking day. Then’d all been shit since Alannah.

"Albie! Lookin' like ye los' some o'tha' weigh', ye fa' bastard," Riley called out as he jogged up, stepping under the protection of the awning as he kept his head tipped down under the brim of his knit hat.

He only had a precious few seconds where the copper was in the camera's blind spot, and as Albie looked up to see who was talking to him, his inquisitive gaze was met with a meaty fist. Riley felt the crunch and snap of the man's nose giving out, blood and snot pouring over his quivering mouth while both hands flew up to cup his face instinctively. He stepped in close and gut punched the cop. The fat fucks were hard to tell sometimes if shit connected beneath all that blubber, but Albie hunched inward as though he'd been stabbed with a mighty wheeze that echoed in the soft patter of rain.

Half hanging on the bruiser's arm, he struggled to gain air and probably yell for help, but Riley swung around to sling a heavy arm over the stout fellow's shoulders and clamp a hand over his mouth before he could get a sound out. Like they were old drinking buddies about to hit the bar, Riley hoisted the man up to his feet and guided him along at a quick shuffle so that he could stuff him into his truck and slam the door shut.

Celty had hopped to the backseat, but kept her maw poked between the two of them, teeth bared in a savage but silent snarl in a warning as Riley slung himself in and peeled out of the parking lot. Tearing off the hat as he drove, he scraped his hand through his hair and flicked the wipers on, glancing at Albie from the corner of his eye as the man’s head lolled loosely. Musta hit harder than he'd thought.

Before he'd even registered that they were really driving, he was already half carrying the reeling man through the door of the humble base of operations they'd taken over, blessedly out of the rain. He gave a sharp whistle for Celty to follow, meeting with a couple of men who took Albie off his hands.

"Good on ye," one of them spoke, clamping a hand on his shoulder in a quick bulldog's grip, then they disappeared into the shadows of the hallway.

"Fucker's gonna pay, ay ma'e?" Riley didn't recognize the second man, but that wasn't all that odd.

"Jus' call me when shite's settled, yeah?"

Hellfire had a way of digging in deep inside of him, burning like a hungry wildfire on the highlands that the rains couldn't stop. He had been angry before, but it had been a razor sharp focus, like a ravenous beast stalking his meal for the evening. But now it promised a volcanic eruption, beat knuckles tangling white as he clenched his fists.

When he lashed out, it was right at Albie's face again. He wasn't sure when he'd gotten there, but fuck all if it didn't feel good. Curses tumbled out of him like shards of glass, each punctuated with a blow rained down on Albie.

"Who the feck told ye tha' ye could pu' yer 'ands on 'er?!"

Blood popped and spat from Albie's mouth, teeth stained pink. One was missing that hadn't been before. Alannah would like that tidbit. It might even bring a bit of light back to her eyes. They were so dull now, just a grey sky instead of the unbound blue.

Riley heard a faint crack through the haze of bloodlust -- and he woke with a start.

The scent of blood was still in his nose, and something missing. Something intrinsic.

He rolled, groping wildly in the black for the small wastebin near the bed as he vomited into it. The springs creaked under his weight, mingling in with the rush of his heart in his ears as the reek of whiskey and bile scraped out the scent of death. It wasn't much better, but it at least it meant his stupid ass was still alive. Hazy eyes roamed to the clock when he was finally done, neon red numbers slurred across his vision.

4:06 AM.

Still drunk, but not drunk enough. His knee burned and his hands felt on fire. Nudging the tiny lamp on at his bedside table, he screwed his eyes closed, pinprick sight examining the mottled bruising of his hands around the bandages still wrapped tight. They'd swell when he took them off.

Feckin' eejit.

He scraped himself outta the bed like gum off a shoe, the rattle of an orange pill bottle following him as he limped to the kitchen. Snagging a beer out of the fridge, he pried the cap off his pills to shake a couple into his palm, then his mouth where he washed down the bitter bite of them with the bitterness of ale instead. He grabbed a big bowl too, dumped ice into it and a bag, then limped out to his little balcony that overlooked the parking lot of his apartment in Westend. 

He dumped himself into the sagging lawnchair and propped his leg up on the wicker table so he could set the bag of ice on his knee. Taking another hefty swig of beer, an eye closed against the dull pound of his head as his thoughts raced, he started snipping off the bandages with the scissors that had been left out since the last time so he could dip his bruised knuckles into the ice.

If he squinted just right, the vivid blue of his bruises looked just like her eyes.

[invergo]

The Giant Frog Farms of the 1930s Were a Giant Failure

The get-rich-quick scheme couldn’t fill the world’s appetite for frogs’ legs.

Live frogs, readied for shipment. All photos courtesy of Bonnie Broel.

The American Frog Canning Company had a pitch for people struggling to make a living in the 1930s, when jobs were scarce and money tight. The company promised a good market and a steady source of income. It was simple enough, the company promised. All you need is a small pond and a few pairs of “breeders” in order to…

Who are you to resist? American Frog Canning Company

Frog farming was “perhaps America’s most needed, yet least developed industry,” wrote Albert Broel, founder of the American Frog Canning Company and author of Frog Raising for Pleasure and Profit. With wild populations dwindling, the demand for frog meat was greater than its supply. The market for it had the potential to grow as exponentially as a new stock of frogs could.

Those few pairs of breeders, Broel explained, would produce tens of thousands of tadpoles, and it would take just this one generation to provide a frog farmer with a ready crop. At $5 a dozen (about $100 in today’s dollars), frogs could turn into a fortune. And people leapt at the opportunity. They wrote to Broel for copies of his frog-raising handbook, paid for a full course of frog-based learning, and ordered their breeders to start their own farms.

Frogs being shipped to their new home ponds.

From his base outside of New Orleans, Broel became America’s leading frog canner and promoter of frog culture. In one family portrait, he stands, stout and round-headed, on his cannery’s steps, in a well-tailored white suit. On the step below is his notably taller wife, and the couple is proudly flanked by two white statues of giant frogs, which reportedly had light-up eyes that blinked red in the night.

“I think his story is absolutely amazing,” says his daughter, Bonnie Broel, who keeps a collection of frog memorabilia in her Victorian mansion in New Orleans. “He came to this country and started a brand new business that no one had ever heard of, with nothing.”

Broel was a canny survivor, a descendant of Eastern European nobility, a practitioner of holistic medicine, a real-estate investor, and one of the few people who ever managed to make money from frogs. Because, while starting a frog farm was easy enough, raising frogs to market means fighting nature—and losing.

Bullfrogs can grow very large.

According to the story he told, Albert Broel started his frog business because of his mother. In one version, she had stomach trouble as a young woman. In another she stopped eating meat at 80, doctor’s orders. “As far back as I can remember, my mother used to say: —‘Son, if you want to make a success in life—Raise Frogs,” Broel wrote.

It wasn’t his first choice of profession. After settling in Detroit with a degree in naprapathy, a holistic wellness field focused on connective tissues, Broel opened a medical practice, married, and bought an apartment building. After being chased out of the medical profession for operating without a proper license, he followed his mother’s apocryphal advice. He started growing frogs at a large scale, on a 100-acre farm in Ohio, and experimenting with canning frog meat. With the money he made, in 1933 he moved his family to Louisiana, in search of a better climate for frog farming.

Soon, his business there was growing so rapidly that, he wrote, “my own frog farm and the supply of wild frogs brought in by hunters could not possibly keep the plant in operation.” He started running ads, like the one above, and soon frogs were being delivered to the factory from all over the country.

Broel was on the leading edge of what The New Yorker once called “the frog-farm craze of the thirties.” Newspapers across the country mentioned of the numerous letters they’d received asking for more information about raising frogs, and shared stories about frog entrepreneurs, from “society women” in Tennessee to a Japanese frog-raiser in Los Angeles. After Louisiana, Florida had perhaps the next most ambitious frog-farming operations. One, Southern Industries Inc., offered shares to northern investors in order to expand more quickly.

Among all these frog-minded people, Broel was a giant, “the nation’s largest individual producer of frog legs,” the Central Press reported, and a genius promoter of his product. He canned frog legs and “frog à la king,” and dreamed up recipes for Giant Frog Gumbo, American Giant Bullfrog Pie, Barbecued Giant Bullfrog Sandwiches, Giant Bullfrog Omelet, Giant Bullfrog Pineapple Salad, and more.

Canned frog legs could be prepared many ways, according to Broel.

As the craze grew, though, so did skepticism about the frog business. The industry, the Los Angeles Times wrote, was “somewhat ephemeral.” A Midwest paper compared it to rabbit farming, another get-rich-quick scheme meant to harness the reproductive potential of small food animals. In 1933, the USDA released a bulletin on frog farming that warned, “Within the past fifteen years the bureau has received thousands of inquiries concerning frog raising, but to the present time it has heard of only about three persons or institutions claiming any degree of success.”

That was a far cry from what Broel’s ads and other promotions promised, and in the mid-1930s, the U.S. Postal Service indicted him for mail fraud. “Frog Breeders Leap with Cash,” one newspaper gleefully reported. Broel and a partner had “hopped to New Orleans,” as another reporter put it, after cashing $15,000 worth of checks for instructional brochures.

One of the most egregious claims he’d published was that in 13 years, a man could make $360 billion growing frogs. “I assume it is needless to tell you that I made no such statement,” Broel wrote to one Ohio paper. Someone else had made the calculation, and Broel hadn’t meant to endorse its truth. It was “simply published as I publish all other things of interest to people engage in the frog business,” he wrote. “I think you will agree with me that such a statement is so ridiculous upon its face that it could not seriously influence the judgment of anyone deliberating as to whether or not he should engage in frog raising.”

But people had bought into the hype. Around the same time, one of the other frog-farm success stories, Southern Industries, was facing lawsuits from its investors, who had been promised big returns. After one year, they had still received no money, and demanded to know “why they had received no dividends on their investment in pairs of frogs.”

Frogs ready to be shipped.

One of the major points Broel made in his case for frog farming is that frogs are delicious. In the wild, “everyone” wants to eat frogs, he wrote: snakes, birds, lizards, fish, even hedgehogs. And that intense pressure from predators is the reason for their incredible rates of procreation. A single frog has to lay 10,000 to 20,000 eggs just to have a few of its offspring survive. Tadpoles are born to be disposable.

That’s one of the first problems facing a frog farmer. Most of those potentially profitable, would-be frogs die before reaching marketable size. Fungal diseases can wipe out thousands of frogs in a single season. And as the frogs grow, they have to be protected from hungry predators of all kinds—starting with their own parents. If frog farmers don’t whisk tadpoles away to separate ponds, hungry adult frogs will make meals of them.

Frogs eat a lot, and yet another challenge is keeping adult frogs fed. It takes about one pound of food to grow one-third of a pound of frog meat. Frogs have only one requirement for their meals, but it’s one that makes keeping them on farms very hard. Whatever they eat, whether insects, tiny crabs, or crawfish, has to be moving. “Production of live feed becomes a full-time activity in any frog farming operation,” one government pamphlet warns.

All this work has to go on for years before a frog farmer sees any profit. Whereas chickens, for example, can be raised and slaughtered in months, bullfrogs take two to three years to reach marketable size.

Workers picking frogs at the canning factory.

Even Broel didn’t depend on farmed frogs to feed his canning business. “We buy frogs!” announced a sign outside the company headquarters. Many of his suppliers weren’t farmers at all, but frog hunters who waded into the swamps of Louisiana, where it could be possible to catch 100 frogs in a few hours.

Frog hunting was so popular that the state’s population of wild frogs was declining, though. In his book, Broel used this as a selling point for potential frog farmers, but ultimately it proved the demise of his business. By the end of the 1930s, Louisiana had passed a law restricting the hunting of frogs in the high season, April and May. Cut off from a supply of wild frogs—a void that farming could not fill—Broel shut his canning company down.

“That’s really what put Daddy out of business,” says Bonnie Broel. “I know that he was not able to get enough frogs to maintain the business, even with the demand there was for it.”

Bonnie Broel with her father, Albert.

The American dream of frog farming didn’t die with the craze of the 1930s, though. Even after shutting down the canning factory, Broel kept selling “breeder” frogs. He didn’t grow them anymore, says Bonnie Broel, but rather worked more as a frog middleman.

“We knew if there were brown bags in the fridge, there were frogs in there,” kept in a state of hibernation, she says. “If I couldn’t take a bath, there were frogs in the bathtub, and he would be feeding them live goldfish.”

Decades later, during the 1970s and ’80s, the back-to-the-land movement bred another generation of would-be frog farmers, led by Leonard Slabaugh, owner of Missouri’s Slabaugh Frog Farms. “Supermarket chains and wholesale outlets buy ‘em in enormous quantities. Big restaurants want ‘em shipped out on ice. People come by here and pick ‘em up by the buckets full,” Slabaugh told a reporter for Mother Earth News. “Why, the market is growing continuously all the time.”

Among all the misleading hype of frog farming, this was a core truth. All over the world, people love to eat frogs, and by the end of the last decade, the international market in frog meat was worth about $40 million.

Starting the 1980s, frog farming started growing in Europe, Brazil, and Southeast Asia. Research has improved techniques for raising frogs in artificial ponds, keeping them disease-free, and even convincing them to eat feed pellets or dead insects. (These techniques often involve mechanical swishing of dead insects in water, so that they appear alive.)

And yet, most frog meat sold around the world today still comes from wild populations, which are being hunted down at alarming rates. By 1980, France had so few frogs left that it banned commercial harvesting altogether. After that, India and Bangladesh became the main sources of frog meat for export—until the populations there shrank and new regulations grew.

If I couldn’t take a bath, there were frogs in the bathtub, and he would be feeding them live goldfish.

Now Indonesia is one of the world’s main suppliers of frog meat, and scientists suspect the population there is in danger, too. One recent study found that out of more than 200 samples of commercially available frog meat, only one matched the frog species listed on the label, a commonly sold species, indicating that perhaps this species’ populations had crashed and hunters had moved on to others.

Another group of scientists found that about 200 million frogs are being exported each year, predominantly from Indonesia and China to the European Union and the United States. Factoring in local consumption, a rough estimate puts the number of frogs being taken from the wild each year at around a billion.

As India and Bangladesh discovered, this scale of harvesting leads to larger ecological impacts. Take away frogs’ enormous appetite for live insects, and bug populations boom. Those two countries restricted frog hunting in part because they foresaw a pest problem of plague-like proportions.

“If you look at frogs as a commodity, their dollar value is pretty small,” says Ian Warkentin, one of the biologists who has studied frog markets. “But if you look at the ecological role they are playing, to financially replace all those creatures that are eating insects, it has value that’s way beyond its commercial potential.”

Commercial farming always involves a type of artifice, since it tries to corral and improve upon the foods found out in the wild world. Successful crops are not necessarily the tastiest or the most desirable, but are often the plants and animals that bend most readily to our will, at a profit. Frogs have resisted that sort of control, but our taste for them is strong enough that we still go after them. If anyone does eventually figure out an efficient new way to raise giant frogs for pleasure and profit, perhaps they will finally claim the fortune that Broel imagined.