#and then I’d feel this compulsion to just get a paper bag from somewhere or something to just cover my face so nobody sees it

[kavehater]

It’s crazy cause ever since I was crying the other day, I stopped then looked at the mirror and it’s almost like the face dysmorphia momentarily vanished and I was like maybe …. I am being too hard on myself and that I don’t look like my brain was telling me … and I was so surprised like as if I saw myself for the first time and I just kept staring at my reflection bc I couldn’t believe it like the dysmorphia it was GONE !!! And then I stared so long it came back so booo tomato tomato 🍅🍅🍅🍅

[allthevmff]

Find Afrocurl’s work // AO3 // LJ  interview from vmfictitious // originally posted Mar. 20th, 2011

How did you get into Veronica Mars fandom?

Somewhere in the middle of S2, a friend of mine from high school started to talk about this show and how much I’d like it. At the general description of a high school detective, I borrowed her S1 DVDs and devoured the show in three days.  After that I started to discover fandom, mostly because I used Inigo’s transcripts to keep myself up with what the show was doing before I could watch live.

Shortly after starting the show, I had this job where I spent too much time in an office and was easily bored. I used a bunch of downtime to read fic and post in a message board (FanForum for anyone curious.)  When that job ended (thankfully) I had all of this spare time and just sort of fell into writing.

Were you an experienced writer when you started writing for VM?  If so, what kind of writing had you done, and/or what fandoms had you written for?   If not, was it really intimidating to post your first story?

I’m a little fuzzy on these details right now, but I wasn’t that experienced when I started writing in VM. I think I had a story or two written in The OC before I posted here, but I had some great support from a few friends (sarah_p //  Sarah's Crack ) for one was a big support) when I did post my first story.

What was it about Veronica Mars that interested you?  Why did you feel compelled to write for this particular show?

I really fell for the characters when I started to watch. Veronica was such a compelling character, and as I kept watching I fell more in love with Logan, too. I felt compelled in that post-S2 summer to see the relationship between Logan and Veronica explored (as so many other people did.)

Are you creative in other media for fandom (vidding, icons, etc.)?

I pick up making icons here and there, but I don’t think I have the same skill as many other people do. It’s a different creative medium, and one that I think stretches a different part of my brain.

What was the best moment for you, in fandom?  (Not necessarily a moment in the show, but fandom itself.)

I think it was the moment when I found myself in a position to go to all of these events around LA and San Diego. I found that people around LJ were interested as a result because there was something for people to enjoy that I had been able to capture.

If you had a magic wand, and could change VM fandom in any way, past or present, what would you do?

I wish S3 hadn’t been so divisive—it’s spoiled so many people on the show, and when you still love parts of it, but not all of it, it’s hard to stay positive around other people.

Of your accomplishments in fandom/cyberspace, which are you most proud of?

Weirdly, I think it’s little things I’ve done that bring a smile to my face. Sharing my time with the cast with others in any way. That’s not just the picspams when I went to an event, but these moments where I could get autographs or phone calls to other people. At different times, I’ve been able to make a friend’s birthday just a little brighter with a message from the cast (Sarah and another friend M.)

What’s your favorite VM episode and why?

I go back and forth on this answer all of the time, but I think it’s Ain’t No Magic Mountain High Enough. In part because it was the first episode I remember watching live, and also because I’m a sucker for banter between Logan and Veronica. That whole episode is filled with it, even if they aren’t together as a couple.

What’s your least favorite episode and why?

Blast from the Past—I just can’t get behind the mystery of the week, or what Jackie does to Veronica as a way to keep Wallace to herself.

How do you feel about season 3?

I’m a mixed bag on the subject. I think that the first arc has promise, though it didn’t do much to satisfy my need for Logan and Veronica in a healthy relationship. I’m not a fan of how Piz was introduced, or what his purpose was in the long run.

The Dean O’Dell arc lacks heart (and the Hearst rapist does too when I look at it), and the last five are just all over the place.

In total, I haven’t brought myself to rewatch the whole season since it aired, but I made a promise to myself at some point I would (I plan to live-blog all of the episodes, but I only managed to finish the first three.)

If you met Rob Thomas, what would you say to him?  (Assume that you have taken magical drugs that enable you to not be tongue-tied and you can completely speak your mind.)

I briefly met him and talked to him during season three, but if I could have a longer conversation, I’d really want to understand what his motives were for Logan and Veronica in that season. It seemed that the show always had Logan and Veronica together off screen so that the audience had no real reason to understand those later break-ups.

If you could talk to the writing staff, what question(s) would you have for them?

I’m always interested in some of the specifics of the room—are there any writers who cater to writing for certain characters? What characters do you like to write more than others? I think I’m just interested in their process more than anything else.

Writing

Which story of yours is your favorite, and why?

I’m really a fan of “The Black Hole” because I think it was a different sort of writing exercise for me. I also think I was really into the moment when I wrote it, and it shows. I can’t remember how long it took me to write, but I think it was a pretty quick write once I had the idea solidified in my head.

Are there any stories of yours that are (to your surprise) fan favorites?

Not really a surprise, but I love the reaction I had to Rational Thought. My Piz issues just got one big escape in that piece and everyone who read it had a similar reaction.

Do you (or did you at first) feel uncomfortable posting R or NC17 rated stories?

I think I was a bit apprehensive the first time (especially since it was my first fic in the fandom), but as I’ve written more and more of those fics, I’m more comfortable with the ways of writing it. I also love all of my betas who help me through the mechanics of writing it.

If you could start over and rewrite any of your stories (assume unlimited time and you would be paid for your efforts, because this is a fantasy), which story would you choose, and what changes would you make?

I’m not proud of Compulsion as it was written in the end, so I’d work there and really craft the narrative more than it is now. It’s not that it’s not beta-ed, but that it wasn’t really planned or structured beyond what is written. I think there was promise in the beginning and it floundered.

Do you write for any other fandoms?

I write here and there in a few other fandoms, but most of my work is in VM.  Some of the other shows are harder to get a feel for, so much that I don’t know if I have the character voices down.

Do you write any original works, and if so, can we see any of them?  Have you ever taken any writing classes?  Have you ever published anything? Won any competitions?

I wrote a few pieces of original fic, which are at my writing community. I haven’t been one to take a writing course, but in high school I had an award-winning poem at the local county fair.

That piece, I wrote was in my junior year of high school, spring semester (so let’s call is March 2000.) We had to write an emulation of Langston Hughes’s “I Am”, and I went all out—confused kid to the max. My teacher ate most of it up, and had me submit it to the Fair.  It went on to win the best poem for high schoolers, the best high school piece and Best in Show for all student work. I have three lovely ribbons, a paper weight to show for it.

What other VM author influenced you the most?  Do you have a favorite VM story (by another author)?

I spent most of my time reading things from Loveathons and Fic From Mars when I was reading, so I guess any of those authors. I really love dark_roast’s ( dark_roast) style. I think mutiousmuse and truemyth (TrueMyth) each have some amazing pieces, too. What’s great about being part of fandom is learning how much else you have in common with authors you love. I’m still friends with Musey and Truemyth after I met them at Comic Con in 2006.

Overall, I think my favorite story is Finite Erasure (TW), which puts me in the camp of loving angst. I worked with Trixx (Trixx) as she wrote it and I think I fell for the story she was telling and how much it hurt along the way.

What fanfic do you wish you’d had the idea for and written yourself?

If I had a mind for her particular brand of crazy, I’d have love to have written One True Pair, because the creativity and perspective amaze me.

Who are your favorite traditional authors?  Do you have a favorite book or series?

I love Oscar Wilde’s wit; I love Fitzgerald’s use of flawed characters. When I was in college I became a huge fan of Isaac Bashevis Singer. Sadly I’m not a huge book fan, though I do love words and compelling stories. Persuasion is one of my favorite stories, along with The Alchemist. I found myself more easily distracted by television as a kid and when I do get a book, I tend to read some fluffy chick-lit.

 Getting to Know You

To which character in VM do you feel you are the most similar, or what situation in VM reminds you of your own life?

Even though I don’t write her enough, I feel like I’m a slightly less tech-savvy version of Mac. I wasn’t one to have boyfriends in high school, and I think that just influences my outlook now.

Share a fun memory with us, something related to fandom.

This moment at an event in San Diego where my friends and I spent a good five minutes trying to remember the Eleanor Roosevelt quote from Logan’s voicemail.

Or the time I had Jason write a message to my journal without him really knowing where it was going.

Dog person, cat person, neither or both?

Cat person! My cat Auric loves everyone he meets, and wants to keep me from my computer when I leave it open in his presence. He really loves to sit on my keyboard when I’m not around.

What was the happiest day in your life (that you can share with us)?

December 12, 2000—the day I got into college. I’m pretty lame most of the time.

The apocalypse is on us.  You’ve got five minutes to gather your stuff before you flee (assume that your loved ones are already safe).  What do you take?

This is going to be pretty typical, but my laptop, and external hard drives, so I’m not without my pictures. Maybe a few of my autographs and old-school photos too.

What don’t we know about you, that we should know?

I’m not nearly as interesting as I sound on the internet. ;)

 The Nuts and Bolts of Writing

Do you consider yourself a stickler for grammar, or do you prefer a more casual approach?  Specifically, serial comma: for or against?

I’m weirdly a stickler for grammar when I’m not the one writing. I’m usually for the serial comma, which I blame on years of it being grilled into my head from school.

What grammar issue do you constantly have to struggle with?

 Spelling—I’m horrible at it most of the time.

 Do you have any writing reference books you can’t live without?

 I have a few copies of writing guides tucked away in my garage, but I don’t regularly look at them when I’m writing.

Are you a plotter or a “pantser”? (Do you outline your stories or do you write “by the seat of your pants”?)

It really depends on the story. I have some basic idea of a fic when I start to write it, but there are times when I only know that general outline and other times when I have a better plan.

There’s one story that’s been buried on my computer that’s plotted more than anything else I write. There are notes on how each chapter should work, but I only did that because it was a true multi-chapter fic.

My other fics that have turned into WIPs are not as plotted as they should be.

 What’s your favorite point-of-view to write?

 I love third-person more than anything else. It gives you the flexibility to talk about more than one person in the context of the story.

What type of writing is your favorite to write (dialogue, plot, action, interior monologue, description, sex scene, etc.)?  Your least favorite?

Dialogue—no questions. I love banter as much as anyone else.

My least favorite—probably sex scenes. They’re awkward to figure out, positions, how clinical but not too clinical.

Do you listen to music while you write?  Do you listen to different music depending on what you’re writing?

I do, unless I’m watching TV. My music doesn’t change depending on what I write, though maybe it should. My poor iTunes has been known to be demonic when I read fic, though it doesn’t do that as often when I’m writing.

What inspires you to write?

 I like motivational moments that can drive a point home—so I tend to write shorter pieces that are about emotions instead of plot driven.

What blocks you from writing?

Lack of time. The inability to express what I’m looking for.

 Specifically for Afrocurl!

What surprised you the most about Jason Dohring in person (that you can share with us)?

He’s a genuinely sweet person who adores his fans and what they do for him. I’d never had too many experiences with actors before I met him and he set the stage for being kind to fans.

How is he like Logan?  How is he not like Logan?  Did he do anything that freaked you out after watching him on TV so much?

I think he has Logan’s physical ticks—hair rakes and the like.

 He’s not as precise with language as Logan. In person he’s sort of like any other California guy I’ve met.

Which story of yours would it appall you the most to find out that Jason had read?

The Weevil and Logan story. I think he’d blush and be shocked at the subject more than anything.

Which of your celebrity encounters thrilled you to death, but the rest of world could care less?

The girl who loves politics was thrilled by meeting Justice Scalia at my college. Though I’m sure I’m the only one who can appreciate it now.

We know you do a lot for charities.  Do you have anything coming up that we should know about, that you’d like us to support?

Since Sweet Charity has ended, I haven’t done much work for charity recently. I’ve been a little too busy with the rest of life to help out with the Queensland floods and the like.

What’s your dream job?

Working at a high school teaching either Government or US History, maybe AP if that’s an option.

Your life seems to be going through a lot of changes right now.  How do you see yourself ten years from now?...family, job, hobbies, etc., anything you want to share with us.

I’d love to have a stable job, with friends and family nearby for support. I can’t hope for much else than that right now.

 Find Afrocurl’s work // AO3 // LJ

Source: X

reposted from vmfictitious // originally published on Mar. 20th, 2011

[nicolasnelson]

Sizzie fic - The World Goes Cold [oneshot]

Title: The World Goes Cold Relationship: Lizzie Saltzman/Sebastian Additional Tags: Lizzie’s POV Words: 1,772

Summary: The last thing Lizzie wanted was to stop for gas after her steamy night with Sebastian, but it was better than being stranded in the middle of nowhere.

Requested by anon // Prompt: Sizzie one-shot? Where Sebastian reacts to some guys who try to flirt with Lizzie after their “moment” in 2x08, please? When Sebastian and Lizzie are on their way back to school.

[AO3 LINK]

Lizzie hadn’t planned on having sex on the hood of her dusty old car. But she couldn’t deny that she felt powerful in Sebastian’s arms. That skin-to-skin contact assured her that should Sebastian make her the least bit uncomfortable, she could siphon magic from him and blast him away.

Besides, it had been thoroughly enjoyable. And God, it had been a long time since she’d had sex. She wasn’t sure yet if it meant anything. Guys as good looking as Sebastian had a tendency to leave as soon as they got what they wanted. Maybe they would have sex again. Maybe they wouldn’t. Either way, Lizzie refused to allow herself to care. She was not going to fall in love with that stupid vampire. No matter how charming he was.

“What does that red light mean?” Sebastian asked, pointing to the gas gauge.

“Oh, crap.” Lizzie had forgotten to get gas earlier when she’d been trying to ditch Sebastian in the middle of nowhere. The car was running on empty, with hopefully just enough to get her to the gas station. She shifted into the exit lane and turned into a rickety old gas station.

The fluorescent lights flickered above their heads, buzzing with electricity. It cast everything in an unnaturally harsh light. Lizzie pulled the car to a stop next to the gas pump.

“Elizabeth, would you mind lending me some money so I could acquire something to quench my thirst?” Sebastian grinned at her innocently.

Lizzie glanced over and saw a few guys loitering by the ice box in front of the gas station store. She leveled a glare at Sebastian. “No, I won’t let you snack on anyone here.”

“I wasn’t planning on it, honest. I was thinking I would try a beer made of roots.”

Lizzie lifted an eyebrow. “You mean a root beer? You know that isn’t alcoholic, right?”

“Ah. Well then perhaps a regular beer.”

Lizzie snorted. “You’d have to use compulsion to get that since you’re not old enough to drink.”

Sebastian frowned. “Oh, yes, this country has such ridiculous restrictions on alcohol consumption. I think I could pass for twenty-one though.” He started to reach for the door handle.

Lizzie put an arm across him, barring his path. “Don’t even think about it. They’re going to ask for your ID, and you don’t have one, so tough.”

“Then I shall just use compulsion.”

“Security cameras.” Lizzie nodded to one right in front of the store.

“I may not have been in this modern world for long, but the incessant buzzing of technology is unmistakable. That one and the one inside are silent. Dead.” He smirked, looking so proud of himself.

“No vampire powers. And that’s final. Now you stay in the car.”

Sebastian lifted his hands. “Fine, fine. Refuel your vessel so we may be on our way.” He leaned his elbows against the dashboard, every bit like a sulking cat.

Lizzie sent him one last warning look before stepping out of the car. She selected the gas type she wanted and put the gas nozzle into her car, tapping her foot as she waited.

A wolf whistle sounded behind her, but she didn’t dare glance over at the guys in front of the store. They’d been holding paper bags, no doubt filled with beer bottles or some other substance which would turn them into even bigger idiots than usual. Just a few more gallons, and she could be on her way.

The nozzle clicked, and Lizzie sighed with relief. She maneuvered it back into its slot in the gas pump and clicked on the screen to pay. She swiped her card.

A message popped up on the screen that she needed to go inside to pay. Lizzie huffed, rolling her eyes. This night was taking a turn for the worse. She just wanted to be home at the Salvatore school, where she could finally breathe again.

Lizzie kept her gaze focused on the door of the gas station store as she stalked towards it. She was annoyed to put it mildly, gripped by a determination to get this over with and be gone. She reached for the door handle, prepared to wrench it open, when a guy stepped in front of her.

“Hey, sunshine. How you doing tonight?”

Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Now’s not a good time, or ever, really. I’m in a hurry.”

“Ah, you’re a feisty one. Come on, have a drink with us. You deserve a break.”

Lizzie flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I’d rather not. My boyfriend is in the car, and I’d rather not keep him waiting. You do not want to see him angry.”

He glanced behind her. “There’s no one there, honey.”

Lizzie whirled around. For a second, she had a panicked thought that Sebastian wasn’t real again. Or maybe she had imagined him today. He wasn’t in the car, but the passenger door was open. Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief. He must have gone to get a snack. Damn. But at least she wasn’t going crazy…

“You okay, sugar?”

Lizzie jumped. All three of the guys were in front of her now. Two of them were leaning towards her. It was making her really uncomfortable.

Should she make a run for the car? Sebastian could catch up later. But wait, she hadn’t paid for the gas yet. Did it really matter that much if she didn’t pay?

Lizzie shifted her weight and curled her hands into fists so she could fight if she needed to. One of the guys reached for her hair, commenting on how pretty it looked.

Sebastian appeared out of nowhere and snatched the man’s hand. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said.

Lizzie grabbed Sebastian’s shoulder and siphoned magic from him, then she blasted all three of the humans backwards. “Dickwads!”

Sebastian gave her an amused look. “Do I even want to know what that means?”

“Oh, you know what it means. Now I need you to use compulsion so they won’t remember what happened.”

“So it is only acceptable to use vampire powers when it suits your fancy?”

Lizzie bit back a smile. It was that word. Fancy. It reminded her of how he said he fancied her, and ugh, she needed to stop thinking about that. She couldn’t get too attached to him. “Vampire powers are acceptable when it’s necessary. And hiding magic from the muggles is definitely a necessity.”

“Muggles?” Sebastian asked, eyebrow raised.

“Non-magic people. It’s from Harry Potter. You should really start reading modern literature.”

“I’m not so sure I want to read about a hairy potter, but I am curious to consume more, how do you say it, pop culture.”

Lizzie grimaced. “Whatever. I’m going to pay for the gas and see if the store owner saw anything. He might need to be compulsed too.”

“Are you sure I can’t feed on them?” Sebastian asked, nodding to the three men who were passed out on the ground.

Lizzie glared at him. “No. If you feed on them, you’ll probably end up killing them.”

“But they deserve to be punished.”

“That punishment doesn’t fit the crime. Besides, I already punished them with that blast of magic. They’re going to have the mother of all headaches when they wake up.” Lizzie turned on her heel and went inside to pay.

The store owner had heard the men bump into the wall of the store, but he’d been playing poker on his phone so he hadn’t seen anything. He just assumed the guys were fighting with each other.

Lizzie left the store after paying, relieved that they wouldn’t have to use compulsion on the store owner too. She found Sebastian leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed. The three men were nowhere in sight.

“You didn’t kill them, did you?”

“No, Elizabeth. I am a man of my word. I did not even take a bite, tempting as it was. They’re on their way back home with a new respect for women. Though, I made sure they won’t remember you specifically.”

“Were you jealous?” Lizzie asked, raising an eyebrow. “Is that why you stepped in to ‘save the day?’”

“Jealous? Of those nimwits?” Sebastian made a face. “Hardly. It’s only natural they would be attracted to a creature as beautiful as yourself. They lacked tact, however, and I could tell they were making you uncomfortable. Lucky I was there, right?”

Lizzie rolled her eyes. “I could have handled them, even without using magic. It was just more convenient to siphon magic from you.”

“That's a convenient excuse, eh?”

Lizzie narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you implying?”

“I think you like being rescued from time to time.”

Lizzie scoffed, offended. “I don't. I'm not some damsel in distress.”

“No, far from it.” Sebastian pushed off from the wall and stood inches from her face, his eyes alight with desire. “You know how to take care of yourself, Elizabeth Saltzman. It is one of the qualities about you I most admire.”

Don’t fall for it. Don’t fall for it. Lizzie caught her breath and forced down her feelings. “We need to drive somewhere more remote. I think it’s almost time for our phoenix to be reborn, and I really don’t want him to be in the car when he bursts into flames.”

Sebastian chuckled. “Yes, I must say that would ruin the mood. But once we get back to the school, perhaps you could show me around. I’d very much like to see all the places two people could share a private moment together.”

“Is that your way of asking for more sex?”

“You did say you fancied copulation with me, did you not?”

“I did,” Lizzie said, biting back a smile. Even after all this, she’d been worried he wouldn’t want to sleep with her again. The fact that he was still interested was an anomaly, a Christmas miracle if you will.

“So what will it be, Elizabeth?” he said, taking her hands into his. There was something about that gesture. He was literally putting his life in her hands. She could siphon magic from him and do whatever she wanted to him. She was just as dangerous as him, and he knew it. He respected her power like no one ever had before. And for some strange reason he trusted her.

“One more time. But only because it’s Christmas.”

Sebastian chuckled. “You know it’s not really Christmas, right?”

She batted his shoulder, smiling seductively. “Come on. Don’t you want to find out what happens to handsome vampires on the naughty list?”

[maevefiction]

Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 15

I was seated at the end of a chair grouping outside gate four in terminal two of the airport, luggage screened and checked. The six AM flight had departed without me, and the one PM flight would be leaving from here so it had seemed as good a place as any to wait. It was ten-thirty AM and I was on my fourth Starbucks Caffe Vanilla Frappuccino. I never drank coffee because it made me a jittery mess, but since I was already a jittery mess I figured why the fuck not. At least I’d be a conscious jittery mess this way.

The chairs were brutally uncomfortable, and the fluorescent lighting flickered from time to time, or it appeared to. It could have been from sleep deprivation and anxiety, I supposed. But it didn’t seem to matter much. Nothing did. All I wanted to do was disappear into the void and not have to face any aspect of my reality. Too bad it was never that simple. Not for me, anyway.

I tried to take a nap when I learned there would be no seats available on the six AM flight, but every time I nodded off either Tom’s words or my mother’s face would pop uninvited into my head and jar me awake. Focusing enough to read online or off was impossible, and any song I played on my iPod upset me for some stupid reason. Walking around worked for a while, carryon in tow, moving from place to place, sucking down my Frappuccino and visiting the bathroom every half hour, until I noticed airport security watching me. That’s how I wound up here, sitting down, staring at the walls, reading the signs over and over again and not comprehending a single thing they said. The people walking by were like ghosts, each living a life completely outside of my realm. They smiled, they hugged, and they laughed while I sat waiting to board a jet that would take me somewhere I’d never wanted to be again, where I’d have to gaze upon the lifeless body of a woman I’d never wanted to see again.

And then there was…Tom. I was incredibly angry at myself for growing so attached so quickly, for letting him in. I knew better. But I did it anyway, because…there was that feeling. That this was the person. My person. It was all so fast, but it had felt right. And whether I liked it or not, I loved him. He deserved a chance to explain himself, certainly, but I wasn’t sure I was capable of giving it to him. Some of the things he’d said cut very deeply, and by my own admission forgiveness wasn’t a thing that came easily to me. Yes, he’d been drunk. But that’s the thing about words…once they’re said, you can never take them back. Your state of mind when you speak them is essentially irrelevant if they’re heard and they hurt.

Yet in spite of what had transpired, I missed him terribly already. I wanted him right next to me, warm, present, here. I felt…halved. Alone. And lonely. There had to be an underlying issue that caused him to behave in such a fashion, didn’t there? Or, perhaps the man I saw last night was the real Tom, and the one I’d spent the past two weeks with and thought I’d known was simply proof positive that he was just a better actor than anyone could have ever imagined.

More than anything else, I felt stupid. Stupid for thinking that love at first sight could actually happen, and even stupider for thinking it could happen to me. I was not meant for this. No matter how far I thought I’d come, I would never be more than this broken thing on the inside, a thing that couldn’t even earn the love of its own mother, no matter hard it tried.

My phone rang, and I nearly jumped out of my skin, instantly ejected from my introspection. I thumbed to unlock the screen. It was Tom. Heart pounding, disgusted with myself when I realized that I wanted nothing more than to pick it up, say hello and make everything better, I flung it down on the seat next to me as if I’d been burned.

Four minutes later, the voicemail alert chimed. Staring down at it, I began rubbing my temples and had a lengthy back and forth with myself as to whether or not I should listen to it.

“Eh, fuck it. Let’s see what he has to say. At this stage of the game, I don’t think there’s anything that could make me feel worse than I already do.”  

I clicked, held the phone up to my ear and listened. His voice was several octaves higher than normal, his speech wavering between halting and rambling and filled with anxious panic, reminiscent of a child who’s just realized he’s lost and alone in a strange, unfamiliar place.

“Maude? I…it’s…I don’t know…I slept through my alarm and it’s after ten and we were supposed to be on a plane already but I woke up and you’re gone and all of your things are gone…” He choked back a sob. “And I don’t remember anything from last night after you called me…” Another sob. “I…Maude…what I said…I’m so sorry…I was just…I thought you…didn’t want to…be with me…” He was openly weeping now as he spoke, addressing himself more so than me. “I’m not…I…how did I even get back here? I don’t know…what happened? What did…did…I do? My god, what did I do that made you leave without me?” An agonized, muffled cry, as if from behind a hand-covered mouth. “Where are you, Maude? Why aren’t you here? Please call me. Please. Please.” Another cry, gasping this time, then silence.

My stomach heaved, and this time there was no holding back. I ran for the closest restroom but only made it as far as the garbage can around the corner. I vomited up all four Frappuccinos, then continued to retch long after there was nothing left to be brought forth. I leaned on the rim, face still hovering over the can, until I heard a voice behind me. It was airport security.

“Ma’am? Ma’am? Are you okay? Do you need medical assistance?”

I wiped my mouth with my forearm as I pushed myself into a standing position, shaking like a Chihuahua and wishing I could make myself invisible.

“No, I’m fine. Thanks. Sorry about that. Coffee and I don’t get along very well, apparently. Now I remember why I switched to tea.” I tried to smile, but it just wasn’t happening. He handed me some paper towels.

“Ma’am, if you need to use the restroom I’d be happy to keep an eye on your bag for you.”

I nodded and handed him my carryon but kept my messenger bag. “Thank you so much.”

My reflection in the mirror was gaunt, the dark circles under my eyes highlighted by yesterday’s makeup, which I had forgotten to remove. I looked like I’d been out all night partying, eyeliner smeared, mascara clumped and flaking. I rested my hands on the counter and leaned in closer to my reflection.

“Well, how do you feel, you fucking dumbass? What’s that? You feel….WORSE?” I barked out a laugh, then turned on the tap and rinsed my mouth out by cupping water in my hands, then ran my index finger over my teeth in a crude attempt at brushing. There was toothpaste in my carryon, but there was no way in hell I was going back out for it right now.

Next I washed my face as best I could with the paper ‘towels’ from the dispenser. There was nothing towel-like about them, and my eyes were red as fire after I scrubbed off the makeup, contacts all askew until I blinked repeatedly to get them back where they belonged. I wet two more towels with super cold water, then held them on my eyes for a few minutes. Most of the redness had faded, and I took out my braid and put my hair in a ponytail.

“Better, Maude. Hopefully the dude won’t want to haul you in because he suspects you’re a vagrant. Or a prostitute. Or a drug dealer. Or a terrorist. Or a vagrant, drug dealing, prostituting terrorist.”

He was guarding my bag, as promised, and handed me my phone as I approached him.

“Ma’am, you dropped this. It looks like it’s fine, though.”

I managed to fake a smile this time. “Thanks again. I really appreciate it. Crazy day, you know? I’m on standby for three flights trying to get to New Orleans for my mother’s funeral. Well, two, now. The first one didn’t work out. The next one leaves from this gate…it’s okay if I wait here until I find out if I’ll be on it, right?” I pulled up my confirmations on the phone, grabbed my ID out of my messenger bag and showed them to him.

He nodded. “Sure thing, ma’am. Take care.”

“Thanks.” I sank down in the chair, crushed under the weight of my emotions, feuding with the compulsion to not only call him, but to get in a cab and rush back to the hotel so I could comfort him and alleviate his pain in spite of that which he had caused me.

My phone rang again, and I decided that if it was Tom again I’d pick up. It wasn’t. The screen flashed at me…’Lestat calling’. It was Anne. Good. I needed a healthy dose of anger to get my sad-sack ass back on track. Because bitches get shit done. I hit the answer button.

“Maude, honey, how are you doing? I figured I’d call to check…”

“I’d be doing infinitely better if you hadn’t given the hospice my phone number, that’s for fucking sure.”

She clucked her tongue at me, which made me grip the phone so tightly that my knuckles turned white. “Kiddo, there was no one else to handle all that needed to…”

“Oh, I’m aware of that NOW. Did you know she was divorced this entire time?”

She hesitated. “Maude, listen…”

“You did, you fucking DID. And you never bothered to tell me.”

A sigh escaped her. “You never wanted me to talk about her.”

“Oh, right…like that ever stopped you from going right ahead doing it anyway.”

“In hindsight, perhaps I should have mentioned it.”

“Ya think?” I inhaled deeply, aware that if I continued being so loud I’d be receiving another visit from airport security. “Are you going to tell me what happened between them or do I have to wait until I get there and be blindsided with it by a total stranger?”

“He left her. For an eighteen year old. Who was a senior in high school. They’ve since married and have three children.”

After letting it sink in for a few moments, I began chuckling softly, which quickly evolved into raucous laughter. Unable to regain my composure, I tried to speak through it. “Oh, Anne. You most certainly should have mentioned it. That’s…” I wiped a tear from my eye. “It’s…it’s…fucking hilarious.”  

“Maude, please, she just passed away. And it hurt her terribly when it happened. How could you possibly think it’s amusing?”

My laughter ceased and was replaced with fury. “The same way you could have possibly thought I’d give even the remotest shit if she was alive or dead, Anne. That’s how. And because you, sanctimonious Christian Samaritan that you are, wanted to ensure that she was sent off to your fairytale afterlife properly I’m stuck being the stupid fuck who’s responsible for it all. You know the whole story, Anne. Every bit of it. You mean to tell me you can’t understand why I’d take pleasure in learning that karma finally caught up with her? Seriously? Well, at least now I get why you never told me. If you’ll excuse me, I’m kind of having a massively shitty day here and I need to go.”

As I hit the end call button, I realized my hands were shaking wildly and I felt lightheaded, and that I hadn’t eaten since dinner last night. I hefted my bags over my shoulder and looked at the airport dining map on my phone. Einstein Brothers Bagels sounded promising, and after waiting in line for a shockingly brief five minutes my food was ready. I sat at a table, sucking down a thirty-two ounce Coke while starring down my bacon, egg and cheddar sandwich. I wasn’t at all hungry, but passing out in the airport sounded like it might be a hassle so I forced myself to eat it, trying not to gag as I did so. It was almost eleven-thirty when I finally finished, and I walked back to my spot. My phone dinged. It was a text from Simon.

Are you okay? – S

I had no idea if he knew anything, and if he did, what it was. I hadn’t mentioned a thing to anyone other than Tom via email as to what was going on.

Why wouldn’t I be? – M

Tom called us. – S

Well, then you know that ‘are you okay’ is, like, a totally loaded question. – M

Are you still at the airport? – S

Yeah. First standby was a bust, should know about the second one any minute now. I may or may not have puked in a garbage can earlier and I think airport security may have flagged me as a vagrant, drug dealing, prostituting terrorist. – M

Good to see you still have your sense of humor. – S

Sarcasm is my secret coping mechanism. When the humor goes, you’ll know things are really in the shitter, my friend. How much did he tell you? – M

Too much, like he always does. I’m sorry about your mother. – S

Don’t be. I’m not. – M

Marry me, woman. – S

Seriously, though. How are you holding up? – S

I’m sort of…not? But I don’t want to talk about any of it, just so you know. I need to deal with dead mother first, then I can try to sort out the rest. – M

You know I hear that, sister. Mothers. Bring you screaming into the world, and then they do their best to make sure you keep screaming. And screaming. – S

*virtual high five* - M

If you need me, honey, any time, I’m here, K? – S

Thanks. Love you. – M

Love you too. – S

Shaking my head, I wondered how Luke was handling all this and remembered my assurance that no matter what happened between Tom and me personally, the work would continue as specified and in a professional manner. I frowned as I took my tablet out of my bag and powered it up, checking to see if Tom had done what I’d asked. Everything was posted exactly as I’d specified. The sight of his countenance made my stomach queasy again, and I leaned my head back to let it rest on the wall behind me as I stared at the ceiling and attempted to convince my breakfast to stay put. As soon as the feeling passed, I put my tablet away and texted Luke.

Everything’s still on track for me being in London on the 20th, and I’ll be working wherever I am between now and then. If you need something, have questions, whatever, let me know.  – M

His response was immediate.

I don’t want you giving anything work related a moment of thought right now. Do what you need to do back home, and take your time doing it, all right? If there’s anything I can do to help in some way, let me know. – L

I sighed.

Thank you. Though I can’t help but work…I need the distraction. – M

I’m the same way. We’re here if you need us. – XO L & S

The PA system clicked on and I heard a woman’s voice say my name. “Maude Gallagher, please report to the check in desk. Maude Gallagher, please report to the check in desk. Thank you.”

Got called to check in…maybe this flight is a go. Thanks again, both of you. – XO M

As I made my way to the desk, the initial excitement at the prospect of getting the fuck out of San Diego faded and was replaced with panic as the grim reality of what was waiting for me in New Orleans began to settle in. There were three stations open, and I chose the one with two people in line ahead of me. When my turn came, I presented my ID to the clerk, a blonde woman in her late twenties, if I had to guess. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, and her makeup was perfection…just enough color to make her features stand out, but barely noticeable. And a lip color shade that wasn’t more than a decade old, too. I had the sudden urge to begin reading Vogue and Glamour again, then snickered to myself when I realized I could look up anything and everything beauty related online but had never bothered to do so.

She smiled at me, teeth blindingly white. “May I help you?”

“I was notified via the PA system to report to the check in desk…Maude Gallagher? I’m on standby for two more flights today so I assume you have news for me?”

Her eyes roamed over my ID and her face flushed. “Ms. Gallagher. Right. Follow me, please.” She stepped out from behind the counter and over to her left, into a small alcove at the start of the hallway to the security offices. The first thing I noticed was my luggage piled up against the wall.

I gently grabbed her shoulder. “Wait, why is my…”

And then I noticed that there was someone standing next to my luggage. My brain froze, my heart stopped and my arm slipped from the clerk’s shoulder and fell back to my side. He was wearing his black sweatshirt, hood up, with jeans and those filthy white Vans. Sunglasses hid his eyes from me, and I was torn between wanting to embrace him or punch him in his pretty fucking face.

Seven steps closed the distance between us, and I reminded myself that we were in public and that it was Comic-Con weekend and he was very recognizable, so I’d best try to not make a scene.

I snarled, and my voice came forth in a hiss. “Why the fuck are you here? And what are you doing with my luggage?”

He removed the shades, and his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, tearing up as he tried to meet my gaze. “Maude…I…I know that I’m the last person you want to see right now…”

“Um, no, you aren’t the last. Second to last, probably. Either way, I sure as shit have zero desire to look at you, yet here you are.”

He swallowed and wiped away a tear that had carved out a path through the stubble on his cheek. “I’m so, so sorry. But I had to come. It couldn’t let you sit here waiting and waiting to go do what you have to do when I’ve found a way to get you where you need to be, on time.”

I rolled my eyes as I crossed my arms, subconsciously protecting myself. “Thomas, there are no flights out of here other than my two stand-bys, so unless you have a magic carpet or your own private jet…oh, fuck ME. A charter. Don’t tell me you chartered a fucking jet. Why didn’t I think of that? What a fucking moron I am…I could have been there already.” I put my hand on my forehead, looked down and gazed at a crack in the tile floor.

He reached out to touch my arm, and I yanked it away, glaring at him. His bottom lip quivered, and he inhaled sharply as he tried to rein in his emotions.

“Yes. I chartered a flight. It will depart from Landmark Aviation whenever you’re ready to leave. There’s a car waiting outside.”

As mortifying as it was, desperation easily won out over my anger, and I knew that even if I’d had to sell my soul, if I possessed such a thing, there was no way I was passing this up. The sooner I got to New Orleans, the sooner it would all be finished. Finally finished. I could close the chapter once and for all and move on, though I was now much less sure of what I’d be moving on to than I was twenty-four hours ago. I unstacked my luggage, situated the handles and prepared to head out. “Don’t think for one second that I’m letting you pay for this…I don’t need your fucking charity.”

“Maude, it’s already taken care of, and please, it’s not chari…”

“Fuck you. Email me a bill and I’ll send you a check. Where’s the car?” He tried to take the bags from me. “No. I can schlep around my own shit. I’m not fucking helpless. Speaking of, how did you get your hands on these, anyway? They told me they’d stay checked and go out on the direct flight at four PM and be waiting for me at Louis Armstrong even if I wasn’t on board.”

He put his hands in his pockets and began walking to the main doors, head down. “One of the clerks is a fan. She pulled some strings.”

I didn’t reply, instead dropping back so I could follow his lead. He held the door for me, which I permitted, and walked down to the waiting limousine. I shook my head as the driver leapt out of the car to open the door, then gathered my belongings and placed them in the trunk. As I buckled in, the door opposite me opened and Tom climbed in. My jaw clenched as I turned to him.

“What are you doing?”

“Coming with you.”

“To the airfield?”

“Yes. And then to New Orleans. Because regardless of anything that’s happened between us, you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

My eyes narrowed. “I shouldn’t have to do this at all, and if Anne hadn’t given the hospice my number I wouldn’t be.”

He frowned and shook his head. “Why wouldn’t they already have your information? Did you not know she was ill?”

“Yes. I knew. Anne told me almost two weeks ago.”

His brow furrowed, and it was obvious to me where this was going to end up.

I sighed. “Yes, Tom. I knew she was dying. And I didn’t go see her. And guess what else? I still don’t want to fucking see her.”

His eyes widened, shocked at my statement and disgusted by my coldness. “But Maude, she’s your mother.”

I could feel my face contort into something ugly, something horrible, twisted with pain. “She may have given birth to me, but she was never my mother, and she’s already been dead to me for a very long time.”

He gasped softly, but said nothing. I stared straight ahead and remained that way for the eight minutes it took us to reach Landmark Aviation. The driver opened my door, then Tom’s, and another employee arrived with a cart for our luggage, which they whisked off to the waiting Learjet 35A. The office area was open plan, two floors with a modern design and floor to ceiling windows. I sat in the waiting area while Tom completed all the paperwork, joining him only when the clerk requested my presence so he could obtain all the required identification information. He walked us to the jet, where we were greeted by the pilot who advised it would take approximately four hours to reach New Orleans. I climbed the stairs into the cabin, which consisted of seven seats in dark brown leather. Two chairs faced each other, two were in the rear across from a bench seat, and another bench seat was up front beside the facing chairs. There was a refreshment area with a mini-fridge and microwave, as well as a bathroom. I walked all the way to the back and strapped myself into one of the bench seats, my messenger bag next to me to prevent Tom from sitting near me. I needn’t have worried, as he sat up front with his back towards me.

Our takeoff was perfection, and the pilot announced that we could unbuckle ourselves and move freely about the cabin shortly thereafter. I undid my seat belt but stayed where I was. Tom blew his nose, got up, walked back to where I was and knelt in front of me. He’d taken off his hoodie, his well-worn blue V-neck nearly see-through in the harsh interior lighting. It was obvious that he’d been crying, his eyes bloodshot and still damp.

“It was very, very wrong of me to pass judgement on you like that. Especially after…” He closed his eyes briefly. “It’s just…my mother and I are so close…but I should know better than to assume that everyone is so fortunate. If yours was ill enough to be in hospice and you didn’t want to see her then and don’t want to now, you must have good reason for feeling as you do.”

I turned away from him. He shifted so he was in my line of sight again.

“If you don’t want to be with me any longer after this…” He swallowed. “I…I’ll understand. I won’t want to accept it, but it’s my fault and I’ll do whatever you wish me to do because I love you. But please, let me help you through this. Don’t shut me out.”

I met his gaze, my heart full of ice and my head full of sorrow. “Oh, sure, right. Because letting you in has worked out so well for me.”

He broke down then, right in front of me, placing his hands over his face as he tried to stifle his sobs. He wept until he retched, then got up and went to the lavatory. I heard him vomit several times, and he finally emerged fifteen minutes later and returned to his chair at the front of the cabin. Great, puking all around today. This love stuff is the best.

As I stared at the back of his seat, it crossed my mind that he might be just as broken and lost as I was, and I needed him to know why I was. Right now, even if it was too late to make a difference. I rose and walked up front, then slowly lowered myself into the chair across from him and attempted to put it all into words.

I spoke softly, emotionless. “Tom, we fell into this so very fast, and neither of us reached the point of revealing all we’ve been through. We’re both intelligent enough to know that what happens in someone’s past affects them in the present, no matter how hard they try to deny or avoid it. If you really want to be with me through this, there are things you need to know in order to fully understand me, so you don’t think I’m a monster for not seeing my…mother…when she was dying in hospice, and to help you decide if you want to remain in this relationship.”

He looked at me, a faint smile on his lips at the mention of there still being a relationship to remain in.

“Don’t take that the wrong way…I should have phrased it differently.” His face fell. “I’m not certain where we stand, because I don’t know what I want to do about what occurred last night. But, from an emotional vantage point, I’m one hundred percent certain that I’m incapable of dealing with it at the moment. What I do know is I that can’t let you be a part of this if you’re still completely unaware of everything that…happened. For now, I just want to say my piece and for you to listen. Is that all right with you?”

He nodded.

I leaned back in the chair and began, hands shaking as I tried to keep my voice evenly modulated.

“My parents met in February of 1977, in a pub in Dalkey, Ireland, my father’s hometown. His name was Sean, and he was born in Dublin but grew up in Dalkey. His family wasn’t flat broke, but they were far from what you’d consider middle class and he was bartending at the pub to make ends meet. He was nineteen. My mother, Mary Clarke, was born and raised in Manchester, England. Her father was a prominent solicitor, her mother distantly related to the royal family. Or so she claimed. Either way, they were quite wealthy and had a summer cottage in Dalkey. She was eighteen years old, engaged to an Earl who was in his last year at Oxford University, and due to be married in May of that year. Her and her girlfriends decided to take their last holiday as singles over Valentine’s weekend, staying until the following Sunday. She was Protestant, my father was Catholic, and she felt inspired to sow her wild oats with what she considered to be a ‘bad boy’. He fell madly in love with her after their week together, and she left him high and dry and went back to Manchester. Two months later, she discovered she was pregnant, which was problematic as she had yet to sleep with her fiancé. The engagement was called off, her family publicly disgraced, and her father sent her packing to Dalkey and forced her to marry my father lest she be completely disinherited. They married and immigrated to the states, my maternal grandfather having used his connections to find him a position with Exxon, working on an oil rig off the coast of New Orleans.”

I paused, and Tom reached over to the mini-fridge and handed me a bottle of water, which I cracked open and drank greedily.

“Thanks. She hated New Orleans, but her narcissistic personality disorder made her want to not only fit in, but stand out. Her father paid for the trip over and got them set up in a two bedroom apartment, but after that he cut her off completely. Even more than New Orleans itself, she hated being ‘poor’ in New Orleans. She often spent all the funds designated for bills on clothes, which meant my father was never around, because in addition to his week-long shifts he worked overtime on the weekends to make up for her expenditures. She desperately wanted to live in the Garden District, but settled for being a big fish in a little pond, working her magic to impress the women who resided near our apartment building, even adopting a southern accent so she could pretend to be native to the area. When I came early on Halloween, she was thrilled that she’d had a little girl and began habitually dressing me up and showing me off to all her new friends, but that didn’t last long. One of the first things I remember is her combing my hair roughly as she tried using some smelly product to straighten it, telling me she wished it was red like my father’s and straight like hers, instead of this dingy brown bird’s nest of unattractive curls. I couldn’t have been more than three.”

I swallowed, hard. “I wasn’t what she expected, I guess. Puberty began early for me, when I was around eight or so, and I put on some weight, as most girls do. She made fun of me in front of anyone willing to listen, called me fat, forced me to diet and exercise, and told me that she was disappointed I’d turned out to be so ugly, that I embarrassed her and made her look like a terrible mother.”

He cringed, and I saw his hand reach for me, then retract.

“By that time, my father had moved up the ladder at Exxon and was on his way to being an executive, so he was home with us most evenings and weekends instead of being out on the rigs. She’d always been a drinker, but mainly socially. His being around so much seemed to trigger something in her, and just like that, we were living with a full-blown alcoholic. Every day began with a swig from the bottle of vodka she kept on her nightstand, and I rarely saw her without a drink in her hand. She’d rage around the house at all hours, coming into my room in the middle of the night to scream at me for something I’d done that had offended her in some way, sometimes dragging me out of bed to rectify whatever mistake she thought I’d made. My father would try to reason with her, but she’d threaten to divorce him and he’d back off and leave her to her own devices. She was the love of his life, and he would have done anything to keep her. We wound up being asked to leave our apartment building because of all the complaints from the neighbors, and my father found a single family home for us to rent in an attempt to cover it all up. That’s just what people did then, I guess. Keeping up appearances, hiding the truth.”

I got up from my chair. “Sorry, need to use the bathroom.”

After peeing and washing my hands, I splashed some water on my face but refrained from looking in the mirror, afraid of what I’d see staring back at me. He was pacing when I came out, but sat down again as I did.

“In 1988, my maternal grandfather died and my mother inherited a sizable sum of money. She lost herself in the process of buying and remodeling our home in the Garden District and the drinking diminished significantly…at least until she realized that no matter how expensive her clothes were or that we had a live-in housekeeper and a French chef, the women of the neighborhood who’d been there for generations would never accept her as one of their own. When Anne met my father at a Sunday service, my mother suddenly wanted to convert to Catholicism, hoping ties with one of the area’s most famous residents would improve her standing. She changed her mind when she found out that Anne was sober and had no qualms about pushing those around her to live the same lifestyle. The drinking escalated again, and by the time I was thirteen I was spending every moment possible at the New Orleans Public Library, or at Anne’s, or wherever else I could go that wasn’t home.”

Tom offered me another water, which I accepted. I’d been trying to avoid his gaze, but his hand grazed mine as he handed me the bottle and our eyes locked. We stared at each other briefly, then quickly looked away.

“School was a blessing for me in many ways, in spite of the fact that I was teased and bullied frequently. I was smart, weird, and chubby…not exactly a winning combination. By the time I entered high school, I started to come into my own and stand up for myself amongst my peers, but at home I was still meek, always walking on eggshells. If I got a ninety-nine on a test, she wanted to know why it wasn’t a hundred. If I got an A, why wasn’t it an A+? Nothing I did was good enough. Ever. No matter how hard I tried, there was no pleasing her. I started hiding out in my room after I conned our chef into helping me put a slide bolt on the inside of the door. That was my sanctuary, where I read, I drew, I danced, and I sang. For my sixteenth birthday I asked for a computer instead of a car, and it changed my life. I tore it apart and put it back together again, learned everything about it, inside and out. It became my passion, and knowing that I could do something that not many others could was such a powerful feeling. The real turning point came at the start my senior year when I was awarded the full scholarship to NYIT. She was adamant that no daughter of hers was going to go away to school in New York City and study such a stupid subject that was meant for men. It was the first time I lost my shit on her, and the first time that my father backed me up. She refused to contribute any money, so he sold some of his Exxon stock and bought me an apartment in Manhattan so I wouldn’t have to stay in a dorm. Or, I should say, my apartment. Because I still live in it. Sometimes.”

I smiled sadly, remembering how proud he’d been of me, and so happy that he’d been able to help me on the path to making my own way in the world. “College was…amazing. I was away from my mother, spending every day learning in the company of people who were like…me. I put on my ‘freshman fifteen’ and then some, but no one cared. We were all nerds, and what was inside was far more intriguing than what was on the outside. I met Erik Lund in my Comp Sci I class, and over the course of the first semester we became very good friends, taking in all that New York had to offer when we weren’t delving into the wonder that was the World Wide Web. It was 1995, and the hacking scene was exploding…god, we had so much fun trying to crack codes and get in through back doors, even if all we wound up finding was someone’s resume. It was if a new world had been created, one that belonged solely to us. Over Christmas break, I came to the stunning realization that I’d developed feelings for him, and when class was back in session he confessed that he felt the same way. We fell in love, a little bit at a time. I invited him back to New Orleans for spring break, and he couldn’t wait to see where I’d grown up. I guess I’d pushed all thoughts of my mother out of my mind, forgetting what she was capable of. From the moment he walked into the house she began criticizing everything about him. He was stocky, his hairline already receding, and, like me, he didn’t really give a remote shit about what he wore. And I thought everything about him was…beautiful. Right in front of him, she told me that even an ugly fat girl like me could do better. We left immediately and spent the rest of the week in my apartment in the city, slept together for the first time, and he officially moved in three weeks later. I took a summer class so I wouldn’t have to go home, but I’d agreed to be a bridesmaid for a close high school friend who was getting married over Labor Day weekend, so I had to fly back for the wedding. I wanted Erik to come with me, but my mother would be in attendance and I didn’t want to subject him to her insanity again, so he went back home to upstate New York to spend time with his family instead.”

I could feel my heart starting to race, and I closed my eyes and bit my lip, trying to calm myself down.

“I got a phone call the day after the wedding from one of Erik’s friends. He’d been killed in a car accident the night before, hit by a drunk driver doing eighty miles an hour in a forty-five mile an hour zone who crossed over the middle line.”

My mind took me back to that moment, how I’d said no, that can’t be right, it must be a mistake, how I’d fallen to the floor as the truth sank in, wishing I’d died with him. And later, how my mother had smirked when I told her the news.  

“I flew to New York for his funeral, and two weeks later I found out I was pregnant. My mother tried to convince me to have an abortion, but I refused. It was the last thing that remained of him, a living piece of himself he’d left behind for me. His legacy. I decided to quit school, stay in New Orleans and raise the baby on my own. A few days later, I miscarried.”

Tom sniffled, and I looked up to see tears flowing, his hands gripping the armrests as he fought to stay in his seat. I wanted him to hold me, more than anything else. But I just…couldn’t.

“My heart was broken. I felt like there was no point to anything anymore, and that’s when I started drinking. First, I snuck booze from my mother’s stash. Then I had a fake ID made and started going out to bars every night, staying past close and staggering home to sleep the day away. I wasn’t eating, so I lost a ton of weight. My mother made it a point to compliment me on how thin I’d gotten. During Mardi Gras of 1997, I met Will Bonaventura. He had long, dark curly hair, dark brown eyes…Spanish creole, going back three generations. I was drunk and singing karaoke, and after he heard me he asked me if I wanted to sing with his band. He played lead guitar, and I figured it was a great excuse to party. You know, ‘hey, I’m not a drunk, I’m an artist’. I moved into his shitty apartment and continued my binging. That’s really all we had in common…partying. That and music. One weekend we decided to drive to Las Vegas for a Battle of the Bands, and I drank so much I blacked out and woke up with a ring on my finger and a photo of us with the Elvis impersonator who’d married us. He said he remembered everything that had happened, that I said I’d loved him, but it was all…blank…for me. Once we got back to New Orleans and he met my family the abuse started. Just verbal initially, constantly belittling me, accusing me of cheating, calling me a slut, telling me he was going to find someone better. My solution was to drink more. I started when I opened my eyes and didn’t stop until they closed. Time just passed, and I…slipped away. More than a year had gone by when he finally hit me. It was early in the morning so I wasn’t totally blotto yet, and got in his face after he started his shit and told him that usually people who accuse their partners of cheating are the ones who are being unfaithful, and he punched me in the face and called me a worthless whore.”

I watched Tom’s grip tighten, and thought he was going to rip the armrest right off the chair.

“I hit him in the head with a rum bottle, and he left for a few days. He never touched me again, for any reason. A month or two later, my father came over to the apartment. He told me I needed to stop drinking, that I had my whole life ahead of me and that he didn’t want me to wind up like my mother, that I needed to get away from her and New Orleans, that I was brilliant and I had to go out and make my life mean something. He apologized for letting his love for my mother blind him for all those years as to how much she hurt me. We embraced, and he was gone as quickly as he’d come. The next morning Anne called me to tell me that he’d killed himself. My mother found him in his study. He’d shot himself in the head with a revolver.”

Tom opened his mouth and started to speak, but I held up my hand to silence him. I was almost there, almost done.

“I haven’t taken another drink since that day. After the funeral, Will was nowhere to be found. My father had left me all of his remaining Exxon stock, which of course pissed my mother off to no end, and I decided to cash it in and move back to New York a week after we buried him. I already had a place to live rent free, and I wouldn’t need to worry about money for a while. I packed up what I wanted to bring with me, which didn’t even fill an entire suitcase, and headed over to what was now my mother’s house to confront her about being such an evil cunt my entire life before I left. When I got there, the door was unlocked, so I went inside. I could hear her moaning and screaming and chanting ‘oh god yes, yes, harder, harder’ and it was like someone flipped a switch and I saw red. I ran up the marble staircase and could see that the door to their…her bedroom was open and as I got closer I yelled ‘He hasn’t even been dead for two weeks and you’re already fucking someone else you enormous piece of shit?!’. When I stepped into the room, there was Will, naked and on top of her. He rolled off, grinned at me, and she said in her stupid fucking fake southern accent ‘Actually, we’ve been fucking for months already. See, Maude, that’s the thing about women like you. Sure, y’all might manage to get yourself a man, and hell, he might even stick around for a little while, but you’ll never be able to hang on to him. They’ll always leave you the second they find someone prettier. And thinner. Always.’. That was the last thing she ever said to me. I left town, and I found out from Anne that she’d told my father she was having an affair, was in love with Will and wanted a divorce, which is why he killed himself…he’d mailed his suicide note to Anne because he knew if he left it at the house, my mother would have made it disappear. I filed for divorce immediately, and as soon as it was final two months later, in August of 1998, Will married my mother. I didn’t know it until last night, but they divorced in 2007, which is why I’m the only remaining next of kin.”

I took a deep breath. “I guess the thing that sticks out most is that I have not a single memory of her touching me, holding me, or telling me that she loved me, unless someone else was watching. I was just a pawn for her, an object, just another thing to use to get what she wanted. And when that didn’t work any longer, she focused all of her anger on me, blaming me for everything that had gone wrong in her life, and what she then wanted more than anything else was to see me fail. Over and over again.”

I raised my hands, palms up. “So, there you have it. That’s who I am, what I am. The progeny of a narcissistic alcoholic and her love blinded enabler who’s already been pregnant, married and divorced. Used goods, broken down, badly damaged, always waiting to be replaced. Reasonably acceptable for fucking, but thoroughly unsuitable for an actual relationship.”

As I stood, he leapt up from his chair and tried to embrace me. I shook my head, put my hands on his chest and pushed him away gently, then went to sit back on the bench. He sat back down, head in his hands, sobbing again. I took out my iPod, put in my earbuds, cranked up the volume and leaned my head on the window. I stared blankly out at the sky, my self-imposed isolation the only thing preventing me from losing control of myself and falling apart. Which I refused to do. Because it was the only thing I had left to hold onto.

********************************** There was darkness, and I felt arms reach around me, hands on my lower back and below, fumbling, searching. They found what they were looking for, and I felt something slide along my back and then up around my waist. A strong scent hit my nostrils, one I recognized but couldn’t place. I inhaled again. Tom. A click from down near my belly button. I tried to open my eyes, but the lids were just too heavy. Then, the feel of something soft and warm being pulled up over me as I drifted away.

A loud voice saying ‘We’re now approaching MSY, landing in ten.’ jarred me fully awake, my eyes flying open. I was unsure of where I was for a brief span, but then everything came flooding back at once. I looked around in a panic. A pillow had been placed between my head and the window, and a blanket covered everything but my feet. I pushed it off me, then glanced to my right and saw my iPod and earbuds resting next to my messenger bag, along with a bag of Lindor truffles. Then my eyes found Tom, seated in the chair across from me. As I studied his face, his shirt, his hands, his knees, all of him, a cyclone of emotions overwhelmed me and I realized that I was no longer numb.

The left corner of his mouth turned up in a sad half-smile. “Hope you don’t mind that I took your headphones out and gave you a pillow and blanket. You fell asleep almost immediately, and I figured you needed the rest and didn’t want the music to awaken you, or for you to wind up with a stiff neck, or be cold. And I apologize for touching you without your permission when I buckled you in…the pilot announced…”

And just like that, I saw him again. Tom. He knew everything, and he still cared for me.  

I shook my head, interrupting him. “It’s all fine. Thank you.” I pointed at the blanket and pillow. “For these.” Then at the truffles. “For those.” Then waved my hands and ran my gaze around the cockpit. “And this.” My eyes met his. “And for wanting to be here. And for listening.” I pointed at the truffles again. “But especially for those.”

He laughed softly, and I smiled, then bit my lower lip.

“Tom, how did you know I’d still be at the airport?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t.”

“What was your plan if I hadn’t been there?”

He leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Take the jet myself and wait for you to arrive at Louis Armstrong.”

“I might not have gotten there for another day. Or two.”

“I had no intentions of ever leaving that airport without you by my side.”

What I wanted to do, what I needed to do about last night became abundantly clear to me.

“Did you book a room yet?”

He looked down briefly, then back up at me, face red. “Yes. At the Prytania Park Hotel. I chose a double queen, in case you preferred to not sleep with…to have your own bed. They’re separate, one on the main floor and the other up a spiral staircase so you’ll have…”

I interrupted him again. “How about a car?”

“Yes. A rental. I won’t know what make and model until we get there.”

“Thanks for taking care of it all. After we land, I’d like to go directly to Passages Hospice and get…that…over with. Once we’re checked in to the hotel, there’s something I want you to do.”

His jaw twitched, then he nodded. “Anything.”

“I want you to tell me why. Why you reacted the way you did after we ran into Norman. Why you got so drunk. Why you said those things to me. And, most importantly, I want you to tell me why it is that your life became so dark.”

He paled, folded himself in half, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. After a few moments he sat up and ran his hands through his hair, then began touching his neck. He was breathing through his mouth, fear in his eyes.

“Maude. I…I..” He shook his head. “I’m afraid if I tell you, I may lose you.”

I put my hand on his knee, and he looked frantically back and forth from my hand to my face, shocked at my touch.

“Thomas, you’re definitely going to lose me if you don’t tell me.”

As the jet touched down I removed my hand. He was looking down, eyes darting to and fro. The cabin door opened, the steps lowered. I unbuckled my seat belt, put my iPod and the truffles in my messenger bag, then headed for the door. Tom followed.

As I stepped outside, the oppressive humidity and smells of the city washed over me, drowning me in memories. I proceeded down the stairs, and as my feet made contact with the tarmac it hit me that I was…back. In the place I’d vowed to never be again. The place that had taken from me so much more than anyone should ever have to give. The place where I’d lost everything. I could feel the panic rising, and as I lifted my hand to place it on my chest in an attempt to calm down, Tom took it in his. I stared straight ahead as our fingers intertwined, then stepped forward as he squeezed gently. I squeezed back, and we slowly made our way toward the gates, the pilot pulling our luggage on a cart behind us.

[airanddust]

A day in isolation

Day I don’t even know. It’s March 27. I should be packed and ready for a trip to Japan, but that was cancelled a month ago. We should have been there to see the cherry blossoms and stay in a cramped Osaka hotel room. Now, as the meme says, we will be going to “Los Kitchenos.”

My mornings start with a sense of reluctance. Sailor nudges my leg two minutes before my 7 am alarm. I used to wake up at 6, which, since the time change, is now 7, but I haven’t been to the office since then so I’ve been waking up at this time for…three weeks. Since March 5.

I feed the dogs, stumble in the wan light to pull open the blinds, flip on my Happy Light, and unfurl my thick purple yoga mat. I don’t bother with the toning yoga videos anymore. It’s all stretches and relaxation practices. I choose fifteen or twenty minutes, or thirty if I didn’t hit snooze and feel luxurious. I tilt my spine side to side in tabletop position, hands and feet against the ribbed mat. A catch releases somewhere in my back.

The first downward dog is always a balm for my calves. My right leg is a block of concrete, stiff and unmoving after an uncomfortable night. I often wake to find myself jammed against one shoulder, or with a hand tingling, or my hip screaming so loudly it pulls me from a dream.

I work through the flow and inevitably need a tissue when my body spurts up some gunk that went dormant overnight. Clarity returns to my sinuses. I feel a little less hatred for the day ahead. It almost feels like a normal day.

Since stocking up for the vacation-apocalypse, I now have a myriad of breakfast choices as compared to my typical instant oatmeal packet or protein shake. I could have protein waffles, banana bread, strawberries, string cheese, or cinnamon raisin bread that Robert made, wide and puffy. 

I read the Bible while I eat. I used to read it on my YouVersion app, but that was creating a too-addictive don’t-break-the-chain habit (I got to 100 days this year), and the reading didn’t go deep. I switched to the mid-Psalms in my fifteen-year-old NASB college Bible and starting journaling my SOAP —  another unfortunate acronym, but a helpful one I gleaned from our church’s online messages. Scripture, Observation, Application, Prayer. It helps me identify what most speaks to me in a passage and consider it more closely. Today it’s Psalm 41.

I have fifteen minutes to write, perched on the edge of my dilapidated former office chair, which has lost two silver wheels and now sits disabled next to my desk. I realized I need a separate space, even if it’s just a seat two feet from my office chair, in which to write and thus separate myself from work.

I check newsletters in my email. The Denison Forum, the New York Times briefing, the Hustle, Briefingday, and, on Fridays, Girls’ Night In. I take a quick scroll through Instagram. Sometimes I watch a few stories from my favorite fashion bloggers. Then I lift the lid of my work MacBook Pro.

It’s time to work, but the thought of eight hours ahead of me is nearly paralyzing. I usually open Trello, where I’ve divided my tasks into To Do, Doing, and Done, but today I try Marie Forleo’s handwritten method of finishing the sentence “The one thing I will accomplish today is…” Today, it is sketching and mocking up a grid view for car sensors.

Then the Slack messages come in. I removed Slack from my phone at the advice of a coworker — “only I can give myself anxiety; Slack doesn’t have that privilege” — but the desktop app still manages to contribute to the low-grade anxiety that I will miss a critical conversation. I disabled the red badge of death. I turned on Do Not Disturb. Yet I still compulsively open Slack every ten minutes. Working remotely seems to make me eager to prove I’m around, available, not goofing off, and I don’t get into that deep zone of focus I need. But I try. I turn on an instrumental playlist from Spotify — it only recommends classical and movie scores for me now — and clump my old, cheap Amazon headphones over my ears.

My cat Nala weaves in between my keyboard and monitor. She flips onto her back and splays her legs out, falls asleep, and spreads ever so subtly until her back leg shoves my keyboard to the far edge of the desk, where I am now forced to sit diagonal to my computer. If I shut her out of the office, she scratches the door and makes pleading guttural noises, but in the office, she seems to know when I have a Zoom meeting and pretends to run an agility course. More than twice I’ve had to introduce her to coworkers when she hops between me and the webcam, leaving a dark tail in her wake.

We had catered lunch daily at the office. Now we fend for ourselves. This week I wrote down a semi-meal plan, and today I pull two red-topped plastic containers from the fridge to mix Thai ground beef with leftover Kraft Mac and cheese. I microwave it until it’s a strangely humid combination of cuisines.

I read the latest edition of Real Simple while I eat. The magazine came bagged in a plastic sheath, which I peeled off and threw away before washing my hands. I know the content was created months ago before this virus existed, and yet it’s still odd to read something so remarkably free of Covid-19. There is, however, a spring cleaning feature that explains the difference between sanitizing and disinfecting. That reminds me we only have a handful of Clorox wipes left. When we run out I’ve thought of dipping paper towels into the leftover solution at the bottom of the canister. I haven’t been super diligent about wiping down surfaces, but then again, we don’t go out much. I haven’t been outside in two days.

I return to my desk and mindlessly nibble on a Seattle Chocolate Double Distilled Mint bar. I eventually return to the kitchen to make DIY milk tea — cold Lipton with a splash of milk, mixed in my reusable boba tea tumbler. I didn’t think I could tolerate caffeine, but the iced tea has just enough to propel me through the rest of the workday. I don’t have tapioca to add but that’s okay. There are apparently sixty-eight carbs per serving of boba. I’m already eating too much. We stocked up on rice cakes, bananas, peanut butter, oatmeal, canned soup, dried pineapple, Pop-Tarts, and granola. Five-year-old me is constantly aware of this and always planning my next trip to the kitchen.

At three I join a few coworkers for what we call Zoom-ba, our virtual dance session, where I share a pre-made YouTube playlist and we dance in tiny thumbnail windows with each other. Our favorite instructor is a guy named Mao who wears bright colors and dances on a pier somewhere over tropical waters. It helps us feel less like we’re trapped in our small, dark homes.

After an hour more of work, I join another Zoom call to work out with friends who exercise with me almost daily now. Today we do legs. Last time we did abs, which, for some reason, left Laura with sore arms and me with achy glutes. We’re still figuring out how to do this. We place our laptops on chairs and the floor and follow an impossibly fit woman on YouTube.

Sweaty and tired, I tell my friends goodbye and pull up Instagram to watch the nightly fireside chat from my favorite finance author. It’s comforting to have this small slice of a predictable schedule: to know that every night, he’ll appear on my screen at 5:30. After this I don’t know what I’ll do. Maybe eat, or walk the dogs.

Robert makes mashed potatoes in the Instant Pot, and a thick, starchy scent wafts through the house. The Instagram Live ends and I join him for small plates of mashed potatoes with canned green beans. It feels sort of like a survival meal. We forgot to defrost any meat. I know I’ll be hungry later.

It’s raining so we don’t walk the dogs. Instead, we finish watching the first season of Altered Carbon, which I wasn’t sure I’d even want to finish watching. I don’t like how the story is ending. I also realize that with each show I watch, I’m wondering why the actors stand so close to each other. It hasn’t even been six months since all of this started. Will I think this way about every show from now on?

After the show ends Robert goes to his home office and I go to mine, where I open Skillshare for the next new routine I’ve established: learning Spanish. A coworker mentioned it could be a good way to pass the time, and since we have several Spanish-speaking friends and I love Zumba music, I’d like to learn it. I sit in front of my laptop and repeat words to the screen.

Some nights I make a tiny zine out of a sheet of printer paper. I think I’m putting too much on my plate. My creativity feels dried up, restless, and I end up on Twitter or some other internet rabbit hole. I don’t want to look back and see that every decision I made during this time was reactionary, but some days I don’t feel like I can muster much more than that.

Before brushing my teeth and washing my face, I go through my planner, make sure I did everything I wanted to do today. I realize how crude that sounds when, as some articles tell me, I shouldn’t be focused on output during a time of global crisis. But I feel listless without these goals. I need something to put me in motion, even if only for distraction.

Now I’m in bed. I have a stack of library books procured hours before the library shut down, but I don’t always read them. I keep one on my nightstand just in case. I’ll probably watch Robert play Animal Crossing on the Switch until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore. The music and repetitive actions are calming. Boring. Kind of like life used to be.

I fall asleep.

[astoldbyacertifiedunicorn]

Lighter Strokes

I haven't written in a while I know (🙈) but I promise I'll write more after next week! Anyway, this story was never gonna get published until @japril12 and @japrilgreys read it and liked it and thought I should publish it. 🙈 Thank you, you two 💛 If you've watched The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2, the inspiration will be obvious. If not, just watch Jesse's scenes in it on YouTube, you will not regret it 😏 xxx "You should take an elective." She turns to her roommate, who's sitting on her bed, legs drawn under her, flipping through an old edition of Vogue. She's a short, pixie haired girl, who may come across as tiny and non threatening, however was anything but. April didn't mind at all. Reed was lovely to her, and she warded off any unwanted male attention from April with one glance towards the frat boys. "I'm a med student, I don't need an elective. I already have enough and more work. You just want me to take an art class with you." April plops herself down next to her friend, and falls back on the bed, her feet dangling in front of her. "True," Reed nods, "But I also think you'll really enjoy it. It'll be different, refreshing." April sits up a little, leaning back on her forearms, "You just want to brownie points with Mr.Gavin." "Nadeen," Reed, corrects her, "We're on a first name basis." "He's your teacher!" April exclaims. "He's my very attractive, really sexy, painter teacher, yes," Reed sighs, a wistful look in her eyes, "Oh come on! This is college, not high school. I'm allowed." "It's still weird." April says, rolling her eyes. "Whatever," Reed replies, turning her body to face her friend, "If I bring you in, it'll make me look good. Like in recruiting people for his class." April groans at her plan, knowing full well that once Reed make s up her mind on something, she wasn't letting it go. "I'm not getting out of this one, am I? "Nope! I already signed you up." She smirks, and quickly jumps away from April's vicinity when the red head throws a magazine toward her. "Gotta go, bye, love you." Reed sprints out of the door, leaving behind a slightly frustrated April. Her classes have been tough, and she's always been a massive nerd, but even she's willing to admit medical school wasn't easy in the slightest. Top it all off, she already misses her best friend Amy, and even her ex boyfriend, Bright. They've begun to get on better terms since their break up, and she really wishes they were here. Maybe, this art class will be good for her. She's always loved to paint, and she'll probably drop it after about two classes. She only intends to stay long enough to appease Reed. She walks with Reed to class the next day, and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't a little excited. It would be a great break from all the endless array of strange information about the human body. She needs a break, and Reed was right, this just might be the perfect way. She walks into the classroom, white walls, covered here and there with paintings, and sketches. In the middle there was a small, round podium, surrounded by easels placed next to one another. She took a seat on one next to Reed's and places her bag on the floor. "Morning, class, settle down," Mr.Gavin begins, walking to the front of the class, motioning everyone to take their seats, "So, as I promised last week, we'll be starting figure art. This is a very difficult skill, and only a few of you will be able to perfect it. Nevertheless, I'd like to see you all try. Draw as much as you can of the nude model in today's class. Don't rush it. This will be your lesson for the rest of the month." April's eyes widen, and she takes a minute to understand if she's heard him clearly. She whips her neck in Reed's direction, and she sees her enraptured with their teacher. "Reed! Reed!" She hisses, and finally the her friend glances her way, a little pissed off from being distracted. "What?!" "What does he mean, nude drawings?!" "Oh, I think it slipped my mind. This month we're drawing naked portraits?" "Of who?!" April is more than a little furious that this, very intentionally, slipped her friend's mind. "I don't know, this model Nadeen is bringing in. He's a student from another faculty, I think. I mean, Nadeen should've just done the job himself, I certainly wouldn't be compla-" "REED!" She says, a little louder than she expects, which earns her a narrowed eyed look from her professor, who clearly wasn't a fan of being interrupted. "Shut up, I'm concentrating." Reed says, waving her off with her hands. "Reed, the model is going to be naked! I'm going to see a naked model! Reed.... Reed!" April looks around the room for a second, mildly contemplating whether or not to make a run for it. "Oh.... wait, is this the first guy you're going to-" "Yes!" "Oh," Reed actually manages to look genuinely abashed, "You're going to kill me aren't you?" "The moment this is over." Mr.Gavin clasp, getting their attention, and the bickering is put to an end, "So, I'm going to bring in our model. Jackson, come in." For a second April forgets that she's about to see this man stark naked. He is beautiful. That's the only word she can think of. Handsome doesn't do him justice. She didn't think people that looked like him were real. But there he was, in all his dark skinned, perfectly crafted cheekbone, mess of thick black curl, glory. It takes her a second to remind to herself to tear her eyes off of him, and blush deeply when she realsies he's seen her gawking. "I wish he was the first guy I saw naked." Reed whispers next to her, and she feels the compulsive need to smack her. He gets up in the podium, and April takes a second to wonder how he's so perfectly calm considering he's about to strip naked in front of a group of total strangers. Probably helps to look like that, she guesses. He steps up, and she realises how incredibly tall he is. She glances up, and notices how his eyes have focused on her, almost permanently. He's not breaking eye contact, and when her eyes focus on his, he lightly smirks at her. She coughs quietly, and quickly looks away, forcing her eyes on the blank canvas. The strategy lasts for a whole of 5 seconds, as she steals a quick glance, trying to be as discreet as possible towards him. He's removing his shirt, and she realizes that when she thought he was perfect before, he's even more perfect now. Her eyes dart over his long, chiseled torso. Her eyes roam down his body, and her eyes stop at the trail of thin hair leading down to..... Her eyes avert from his pants, that he's in the process of tugging down. She has nowhere to look, so she ends up glancing at his face once more, and sees him once more smirking at her. He looks cocky, but there's some teasing to his cockiness, as opposed to vanity. She has a feeling it's quite obvious that she's slightly overwhelmed by him. He takes his pants into his hands and tosses them gently away from the podium, and it lands on the floor. Around her she can hear the whole class come to life, pencils scratching lead against paper, rustling of sheets, while she stops and stares at the blank canvas, her pencil idling on the easel. "Oh my sweet-" Reed doesn't finish her sentence, but lets it hang in the air. April hasn't seen many naked men in her life, okay, so she hasn't any naked men in her life that weren't pictures or drawings for her coursework. Yet, she was pretty certain that Jackson was a little exceptional.... in more ways than one. It.... was perfect. It was also very hard not to stare fixatedly at.... it. It was quite... the proportion. Let's just say, it would take a a few more classes to draw.... fully, April thought. She gulps, nervously picking up the pencil, and then instantly drops it. She smiles apologetically at the class of frowning students who act as if she had made a massive commotion, and steadies her hand on the easel once more. She quietly clears her throat, and begins working, fervently focusing on the upper half of the body. Although, she'd be lying if she'd said that she didn't take the occasional glance down below. It was horrible of her, really. But more than the sexualisation of it, it was the utter curiosity. She was a 21 years old virgin, who lived in a house where the only reason sex came up was in a discussion about abstinence. She was curious, that's all. "Lighter strokes, Miss.Kepner. You're very tense. You need to relax you arm." Mr.Gavin says, suddenly appearing by her side. She smiles, and relaxes her grip, noticing how the paper is so indented that it's almost tearing at certain points. "Also, I want a full body sketch, Miss Kepner. Not just the torso." He tells her, and she blushes while she nods. She steals a quick look at Jackson, and notices that although he's not moved his head, there's a light grin playing on his face. He heard. After what seems like a lifetime, Mr.Gavin finally lets up the class. "Thank you, Jackson. Same time next week." Jackson nods, rezipping his pants, and he's back to staring at her once again. She looks down at her bag, intently concentrating on packing. She hears light chuckling near her, and when she finally manages to look up again, she's faced with his retreating figure. She quickly turns her body to face her friend, "Reed, I swear-" "Miss.Adamson, can I speak with you?" Mr.Gavin asks, the moment Reed opens her mouth to defend herself. "Oops, look at that, have to run. Bye!" She's practically hurtles towards Mr.Gavin. "Wha-" She throws the dirtiest look possible in Reed's direction, and walks out. She has a biochemistry class to get to, and she needs to concentrate on that now. Her experience in this class had been... interesting, to say the least. She walks into a crowded lecture hall, taking a seat somewhere in the middle rows. She takes out her books, and places them in the table, when she feels someone standing next to her. "Is this seat taken?" She takes a second to place the voice, she's heard only a few minutes ago, agreeing to return to Mr.Gavin's class next week. She takes a deep breath and turns around to face Jackson, standing infront of her, his bag slung lazily across his shoulder. He's smiling, but there's a glint in his eyes that reminds her that she's a little more acquainted with him than one would normally be with a stranger. "Um, sure. Sure you can." She finds her words, finally. He was a student, she remembered that. But she didn't really peg him for being in her class, doing her her degree. Exactly what she needed. "So, you know my name... among other things," He voice takes a playful tone, "But I don't know yours. I have a feeling you wouldn't want me to call you Miss.Kepner." She smiles, and faces him, and takes a moment to realize that up close, he's even more beautiful. "Um, Ap-April." "Okay, Ap-April. What exactly are you doing at an art elective?" "My roommate wanted to.... um.... she thought it would be nice to-" "She wanted to hit on Nadeen?" He laughs, and she looks at him a little shocked, before joining in, "How did you know?" "Because he's my friend and I know how he works," Jackson, rolls his eyes, "He's a good guy, but tell Reed not to get too involved." "I'll keep that in mind," She smiles at his thoughtfulness, "Is that why you... you, um-" "Stand in front a group of people completely naked for about an hour?" Her eyes widen at his forwardness, and she goes on to stutter out a response, but is slightly overwhelmed and she feels her cheeks burning up. She puts her hands on her face, willing herself to calm down. This was so embarrassing. "You are so cute." Jackson comments, and that does nothing to help her calm down. He called her cute. She never got called cute. Least of all by someone like him. "Um, I don't know how to respond to that." She admits. "You don't have to," He brings his thumb up to her face, and runs it across her still red cheek, "This is enough of a response." She wants to respond, but is cut off by their lecturer walking in. She spends the entire lesson trying her hardest to concentrate, but if she was being honest, that has become almost impossible. Him, sitting next to her, looking like that, being like that, charming, sweet and funny, she was a little distracted, to say the least. The class ends, and she gets up to walk off, wondering if she'd made this whole thing up in her head. "Um, Jackson, I was wondering if...." She turns to him, wanting to say something. She hadn't really made friends in college just yet, apart from Reed, and eventhough she would like more than anything for him to be more than her friend, she's trying to be realistic. "I'd like to take you out on a date? I'd love to." "Oh." "I mean, you've already seen me naked, you might as well buy me dinner." He tells her, walking away from her down the steps. She stands there, flashes of the morning coming back to her. "Okay." She says, running up to catch up with him. She tugs on her bag, and unconsciously pulls her skirt down. "Yeah?" He turns around, towers over her, and she feels things she hadn't felt before. "Mhmm." "Maybe that'll help you perfect the lighter strokes." He winks at her. She takes a minute to understand what he's insinuating. She gasps, and he laughs out loud, as she bursts into giggles herself. He's been teasing her a little bit too much the whole day, and they'd only just met. April figured she wouldn't mind giving him a taste of his own medicine. "Well, I look forward to it." She winks, and walks away from him, but not before she catches the slight shock on his face. Oh yes, her art elective was definitely interesting. xxx Thank you for reading!

[hub-pub-bub]

Before her Netflix series, patron saint of minimalism Marie Kondo first entered our lives through her best-selling book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, teaching hoarders and people struggling to clean house how to let go of objects that didn’t bring them joy. With the recent release of Tidying Up with Marie Kondo, suddenly everyone was following her mantra, clutching household items to see if there was a spark and, if not, cathartically discarding them.

I watched this obsession sweep through my social media feeds, my friends posting pictures of to-be-donated loot and freshly organized homes. Everyone buzzed with this downsizing energy, until they discovered an aspect of the KonMari Method that didn’t spark any joy whatsoever.

In keeping with her philosophy, Marie Kondo shared that she keeps her collection of books to “about thirty volumes at any one time,” recommending to her readers and viewers that they do the same. But she also acknowledged that “the act of picking up and choosing objects is extremely personal” and that people should go with their gut when it comes to their books—because unlike other clutter, books can serve as conduits for knowledge and imagination. But in the game of telephone that is the internet, something got misinterpreted somewhere and everyone assumed she meant everyone should only have 30 books. No exceptions.

The literary internet exploded: “You can have my books when you pry them from my cold dead hands!” Blogs and opinion pieces proliferated, full of indignant readers decrying this proclamation. A few voices finally managed to cut through the noise and set the record straight, but the manic frenzy had already exposed readers for what we really are: possessive lunatics who could let go of a lot of things, but refused to part with our books. Literary Gollums that wouldn’t let anyone take away our preciouses.

I understood and was sympathetic to this reaction; I too cherish my books. I’ve loved to read since childhood. But I also understood Marie Kondo’s point of view and rationale for keeping her book collection to a minimum. For the past few years, I’ve had, at most, five to 10 actual books in my personal library. Yes, you read that correctly, five to 10 books.

Shortly after college, I moved abroad. With a small moving budget and no job prospects, I had to discard most of my worldly possessions. To that end, I donated the vast majority of my rather large book collection. I did keep a few titles to take abroad, such as my signed copy of David Sedaris’s Me Talk Pretty One Day, Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and a collection of haunting short stories by Jean McNeil.

I lived in Chile for three years, where books are very expensive, incomes are low, and the selection of English-language books is subpar. I knew I would eventually return to the States or move elsewhere—and when I did, I would once again need to downsize my library. So, during my time in Chile, I mostly abstained from buying physical books, relying instead on e-books.

At the end of 2018, the time came for another move and so, with a heavy heart, I turned to my solitary bookcase. On the top shelf sat my meager collection, the other shelves used to display photos and tchotchkes. There were 15 volumes in all: some new, some not.

I took down each book. I fanned the pages through my fingers, held it to my face, inhaled the scent. Stroking the spines, I recalled my personal history with each book: Where did I buy it, when did I read it, how did it impact me? Did it bring me joy?

In short: yes. They all brought me joy. So, that clearly couldn’t be my defining question. But what was the defining question and which books should stay with me?

There were some obvious keepers: the David Sedaris. A few books that would remind me of my time in Chile: a book about the art of Chilean bread, another of native folktales. The Jean McNeil.

Then came the cuts. The books I didn’t want to discard, but weren’t as special or important as others. The ones I hadn’t enjoyed. The titles that had made the trip to South America but wouldn’t return: my Gabriel Garcia Marquez, for example. While I still loved the story, I no longer felt the need to bring the book back with me.

Some of my picks stayed the same even after years had passed, while others changed just as I and my tastes had changed. But, as I placed the books I was donating or selling into a separate pile, I noticed a sense of sorrow blanketing the proceedings. I was mourning my books. Why?

Why are we so attached to our books? As I held and decided the fate of each book, I kept coming back to this question. Why was I attached to these physical objects? Paper, binding glue, a cover. Fairly simple and commonplace. I knew I could easily find replacements for my discarded books, and that, with the exception of my David Sedaris—which he had autographed to me personally—the true connection I felt was to the stories themselves. The books were mere vessels. So why didn’t I want to part with them?

Readers, especially “avid” readers, aren’t exactly known for our rationality. We collect, covet, and guard books the way a dragon does jewels. There’s even a word for having too many books: tsundoku. We say it’s about constantly craving new stories and adventures. Discovering new authors. We justify the expenditures as the desire to financially support writers, publishers, our own neighborhood bookshop.

The simple answer for our attachment to books is that it’s about emotion. Reading a story is a deeply personal and intimate act: connecting or empathizing with the struggles of the characters; being swept along by the narrative; losing yourself in the descriptions of a landscape. And when our feelings get involved, rationality goes out the door. We conflate these physical objects with their stories —and our emotional reactions to those stories—making it harder to separate the two. Any object can be imbued with meaning by circumstance or association, but books more so because of what they contain and how stories speak to us.

“But it’s not just the story!” you may say. “It’s also about the book itself: the feel of its feathered pages, that old- or new-book smell, the weight of it in your bag.” Yes, a book is a divine object, timeless and yet finite in its physical state. A book can be lost, damaged, burned, but the story lives on. Maybe the book was a present from someone special. Maybe it was bought and read during a key life moment. All this can make it harder to separate the raw physicality of the book from the emotional pull of the story. The book is the story and the story is the book. And that’s the complex answer. I too love the feel of an actual book in my hands, but does that mean that I need it? I need the story, that’s why I bought the book. Shouldn’t it matter more the why of reading, not the how?

Living abroad and trying to keep my collection to a minimum while staying up to date with bestsellers and popular reads, I had to turn to e-books, which was a significant departure for me. I’d never been a fan of e-books, and at first I resisted them. I missed the feel of a book, the heft, the sense of satisfaction of slotting a bookmark into place, watching the slow march of pages falling from right to left as I read through the book, accumulating as more and more of the story was laid bare to me. But as I read more ebooks, I gradually understood and embraced their uses: they take up only virtual space, they’re cheaper, and infinitely easier to transport. Perfect for someone who isn’t ready to put down roots like me.

But many lit-lovers scoff at people who use e-readers or who have small book collections, arguing that they’re not real readers or not as “serious”—as if it’s a competition. And much of the culture around literature supports this obsessive book hoarding. The former Shelfari’s Compulsive Book Hoarders website (now merged with GoodReads) required members to have 1,000 books in their personal libraries before signing up. Readers on Instagram display their packed shelves with pride. We love to brag about how many books we have.

So, we can only be good readers and love books if we have a massive personal library? This exposes a blatantly materialist and classist side of book culture. When considering this, I’m reminded of a popular John Waters quote: “If you go home with someone and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them.” When I was younger I took this flawed concept to heart: I shouldn’t be with someone who doesn’t have books because that means they don’t read, and if they don’t read they’re….what? The implication is that if someone doesn’t read, doesn’t have shelves of books in their home to display their intelligence, they’re uneducated and unsophisticated. It’s a very morally superior view, snobbish and condescending. And I reject that.

I’ve lived in a country where most people can’t afford to buy many—if any—books, and libraries aren’t readily accessible. But that doesn’t mean the people I met weren’t astute, engaged, thoughtful individuals. I have a partner who has never read the Harry Potter series—something I once considered a deal breaker due to their childhood significance for me—because they’re too expensive. The ability to own books does not dictate worth or intelligence.

I’ve completely reevaluated my relationship to books and reading in the past few years. I’ve constantly questioned my impulse to buy books, knowing that I’d likely need to discard them, weighing my desire to travel and save money against my love of books. I’ve had to find the balance. I’ve had to fight the urge to accumulate more and more, and instead prioritize story over form.

At the end of the day, I still struggle with it. I will probably always prefer real books. I want to buy a book at every bookstore I visit. My dream home does include a giant library with a cozy reading nook. But my attitude toward reading has matured. I have rejected elitist attitudes. I’ve gotten rid of hundreds of books in my short time on this earth, but that doesn’t mean I love books any less. It means I’m able to let objects go while still treasuring the lessons and morals they gave me. The important thing is that people read and learn. While I hated selling my books when preparing to leave Chile, I loved that I could sell them to other readers. Reading is a solitary act, but the love of reading and literature is communal. How stories get passed down has evolved many times, from spoken word to papyrus scrolls to paper to e-books. But what books convey to readers remains the same: a story, an idea, a transport to somewhere new.

If you want to have a giant library, have a giant library. Or not. It’s okay to only have a few books. Or no books. Or e-books. Let go of books or hold onto them. Do what works for you, just as I found a method that works for me, a flighty reader who has learned to appreciate the convenience of modern reading technology. What sparks joy for me is the act of reading itself and the pleasure and reflection it provides.

ZOE BAILLARGEON is an award-winning travel writer, essayist, and journalist whose work has appeared on CEREAL, Life & Thyme, Roads & Kingdoms, Glyph, Good Mood Magazine, SFR, and Amuse by VICE, among others. She's currently in the process of drafting her first full-length book.

[the-in-side]

Today’s been a little bit of a rollercoaster, ngl. 

I woke grumpy. I was grumpy and grouchy and tired. I’d slept badly (having taken a 4hr nap the evening before) and so I’d ended up only getting about 5 hours. I felt cute in my outfit though, and my eyeliner was fairly even (thank goodness). But my computer refused to load in my first class, and in my second lesson I spent 45 minutes on a maths question, only to find I’d made a mistake in the first line of working. My teacher had forgotten to get me some work he’d promised me, and I was stressed. I then found my period had come unexpectedly (thank goodness for black jeans), and there was someone on My Desk in the study room (it has the best view down all three corridors - and a girl has to know what’s going on). My holepunch exploded in my bag, leaving tiny polkadots on all of my stuff. I take a handful of painkillers, and clear everything up. 

I worked on the maths from second period for 20 minutes of my lunch, and my maths teacher went through the question with me slowly, as well as bringing me most of the work he’d promised me. Things are looking up. Sure, I only had 10 minutes left to eat my lunch, but I can cope. I needed to go and collect a marked essay from my literature class. Except when I found my lit teacher, she hadn’t marked it. Okay. Fine. I can wait until after the break to see it, but ‘will you email me the improvement bulletpoints please?’, I asked her. After all, whats the point in me writing essays all holiday if I’m focusing on the wrong thing. It’d take her 5 minutes to send me a quick email, and I don’t need any great detail in it. She refused. I didn’t understand why, and received a lecture on how I’m ‘doing fine in class, and need to back off and chill out’. Great. Just what I needed today. I was hormonal and tired, and didn’t trust myself to explain the logic and beg her for it without crying so I left. I had 2 minutes until the bell. I ate a carrot stick and walked to psychology, stressed and still on the verge of tears.

Somewhere in that double class, as I studied the rehabilitation and management of offenders, the stress faded. A lightness appeared in my heart, and my mind felt a little more clear. Class let out 15 minutes early, and I ate my lunch in the peacefully deserted study area. On the bus, I held my books tight, gleaning comfort from their pressure against my chest, and didn’t feel my eyes drooping as they usually tended to, with every jolt of the vehicle shaking me awake, but instead watched the soft clouds overhead. 

I hoovered the house, made a coffee, and without mindless minutes scrolling aimlessly on my phone, I sat down and filed the papers which had been drowning me for the last few weeks. I opened my computer and formally requested a few days off work for various exams, as I’d been putting off for a few weeks. I typed up some notes. Tea was tasty and somewhat tense, as normal, but the conflict didn’t bring me down how it usually does.  I spent an hour or so following my study schedule, making more typed resources, before lapsing into a little bit of compulsive procrastination. But I managed to drag myself out after only about 20 or 30 minutes, and adjusted my schedule appropriately so I didn’t lose any study time. I settled down and worked a little later to finish the mindmap I was doing, ignoring message distractions until I was done.  

Now I’m going to put pyjamas on. I’m going to go down and make a hot chocolate, take a painkiller, fill a hot water bottle, then watch an episode of comedy, perhaps, then hopefully be tucked up, peacefully asleep by two, if not sooner. I’ve got a long relaxed morning factored into my study timetable, so I shouldn’t need to do any work until 2pm. I’m going to put a note on my door, asking that I’m not woken up (we’ll see if it works). The afternoon is kind of busy, with lots of work I’ve neglected, such as from my long nap yesterday, but it’ll be managable if I’m as productive and self-controlled as tonight. I’m hoping I will be. I’m feeling a lot of love for everyone in my life tonight. All my friends, everyone I’ve taken a little for granted and haven’t reciprocated the same support they offer me. Actually, writing this, I’ve just remembered I really owe someone a reply, but I think that will maybe have to come tomorrow morning. I want to be able to give them time and energy, rather than rushing something out because I’m tired and want to chill. They’re good to me, and they deserve more than that after all that they do. 

This doesn’t have any meaning. It’s long and garbled, and honestly just pointless. But I think this day has been kind of cathartic. I’ve processed a lot of stuff, and somehow, despite everything bad or stressful that happened, I’ve realised that if i don’t allow myself to ruminate on it, then I can move on a lot faster. So I’m going to work on that more. Instead of feeling sad, I’m going to try to study something new or interesting. Maybe do something challenging, since I read about a study which said that we’re happiest being challenged. 

I mostly think I needed to work out the path of this day in my head. I needed to accept that a bad morning only becomes a bad day if I don’t allow it to improve. If this is what recovery is, and this is what feeling normal is, then I think I’m definitely ready to love life like this every day. 

[captainbadfoot-blog]

47 Parks: 47 - The Beginning

Bushy Park

8th July, 2017

It felt good and at the same time quite strange to think that it was all coming to an end. In one way it wasn’t really ending at all – South Norwood, the 48th Greater London parkrun was starting the same day I was running Bushy, and Hoblingwell was due to start the week after,  but I had always planned for the last parkrun of my personal challenge to be Bushy. It made sense for me to stop where parkrun had began, and with what must be the biggest average attendance of any London parkrun. Besides, with the rate that new parkruns were springing up, the challenge could have dragged on forever. I will definitely get to the new ones, but with a little less urgency than before. It was time for a rest.

My brother Darryl had driven down from Ludlow to support me on the final parkrun of the challenge. It was quite fitting since he was the one who had introduced me to parkrun a few years back and had encouraged me to go with him to Bushy Park. It felt like it had all come full circle. Here we were again at Bushy Park. Only now I was doing it with the experience of fifty or so other parkruns behind me.

The course had changed since the first time I had been there, and due to me misjudging how far I had run (I don’t like looking at my watch during the run as it nearly always has bad news for me) I left the final sprint to the finish too late, but at least this meant I had more in the tank if I had needed it, which was good. And considering I had the Ludlow 10k later in the day this wasn’t a bad thing. It also meant that I was probably fitter than I thought after the slump in training due to the Achilles tendonitis. I was never going to get a PB this week, but that didn’t matter, what mattered was enjoying the last run of what had been a very long series.

The recent heatwave had made sleeping difficult over the past few nights, but I felt ok when the alarm went off, probably because the sun had slowly woken me up over the previous hour. I got up got dressed, had breakfast then checked I had everything I needed in my rucksack. Darryl had been kipping in the living room and was also now up. He was going to cycle back to where he had left his car in Hampton while I would catch a 65 bus from Ealing Broadway to Kingston and walk to Bushy Park from there where we would meet up.

For practically the whole journey I was thinking about timing and how I would feel if for some reason I got to Bushy Park late or not at all. This was the day I had chosen to end the challenge. If it didn’t go to plan I’d have to wait at least a week to try again, at which point South Norwood would be the 48th Greater London parkrun, and the compulsion to add it to my challenge would be powerful. Luckily the journey was quicker than I expected and with no hold-ups, so I got off the bus at Kingston station at about 8.15am, to head in the direction of the bridge.

Finding Bushy Park was fairly straightforward and I was soon following the path along the edge of the King’s Field, seeing a herd of deer grazing nearby as I headed in the direction of the car park. I got there and found Darryl. Even though there was still twenty minutes to go the area was very busy and a crowd of runners had already formed at the top of the avenue near the Diana fountain. I warmed up a little, did some stretching, then headed over to the start. The number of people there was immense compared to every other parkrun I’ve been to, but this was no surprise. Looking at the results pages for Bushy you will see that the number of runners is regularly over a thousand, with it rarely dipping below 900. This is where it all began with Paul Sinton-Hewitt and friends in 2004. This still felt very much like the beating heart of parkrun, a Mecca where every tourist would have to come sooner or later. The run director went through his messages then we were moving, slowly at first, then into a light jog, then a run. There were voices, there was puffing and panting, and under it all a steady, thundering rhythm. The rhythm of a stampede. A stampede of good will, of shared interest and the pursuit of positive change, improved fitness. It was a glorious sound.

Further on I drew alongside a group of men dressed in old military uniforms. I can’t remember what they were supporting or commemorating, but fair play to them – they must have been sweltering. They looked happy though.

Once the course reaches the end of the avenue, it hits Cobbler’s Walk then heads roughly East until it reaches Hampton Wick Royal Cricket Club where it turns left, then soon afterwards turns right before turning left again then heading northwest in the direction of Leg of Mutton Pond. Just beyond the pond it turns sharp right and heads all the way to Sandy Lane, where it turns left and runs parallel to Sandy Lane all the way to Chestnut Avenue where it turns left and follows the avenue for over a third of its length before turning left again back onto Cobbler’s Walk. It now heads back in the direction of Leg of Mutton Pond, but turns right before it gets there and follows a curving path toward Heron Pond, passing over the small bridge, and following the outside of the pond all the way to the finish funnel.

As well as being a beautiful location anyway, Bushy Park also has a fantastic one-lap course. I haven’t run this configuration before, otherwise I’d have known when to speed up near the end and sprint into the finish funnel. Although it did take a couple of minutes to really get going at the start due to the large crowd, I wasn’t really held back, and it didn’t affect my overall time. I still achieved a time I am happy with.

If you live locally to Bushy Park, and it was the only park you had ever run, you would have a good reason to be content. It’s a beautiful place with a great course and is extremely popular, so wherever you are on the course, and whatever speed you are moving at, you’re unlikely to be alone. That said, there are so many other parkruns out there, London itself having 47, sorry – 48 . . . Actually it might be 49 by the time you read this, and someone’s bound to want to bag the 50th Greater London parkrun soon, so . . . Numbers aren’t important, are they? Just bear in mind that with parkrun the numbers are likely to grow and keep growing. It doesn’t look like they’re going to drop any time soon. Speaking of numbers . . .

 Time: 22 minutes 28 seconds

Position: 165 out of 927

 There is definitely the sense of an ending right now. I will be running South Norwood (number 48) and Hoblingwell (number 49) soon. But as far as the challenge goes I had to draw the line somewhere, and Bushy was the best place to do so. I’m Lon-done for now. It’s been a very, very long challenge. I began last June, over a year ago, and with very few exceptions have run a different parkrun every week, getting up earlier than was sensible to trek across the capital. It has been an exercise in self-discipline, but it has paid off. I have seen more of London than I ever thought I would, and I have been amazed at how many fantastic parks and green spaces are in this city alone. We are utterly spoiled, and we should all be getting out and enjoying these places more. Who knows, they may not be around forever. After South Norwood and Hoblingwell I have a few more parkruns I’d like to visit, but I think I’ll hold off on setting myself any more challenges for a while. It’s nice to be flexible.

 And my favourite of the 47? Trying to work that out would be a pointless waste of time. They’re all fantastic for different reasons. I could choose Bushy because it’s the original and the biggest, Burgess because I recorded my fastest ever 5k time there, or Northala Fields because I ran it on my 40th birthday. But that’s the thing – on paper there is no way of determining which is the best. It’s all down to personal experience. If you want to know which of the Greater London parkruns is the best, you need to get your running shoes on and get out there.

 Just remember to set that alarm clock earlier on Saturday.

 Oh, and don’t forget your barcode.

  Dean Carter, July 2017