#and there’s fields on either side the right being crops and the left being cows

[hella1975]

daily song rec! mr and mrs smith by the stereophonics

[kishibe-can-rohan-me]

Guileless

Guileless: devoid of guile; innocent and without deception

Summary: Rohan takes a little break from the constant abnormalities of living in Morioh to Koichi’s recommendation. ‘Go out and maybe do something normal?’ But how does THE Kishibe Rohan fair in such a mundane getaway?

Well….a first for Kishibe Rohan and a JoJo character for that matter, I’m currently hyperfixed on JoJo and so here is me diverging from my usual writing for MHA on @all-might-can-smash-me

‘I’m sure it would be good for you Mr.Rohan! A break from your research and all that’s happening around here for a great start to your summer!’ Koichi chimes in enthusiastically as he sipped away at his iced tea that sat upon the wrought iron table that the young stand user and the world renowned Mangaka sat at.

The unforgiving rays of the sun beat down upon his swept hair, face grimacing at the recollection of the reason why he was treading along the winding dirt road, surrounded by nothing but fields upon fields of water and crops with an occasional cow grazing upon the marsh grasses.

‘A family friend owns a homestay out in the country side! Its nice and peaceful and quite comforting! It’s a reasonable price too! Should either pay the fee or pay for your stay by helping them with chores!” Koichi spoke excitedly, now scribbling down something upon the blank piece of paper within his spiral notebook before tugging it off with an obnoxiously loud RIP before handing it off to Kishibe, which he hesitantly took. ‘Here’s the number! Maybe look into it!’

THE Great Rohan having to trudge along in the middle of Japan’s countryside. The worlds greatest mangaka shouldn’t be left to go through such troubles. The scowl upon his face only deepened as he stopped to the side of an old and slightly bent street sign along the dirt road, reaching a hand up to brush away the dirt to read the lettering upon the old metal before looking down to the map and directions clutched in his other hand. ‘I guess we are on the right track…’ he muttered to himself before stepping back, letting his gaze finally admiring his surroundings.

“The countryside….no….a desolate farm land that seems peaceful….but holds a dark secrete for our hero to stumble upon, will he ever escape!?” He muttered excitedly to himself as he began to crouch down, bags lowered to the ground so his slender hands could reach for his camera where he had begun to snap pictures of the lonely street sign, the rusty sheds that sat upon the horizon, the crops, and the couple cows that munched away. “Hm…no…” he grumbled as he stared to the photos after giving them their little shakes to process with a sigh before standing up, bags collected once more upon his back and map being slightly crumpled within his fingertips once more. “So much for research.” He grumbled as he took the turn to the right of the stop sign, quizzical eyes still admiring his surroundings even if it was very much the same info stretching on for miles and miles. Though he gasped upon something new upon the horizon.

“A quaint home that sits amongst the miles and miles of silent plains, inconspicuous to those who travel upon this very trail on their peaceful journey….such a home should hold such secrets that not even the normal person can ever imagine!” He was once again excitedly muttering out as he brought a finger to stroke his chin, map wielded hand perching on his hip. He gave his words a once over within his head before laughing to himself “it has potential…” he finally spoke with a smile crawling to his lips as he continued forward, reaching the stone path that led up to the old, minka farm house. His feet finally made it up to the veranda, poking his head into the opened sliding doors to peek down to the wooden flooring of the genkan and past to a small hallway and the sliding doors that lined it. The camera was whipped out again, which he couldn’t help, it was like an extension of himself as he took a quick picture of the genkan before finally stepping forward to remove his shoes and step into the main house, almost doing a double take to neatly line up his shoes before continuing forward.

You see….Rohan knew it was probably (most definitely) rude to just go ahead and invite himself in, but the architecture of the home? The excitement coursed within him as he thought of all the possibilities he just made himself by snapping photos of the detailed wooden floors, of the sliding traditional doors, even the walls. But it was odd…no one resided in the entrainment/ tea room, the bedroom that seemed lived in didn’t have anyone in it and the other four rooms were empty, no futons set up. The dining room empty. The kitchen empty, but there upon the wooden veranda past the open sliding doors, sat a radio that played the weather forecast quite loudly, which Rohan only huffed as he took it upon himself to lower the pesky sound, which the new found silence invited the sound of the summer bugs and far off clucking chickens to make their way to his ears. There his camera went again to click away to the garden in the back, the clothes hanging and billowing in the soft breeze under the summer sun, and to the chickens that pecked stupidly about.

“Oh my goodness! I didn’t expect you to be right there!” Came out an exasperated voice, finally a face framed by a straw hat coming into the view and into Rohan’s sight through the camera, though that didn’t stop him from snapping a picture of their face before lowering down the camera, giving a quick polite bow.

“I apologize, I walked up to the front and no one was there but I couldn’t help myself but admire the interior of the home…” he spoke out matter of factly before standing straight.

“You’re Kishibe Rohan, the mangaka right? Koichi warned me- I mean told me about you” you quickly corrected yourself, tucking back a loose strand of hair behind your ear before making your way onto the veranda, removing your shoes before stepping inside, setting down the basket upon your hip onto the counter of the kitchen. “Well, I’m guessing you may have given yourself a little tour..” you teased before stepping up to another door off to the side “But this is the bath house, toilet is in the home on the opposite side of the hallway where the rooms are.” You explained as you motioned him to follow you, finding himself standing in front of the doors where the rooms resides, you kneeling down to slide one open before entering, motioning him forward. “This is your room, I’ll be next door” you pointing to the wall to your right. “So if you need anything during the night I’ll be there, in here is a basket and your futon, you can place all soiled clothes for me to wash. Also, since you agreed to help out, here’s what I expect, help me out in the garden in the morning, check the chicken coop for eggs in the morning and evening, feed them the same time, and water the garden in the evening, make sure the water runs cool before you do so” you explained, helping him place his bags to the side. “I have a list up on the fridge as a reminder, but other than that, that’s all I expect! Though since you are gonna be here for two weeks, you may have to accompany me to town, but that shouldn’t be too bad.” You explained. “Dinner should be on the table in about an hour, you can begin your chores tomorrow, I got everything covered for today….oh! And I almost forgot! The telephone is in the kitchen and there’s a desk in the tearoom!” you added before you made your way out, leaving Kishibe alone in the empty room upon the tatami floors.

And thus began such a mundane routine for the great Kishibe Rohan.

He didn’t know what to think of it! Him collecting eggs in the morning and scrounging about the garden in search for ripe produce, you hanging away the freshly washed clothes from the corner of his eye. He was use to outrageous adventures. This? What could he even describe this? He was lost in thought as he watched the water droplets roll off the growing yatsutusa and down the stalks of corn to drip down onto the glistening leaves of the cucumbers below and the other plants that grew mercilessly in the little oasis of a garden.

“Hey Rohan? How’s it coming?” Came out your gentle voice as he looked over to you, stream of water coming to a stop as he placed the hose away, gratefully taking the glass of water from your hand to gulp from.

“It’s quite different from the life in the city.” He spoke out as his gaze looked down to you. At that moment something flopped in his stomach, causing him to quickly avert his gaze. “I should get washed up…” he muttered, giving his thanks as he handed back the glass to you, you watching his slender figure retreat back into your home.

If only he knew that flop also happened within your own gut.

“Oh come on Kishibe…” he muttered to himself as he furiously scrub at himself as he sat upon the stool in the small little bath house, the steam from the tub fogging up the mirror he sat in front of, now scrubbing away at his hair and face, rinsing away all the soapy suds before allowing himself to to step into the tub to sink down into the steamy water. “This guileless life is getting to you….” He mumbled to himself.

Freshly bathed, he now sat in the tea room at the desk, sketch pad now sat upon it, pens sprawled out in different places as he almost seemed to mindlessly sketch. His stomach was already filled with the food made by your hands, chores done for the day, but he still seemed to find himself troubled. Though the sliding door caught his attention, head whipping to peer over his shoulder and to you who now was now placing a tray upon the center table.

“I saw that you were still up, so I brought tea.” You spoke out with a soft smile that almost seemed to squeeze his heart, though that cool look was kept upon his face as he gently sat the pen down, graciously taking the tea cup from your hand to gently sip, you now seated with your own steaming cup. “You know for someone who is suppose to be on a break, you sure do work non stop.” You spoke out, nodding to the desk that held the sketch pad that seemingly had random doodles on it and to the drawn out manga panels to the side. Though a temptation crept up within him as you seemingly tried to get a glance to the manga panels, though his slender fingers nonchalantly flipped them over.

He could almost feel Koichi’s disappointed glare burn into him at the thought of using Heaven’s Door on you.

“Old habits die hard, but it’s just doodles” with that the sketch pad was placed on the floor before you, you laying upon your stomach on the floor, hand propping up your head as you let your free hand probe at the sketch pad, though you let out a little giggle.

“Is that me?” You exclaimed as you pointed to the figure upon the page in a dramatic pose.

“What? Does it look bad?” He quickly questioned, hand reaching forward to the sketch pad, but you were already sitting up, hugging the booklet close to your chest to keep it from his grasp.

“No! I look so cool!” You exclaimed as you turned away from him, he quickly crawling over to your back side, trying to peer at the reaction on your face. “And look! You literally sketched the genkan in perfect detail, even to the pesky loose board!” You exclaimed as you tapped your finger on the drawing. Those fingers of Rohan were reaching past your shoulders to grab ahold of the sketch pad gently to pull it away, it being closed and place back on the desk. A strange feeling of embarrassment seemed to take shelter within his stomach strangely, even if he allowed you to look at those sketches.

“Well it is late….I’m going to head back to my room, thanks for the tea” and then he was gone, you bidding your soft and sweet goodnight to him.

That night you couldn’t help but listen to the scribbles coming from the other room and past the thin paper walls that temporarily housed Rohan.

A couple of days had passed and Rohan seemed to come a little out of his shell. Teasing you, helping you with chores that you didn’t expect from him. He would hang out with you in the tea room, letting you watch over his shoulder as he sketched, even taking request from you even if it was a silly cat or cow. The excited look upon your eyes as he handed you the drawing was enough to send him flying to the moon. He admired you, you were kind, gentle, and simple. Simple not in a bad way though, but in the wholesome way. In the way that you always seemed to cast a comforting warmth over him just by your presence. Wholesomeness was a feeling he sometimes lacked and it was nice to find it with you.

Thunder sent him shooting up from his futon, heavy breaths wracking his chest as he brushed away his hair. Scrambling up he made his way to the wall, finger sliding around for the small handle. He took no time to slide it open and rush into your room, you already pushing yourself up from the futon, hair in disarray as you looked to him.

“I’m so sorry….I’ll leave.” He spoke out, turning around to given a small smack to his forehead. Why in the world he just rushed into your room was beyond him….but your gentle voice piping up was even more unbelievable.

“No….it’s fine…” you quickly spoke up, Rohan hearing the rustling of you moving aside upon your futon, he hestitantly turning back to face you and slowly make his way to your futon, crawling in beside you, the blanket not quick reaching over his legs, it causing a slight breeze along the back of his legs.

“I must have got worried…” he finally dumbly spoke out as he allowed a finger to push back a linked up strand of hair from your face before letting those very fingertips gently rest upon your cheek bone, your own small hand reaching forward to brush the side of his face gently, your admiring the shadows and sculpt of his face.

“No it’s fine…” you softly and breathily spoke as your blushing face looked up to him in the darkness of the room, though somehow through the barely visible darkness, your lips met with each other, arms clutching and being your bodies closer to each other upon that futon, the raining pounding down outside.

Oh damn you Koichi

[the-blonde-adventurer]

Never Ending Truths (14)

Indiana Jones x OC

Summary: Everyone is born with a matching tattoo to their soulmate, but not everyone can feel their soulmate’s emotions. Harley LaCarrubba is a freshman attending Marshall college to one day be an archeologist with her passion for history. Lucky for her, she is being taught by none other than the famous Indiana Jones, the school heartthrob. She can feel her soulmate’s emotions but never met him in real life, making her feel guilty about having a crush on her professor.

Words: 2340

**************

"Turn left." Harley instructed as she knew where we were. It was beautiful out here with all the lush green trees; the sun hung in the sky with white fluffy clouds all around. "Turn right; this is my driveway." she bounces in the seat next to me, full of excitement. I turned onto the gravel road with a wooden fence on either side separating the two fields. The field off to the left was full of crops sprouting from the soil. The area on the right was full of farm animals. Cows are grazing on the pasture, enjoying the beautiful weather, and a barn in the back where goats were jumping around. I saw a two-story white house with a red chimney hidden by the trees. Yellow flowers decorated the yard around, giving it a simple beauty. I parked by the house and spotted a man sitting in a rocking chair on the porch. Harley jumped out of the car and took off to the porch hugging the older man. I get out and walk over to join her. "Papa, I want to introduce you to my soulmate." she smiles up at him in Italian. "Papa, this is Indiana Jones, indy, this is my papa." she introduced us in English. I held my hand out to greet him, and he shook my hand with an unimpressed smirk. "Joseppie." He introduces himself. He had jet black hair, a big round nose, tan skin from working in the sun, big broad shoulders, and built arms, he was about my height, and his eyes were a dark brown.

"You're soulmates with an older man?" He asks her in Italian as he let go of my hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir; Harley talks about you all the time. Glad to put a face to the great man that raised her. I assure you I'm not that old." I smile, replying to him in his native tongue. His eyes popped out of his head as he realized I understood what he said. "You never told me he spoke Italian!" He smiles at Harley as he turns to look at her with a smile.

"Surprise." She chuckles.

"Come, come, let's get your bags." He announced as he walked out to my car. I opened the trunk so we could get our things. I grab the big bag full of our items and give her the smaller bag. "Come, I'll show you to our room." She holds my hand, rushing to the house. "Doll, slow down." I chuckle at her excitement.

"Sorry." She laughs at herself as she slows down. She leads me up the stairs to the most significant room up here. The room was elegant, with a giant bed in the middle with a green bedspread, and many pillows. There was an empty bookshelf, probably where her books used to be before she went to college. The view from her window was beautiful as it looked over the property. "I'll show you around." She grabs my hand, placing a kiss on it. I look down at her with a smile, happy she's having such a great time. "Alright, honey, let me change real quick." I lean down, placing a soft kiss on her lips.

"Alright." She walks out, closing the door behind her. "Hi, papa." I could hear her from downstairs. I change into my tan button-up shirt, my dark brown slacks, and my brown fedora. I walked out and stopped at the top of the stairs as I heard them talking. "You two aren't staying in the same room together." Her father whispers.

"Yes, we are. I'm a grown woman who can make her own decisions. He's my soulmate, and you will not keep us apart. He makes me the happiest woman alive and treats me with respect. He put his career on the line several times to protect me. He's a good man! So what if he is older than me? He treats me better than guys my age! We are bonded, and you will not come between us. What would mama say if you tried to keep us apart?" She whispers harshly.

"You're right, mia Bella. I'll give him a chance because I want you to be happy. I haven't seen you this excited in many years. Now, go have fun and show him around." He tells her softly. Why hasn't she been this happy in years? I walk down the stairs acting like I haven't heard their conversation. "Indy, come on, I wanna show you where I grew up."

"Take him by the old tire swing." Her dad calls back as he goes to the fridge.

"Oh yes, he's love it back there. Daddy, where is my gun? You moved it from my nightstand." She questions him as she leans against the counter with her arms crossed. "Mia Bella, what do you need your gun for?" He smirks, raising his brow.

"Because there are coyotes back there, and who knows what else. It is also deer season; wouldn't you like deer?" She tries to talk him into it.

"You are exactly like your mother." He rolls his eyes and shakes his head before walking out. I chuckle, knowing she always gets her way no matter what it is.

"We can ride around the property because it will be a long walk."'she comes over, wrapping her arms around my waist and tilting her head back to look up at me. "Whatever you want, doll." I smile, brushing a loose piece of hair back. I lean down, placing a peck on her lips before pulling back and kissing her forehead. I look over to see her father watching us from the living room. Harley turned her head to see what I was looking at and then went over to grab her gun from his hands. She looked to see if it was loaded then closed the revolver. "Let's go." She tells me as she walks out the back door. "Yes, ma'am." I smile as I walk out behind her.

She took my hand in hers, intertwining our fingers as she led me to the barn. She grabbed two bridals handing me one before going over to the stalls. "I'm gonna ride Rokka, and you can ride Shadow." She tells me as she goes inside the booth. "You know how to ride, don't you?"

"Please, I've been riding before you were born." I tease her with an eye roll.

"Alright, old man, I'll believe it when I see it."

"Old man!" I gasp at her, a little offended. "Ohh, okay, I see how it is." I walk into the stall and put the harness on the horse. "You're gonna wish you never said that." I walked out with this giant behind me to see she was waiting for me.

"We will see." She chuckles as she walks out and ties the horse to a post before going into a different room. She comes out carrying a saddle like it was nothing before she handed it to me. I put it on my horse's back and tighten the straps as I watch her come outputting the lovely black saddle on Rokka's back. She mounted the horse and grabbed the reins waiting for me. I get on my horse, and I wait for her to lead the way. She started going down the trail while I rode next to her, watching how relaxed she was. "I have to grab something first." She tells me as she goes back to the house. She dismounted and grabbed a handful of flowers from the yard before putting them in her saddlebag. She hopped back up on the horse and began to show me everything and tell me stories. I could listen to her talk about anything, seeing how this made her smile.

We made it to the back of the property, where there was a giant tire swing tied to a huge oak tree. I turn around to see the green rolling hills overlooking the farm. The sun was setting, creating a beautiful painting in the sky. "It's beautiful," I tell her softly.

"I used to love to come up here and think. This was my mama's favorite spot as well." She informed me as she got off of her horse. She tied the reins to a tree and then grabbed the flowers out of the saddlebag. I did as she did, then followed her up a hill. I saw a small grave at the top that had wilted flowers. Harley took the dead flowers off and replaced them with the new ones. "This is my mama. She died when I was ten years old." She sat on her legs as she stared at the grave.

"I'm sorry to hear that; my mother passed when I was young too, scarlet fever." I bend down and put my hand on her back, trying to comfort her.

"I'm sorry about your mom as well." She looked up at me, trying not to cry. I take her in my arms as I rub her shoulder.

"It's alright, come on, we should get back. It's about to be dark soon." I kiss the top of her blonde head. I help her stand up, and we walk hand in hand down the hill.

*** We go inside her house to see her father sitting in the armchair listening to the radio. "I'm gonna get cleaned up, and then I'll make supper." Harley announced.

"Did you go by and see your mama?" He asks her.

"Yes, I left her favorite flowers."

"Good, I know she'd love that." He nods his head before taking a drink of whiskey. Harley and I go to her room to change our clothes and get cleaned up. "You have a lovely place here." I say as I try to get her to smile.

"Thank you." She smirks.

"I'll help you make supper." I offered, knowing she was upset from visiting her mother's grave.

"Alright." She smiles at me. We go downstairs into the kitchen, and she looks around for ingredients. "I'm gonna teach you my mama's secret recipe for Italian chicken." She pulled out chicken legs from the fridge her papa got ready for her. "Get out olive oil, parsley, breadcrumbs, whole tomatoes, Parmesan, salt, and pepper." She tells me as she washes the chicken. I get out all of the ingredients she listed and wait for the following instructions. "Okay, so we are going to salt and pepper first." She instructs me. "Measurements?"

"We don't measure. We sprinkle until we hear our ancestors tell us to stop." She jokes with me. I couldn't help but chuckle as I sprinkled the chicken. She instructs me on each step, helping me out. We laughed as the tomatoes kept squirting us and getting all over the counter. We finish it up and put the chicken in the oven for one hour.

*** We sat down at the kitchen table, ready for supper, while her dad and I sat at the head of the table while Harley sat in the middle of us. They began to pray, so I bowed my head not to make her father upset. "So, where did you two meet?" He asks us as he digs into his chicken.

"She's one of my students." I answer as I take a bite of green beans seeing the look of disproval on his face.

"He's your professor?" He asks Harley for clarification.

"Yes, but nothing happened before we found out we were soulmates." She lies to her father. I know he's be upset knowing I made a move on her after class.

"How did you two find out?"

"We had a terrible heat wave hit us, and just so happens the AC stopped working. I took my blazer off and rolled up my sleeves because I was sweltering. She saw my mark and stayed after class and showed me her tattoo." I say keeping essential details out.

"Afterwards, we talked about it, and he asked if I wanted to move classes. I said no because I enjoy his class. He's one of my favorite professors." Harley adds in.

"I see."

"She's my best student, and I'm not saying that because she's my soulmate. She hasn't gotten anything below a 100%." I brag.

"Good, glad you are still doing your studies." He looks at Harley. "So you said you put your career on the line for her?"

"Yes, since the first day she got bullied by one of the boys there. I pulled his father aside and talked to him, and we went to the Dean's office and got him benched from the football game. Every time he would cause trouble to get her in trouble, I defended her. He threw gum in her hair, and I spent a whole two periods getting it out with her godmother." I explain before taking a bite of my chicken. This is so fucking good.

"Good, you better take care of my daughter."

"I do." I inform him.

"Good." He nods his head. "When are you getting married and having kids?" He questions us. Harley started choking on her drink, spraying it everywhere. "Sorry, sorry. Papa, we've only been together for two weeks."

"So? You two are soulmates and are destined to be together. It's not like you are trying to see if he is the one; I don't see the problem. Your mother and I got married three weeks of being together." He informs us that he does not see a problem.

"We haven't discussed it yet. She's busy trying to get her degree, and I'm busy teaching my classes and traveling." I tell him truthfully.

"Traveling?"

"I'm an archeologist," I inform him.

"I see." He nods his head as he takes a bite of more chicken. He didn't say much and hid his expressions deep in thought. This is gonna be one hell of a week.

[zmaragdos]

XVII Kalendae Maius | April 15th

After the third sunrise will have lifted up the Ides of Venus, High Priests, sacrifice sacred things with a pregnant cow! A “forda” is a pregnant cow, a fruitful cow, having been so called from “ferendo” (it must be bearing): they think “fetus” to also have an etymology from this. Now the herd is pregnant, and the soils are also pregnant with seed. An complete sacrificial animal is given to the pregnant Earth. Part falls in the Refuge of Jupiter; three times the Senate Hall receives ten cows and, having been sprinkled with much blood, becomes wet. And when the attendants drag a bullcalf from the innards, and they give the body parts, the organs, to the smoking hearths. It is the Virgin Greatest by Age who burns the bullcalf in the fire, so that that ash might cleanse the people on the day of Pales.

During the reign of Numa, with the harvest not responding to labor, the votive offerings of the man, having been cheated of the thing being cultivated, were useless; for just then, the year was dry with the Icy Northeast winds; now the field swells with incessant rain: Ceres was often cheating the landowner with the first green crops, and the the quick common oat weed was standing fast, with the soil having been occupied; and the cattle perform violent births before the due-date, and a lamb, in the necessity of being born, was often killing the sheep.

And long ago the ancient forest was standing, having been violated by no two-edged ax, the sanctuaries having been left for the Maenalian god: he gave answers to a resting spirit in the quiet nights. 

Here King Numa sacrificed twin sheep. The first fell for Faunus, the other fell for Easy Sleep: and either wool-pelt is spread out on the hard ground. Twice his unshorn head is wetted with spring water, twice he covers his temples with a beech garland; his skill of Venus is absent; neither is it lawful to set out the animals of the month on the table, nor to wear any ring belonging to the fingers. His body having been covered with rough clothes lays on top of the new wool-pelts, with the god having been prepared through his own words.

Meanwhile, Night having been crowned with a poppy comes into his gentle brow and She drags dusky dreams with Herself. Faunus is present, pressing the wool-pelts of the sheep with hard feet and He has announced the following words from the right-side of the bed: “By the death of two cows, the Earth must be appeased by you, King: let one heifer present two spirits to the temples.”

Sleep is shaken off with terror: Numa, having understood, returns and with himself he brings the mysterious digression and the things having been commanded. His most beloved wife disengages from her wandering in the pastures, and she says: “You will be desiring the organs of a pregnant cow.” The organs of a pregnant cow are offered, a more fertile year is brought forth and the Earth brings produce and livestock.

—

Tertia post Veneris cum lux surrexerit Idus,

pontifices, forda sacra litate bove.

forda ferens bos est fecundaque, dicta ferendo:

hinc etiam fetus nomen habere putant,

nunc gravidum pecus est, gravidae quoque semine terrae:

Telluri plenae victima plena datur.

pars cadit arce Iovis, ter denas curia vaccas

accipit et largo sparsa cruore madet. 

ast ubi visceribus vitulos rapuere ministri

sectaque fumosis exta dedere focis,

igne cremat vitulos quae natu maxima virgo est,

luce Palis populos purget ut ille cinis,

rege Numa, fructu non respondente labori,

inrita decepti vota colentis erant,

nam modo siccus erat gelidis aquilonibus annus,

nunc ager assidua luxuriabat aqua:

saepe Ceres primis dominum fallebat in herbis,

et levis obsesso stabat avena solo,

et pecus ante diem partus edebat acerbos,

agnaque nascendo saepe necabat ovem.

silva vetus nullaque diu violata securi

stabat, Maenalio sacra relicta deo:

ille dabat tacitis animo responsa quieto

noctibus, hic geminas rex Numa mactat oves.

prima cadit Fauno, leni cadit altera Somno:

sternitur in duro vellus utrumque solo.

bis caput intonsum fontana spargitur unda,

bis sua faginea tempora fronde tegit,

usus abest Veneris, nec fas animalia mensis

ponere, nec digitis anulus ullus inest,

veste rudi tectus supra nova vellera corpus

ponit, adorato per sua verba deo.

interea placidam redimita papavere frontem

nox venit et secum somnia nigra trahit.

Faunus adest, oviumque premens pede vellera duro

edidit a dextro talia verba toro:

‘morte boum tibi, rex, Tellus placanda duarum: 

det sacris animas una iuvenca duas.’

excutitur terrore quies: Numa visa revolvit

et secum ambages caecaque iussa refert,

expedit errantem nemori gratissima coniunx

et dixit ‘gravidae posceris exta bovis.’

exta bovis gravidae dantur, fecundior annus

provenit, et fructum terra pecusque ferunt,

—

P. Ovidius Naso, “Fastorum Libri Sex,” Lib. IV 629-672

translation by@zmaragdos

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Welcome To Backwater ch.2 (spicyhoney)

Summary: Stretch isn’t running away, not really.

He took the bus.

Only to end up in a little town in the middle of nowhere, meeting unusual people, dealing with unexpected happenings, what the hell is going on in this place?

Content:  Spicyhoney, Midwest Gothic

Note:  Just as a heads up, I'd give this story a warning for mild horror and mild gore. None of our boys, but better to let y'all know!

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Read Chapter Two ‘Meet and Greet’ on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

For the next week Stretch spent most of his time trying to figure out the method in the madness to Red’s store management. His first day of ‘training’ pretty much consisted of Red showing up long enough to demo the cash register and then shuffling off to the apartment at the back where he lived. Not that pushing a couple of numbered buttons was that complicated, but that wasn’t the only issue cropping up around here along with the local corn.

First of all, nothing in the shop was priced. All the items were recorded in a ragged notebook with coffee ring stains on the cover, where Stretch got to figure out if an item fell under the category of ‘toilet paper’, ‘paper, toilet’, ‘ass wipers’, or ‘shitty ass wipers’, all written in Red’s sloppy handwriting. The sheer number of items that fell under ‘ass’ and ‘shitty’ were staggering.

Turned out, the little store actually did a fair amount of business. Plenty of Humans stopped in to pick up one or two things rather than drive to the nearest Wally World which according to Granny Collemore, who Stretch was guessing was the unofficial town gossip, was better than a thirty-minute drive away.

“Don’t need to be driving an hour for a little bum tissue,” she bellowed happily, “shopping day is Sunday, we’ll stock up then!”

Stretch nodded as he rang her up, wincing away from her volume. He’d figured out pretty quickly that the old woman was stone deaf, but she didn’t seem to care if all she got was a smile and plenty of nods, so that was fine.

She handed over a wad of cash pulled from a little embroidered change purse that let out a puff of lavender so strong when she opened it that it overshadowed the store’s normal musty smell, hollering the whole time. By the time she left, Stretch knew enough about the local weather patterns to make a rain prediction and that the way someone named Pritchard was hamming on a pretty young’un Eloise meant they’d best they be married soon ‘fore it turned into a shotgun wedding. He nodded along with every proclamation, hurrying around the counter to open the door for her and ended up spending five minutes waiting for her to shuffle her way out, her bunny slippers leading the way.

But as she was leaving, she reached up and gave him a gentle pat on the cheekbone, her wrinkled hand barely able to reach. “You’re a nice boy,” she told him, too loud and with a pink, gummy smile.

Stretch was too startled to flinch away and only managed to mumble a thank you as she headed off into the growing heat of the morning, a hunched figure in a flowery dress and pink slippers, her bag of emergency tp bumping against her hip as she trundled along.

That was another thing. He’d thought that the Humans around here would be distrustful, even malicious, but that wasn’t proving to be the case. Aside from a little surprise when they first saw him, all the customers so far were small-town kindly. Kids came into the shop to raid the nickel-candy rack, their bikes left in piles outside as excited groups came roaring in. Mothers came in with babies wearing only their diapers, fanning themselves and laughing out their, ‘my, isn’t it a hot one today?’ as they bought a half-gallon of milk and some fresh apples to put in the bottom of their strollers.

No one in town seemed to care that he was a Monster past asking his name and maybe it was just ‘cause of Red being a skeleton, too. Could be that Granny Collemore was out there somewhere bellowing that the local shopkeeper had family visiting, who knew? It was sure different than he was used to. The general sentiment in Ebott about Monsters was resentment; over them taking jobs, enrolling in the schools, whatever it was, they didn’t want Monsters doing it.

It was…nice, he decided, to not have someone dislike him on sight.

That was how he spent his mornings. He worked in the shop, idly dusting, putting away the deliveries that a guy in the pickup truck and overalls brought in daily, and borrowing Red’s wifi to listen to soft music on his phone. The calls had trickled to only once a day and the glaring red alert number of his messages kept climbing.

Stretch didn’t look at them, only skipped right over to Spotify and the 'The Wedding Singer Divorce Special pt 2' playlist.

Red came in every day to relieve him at around two. He grunted out something that resembled a hello as he heaved himself up on the stool, leaning his cane against it as he pulled out a battered romance novel from beneath the counter. The creased covered did not in the slightest hide the young, scantily-clad woman caught up in a fiery embrace with her highland Lord.

“be back later,” Stretch said as he hung up his apron. Not that it mattered, wasn’t like Red was his dad or even a friend, not really, and he didn’t care when Stretch came home. A couple times they’d eaten together, takeout from the local diner that was imaginatively called ‘Mama’s’, not ‘Eats’, watched a little but that was it. His lack of idle chitchat was the complete opposite of Blue’s constant stream of chatter and after years of that, the silence was kinda disconcerting, but maybe not in a bad way.

Red didn’t even look up from his book, only pulled a crumpled bill out of his pocket and pushed it across the counter, “pick up some beer at the station, wouldja?”

“sure,” Stretch said, almost grateful for something else to do. It was miles better than sitting the rest of the day in his little room with its faded, floral wallpaper where the air conditioning wasn’t quite able to combat the heat of the mid-afternoon sun. He’d done that once, the first day, and after that made a point of staying out of his room until sundown to give it chance to cool off.

The town itself wasn’t much more than a bunch of ramshackle houses. To the west were fields, the leafy tops of what Stretch was now certain was corn rustling in the wind. Off to the east, the landscape slowly went from flat plains to trees, their wilting leaves yellowing in the heat and ending in a wooded area that surrounded maybe half the town. Shame it was too far away provide much shade unless you went walking right into it. Main street consisted of a few other public buildings; a tractor store right up next to the thrift shop, a little one-room schoolhouse with an attached shed that served as the town library, the Sheriff’s office, and the movie theater.

On the outskirts of town there was also a bar, The Whistling Cow, its glowing neon sign a single point of orange light on dark nights. As much as Stretch wanted a drink, he stuck with filching beer from the cooler Red kept under the counter. Hanging around with strange, drunk humans usually didn't end well for him.

The movie theater was where he’d taken to heading after work. Someone with a sense of humor must’ve named the place, since ‘The Grandeur’ literally only had one theater and maybe thirty seats, if that. The proprietor ran the ticket booth and the concession stand, and in his threadbare uniform with its yellowing shirt, he looked a lot like Lurch's second cousin, once removed.

But he was a nice enough fella and it was a good way to waste some time. Even if the only movies showing were old black and whites, the popcorn was fresh, with real butter, and the added bonus of air conditioning. Besides, the Three Stooges were funny as shit any old day.

That was where Stretch was headed today; the afternoon showing only cost two bucks, then another for popcorn and he was set for a few hours. It was better than trying to get anything to tune in on the television in his overboiled room. With a lot of coaxing, he might manage to get a PBS channel, but there was only so much time a person could spend sweating their way through a staticky version of Sesame Street.

Stretch got to his seat just as the lights were going down, settling in with his popcorn. Before the movie there were a few cartoons, and it was kinda wild to get to see Steamboat Willy chugging along on the big screen again.

Today’s flick was an honest to bitsy silent movie and Stretch watched with a wide grin as Charlie Chaplin slap-schticked his way across the stage. There were a few other people in the seats, at least one of them snoring; probably only came to get out of the summertime heat.

But it wasn’t really the movie he was here for. Not today.

He’d seen her the first time he came. Sitting in the far back row, not that uncommon, some people liked to sit far away. No one else seemed to notice her and that wasn’t strange either. Normally even he didn’t pay much attention to anyone else in the theater, who did? So long as a person was quiet, made no ripples in the pond, no one saw them. Movies were for escapism, not to make new friends.

But this lady. To begin with, her clothes were about a century out of date, with her pink suit and matching pillbox hat, her white gloves, and whenever the house lights came up while they switch the reel, she vanished without even a shimmer of dust motes, only returning once the darkness did.

He’d been back three times so far and she’d been in the theater for every showing. Sitting on her own watching the flick, always in the same seat. This time, Stretch was sitting in the seat next to it. He munched his buttery popcorn and watched as Charlie Chaplin-ed his way through the movie. He didn’t have to wait long.

None of the Humans noticed. The black-and-white light coming from the screen was dim enough that anyone sitting in the audience was nothing but a shadow. Humans tended towards the unobservant side, anyway, none of them had to be as aware of their surroundings as a Monster did, especially one like Stretch with only 5 HP between him and dust.

Besides, there wasn’t any fanfare about it. One minute the chair next to him was empty and the next, a young woman was sitting there, her hands clasped primly in her lap as she looked up at the movie with rapt attention.

“like the movies, huh?” Stretch said, very softly. “always wanted to be an actor myself, but i don’t have the guts for it.”

Waste of a good pun, he didn’t even think the woman had a chance to notice he was a skeleton. She startled, one faintly translucent hand flying to her mouth as if to stifle a scream. Stretch only munched on another piece of popcorn and let her gather her wits or ectoplasm or whatever ghosts had. Wasn’t like he had room to talk, the inside of his skull was as hollow as a drunken apology.

She settled quick enough and asked in a wispy little voice, “you can see me?”

Stretch slouched back and propped his sneakers up on the seat in front of him. “sure. it’s a monster thing. we see things that humans don’t, sometimes.” Or didn’t bother to see, Stretch wasn’t sure which.

“Sometimes they see me,” she admitted. “but they always run away.”

Yeah, Stretch couldn’t really blame them for that one. Humans weren’t used to ghosts, not the way Monsters were, and now that he was sitting up close, he could see the way she flickered a little, that pretty face sometimes flashing onto something else, half still pretty as a picture from an old magazine and the other a bloody ruin. There was a gaping hole on one side of her head, her blonde hair matted into dark clumps, and one blue eye stared out, unseeing. There were flecks scattered on the shoulder of her pink suit, chips of ivory, and Stretch knew enough about bones to recognize skull fragments. Another flicker and it was gone, only a pretty young Human woman looking back at him. The effect was a little off-putting, true, but it wasn’t like she could help it.

Besides, Stretch didn’t have to look. He was watching the movie.

“what’s your name?” he asked, softly.

She hesitated and he wondered if she didn’t want to tell him or if she didn’t know. Her eyes were large, absurdly long lashes sweeping against her cheeks as she considered. When she spoke again her voice was a little stronger, surer, “Doris.”

“doris, my name is stretch,” he told her, “and it is a pleasure to meet you.”

They sat together in silence for a little while. The music coming brightly from the speakers was as cheerful as a carousel, offering happiness and humor when she spoke again abruptly. “I know this is very forward. But. Could you do something for me?”

“maybe,” Stretch said, a little wary. Better not to make promises to unknown ghosts, they could get tetchy.

She smiled, a wry curve of lips as if she could hear his thoughts. “Your popcorn.”

He looked down at the paper cup in his hand, still half-full of buttery kernels. “you want some?” he asked, bemused.

She let out a whispery laugh, like a wind rustling through summer cattails. “No, but. Can I smell it?”

Oh. “sure.” He held the cup out and she leaned over it, inhaling deeply, or, well, looked like she did, he didn’t think ghosts actually breathed, but who knew? When she bent down twin ribbons of blood ran from both her nostrils, dark and slick. It didn’t drip into the popcorn, couldn’t, it wasn’t present in the same way the little carton was, but he felt his appetite fade. He still politely pretended not to notice.

She leaned back with a happy sigh and all signs of the blood were gone. “Thank you. I go behind the counter sometimes to smell it, but it’s not the same.”

“i bet. gotta be in a paper bucket or it ain’t right.” If she could go out to the concession stand, that meant at least she wasn’t stuck sitting in this one seat. Maybe it was just her favorite. “you get out much?” He jerked his head towards the door, “outside, i mean.”

“No,” She shook her head sadly, and her hair brushed her shoulders. “I have to stay in the theater.”

He nodded sympathetically. That was gonna make this a little harder, but not too much. He liked the movies, anyway. “yeah, it works that way sometimes. but hey, i’ll stop back in and see you again. if that’s okay?”

She brightened visibly, coming sharply into focus like a lens turned on a camera, until the chair behind her only barely showing through. “Would you?”

Now that was a vow he could make and Stretch sketched a cross over his chest with a finger and said solemnly, “i promise.”

Their chat must’ve been getting a little loud. Someone was turning around in the front seats. The room was too dark to see, but he didn’t have to witness a glare to feel it. Stretch slouched down in his seat and took the hint.

Hey, he’d made a friend. Well, most of one and it was the important part. A soul without a body was a lot nicer than a body without a soul, hands down.

Which made him wonder about the gas station attendant, because Mitch made Red seem like a warm, outgoing person.

The ancient artwork on the front window of the gas station showed a shiny, smiling attendant in a tidy uniform, his neatly cut hair almost hidden beneath his cap as he held up a dripping gas nozzle in offering. That guy must’ve gotten promoted out of state, because the only dress code Mitch followed was ‘fuck it, looks clean.’ Long, straggly hair poked out from his dirty baseball cap and, of all things, he was reading the New York Times, the business section.

His saving grace was that his disinterest in all customers was universal. Mitch was an equal opportunity kind of guy; he didn’t give a shit about anyone.

Stretch opened the door carefully so that the cowbell only gave a muted clang. He hesitated inside the door and decided to brave a question. Hey, he’d made one friend today, may as well push his luck. “you got any coffee on?”

It was a pretty safe bet, even as hot as it was. Coffee wouldn’t help with the sweat that was already dampening his shirt from walking over from the theater, but Stretch felt a little unsteady from meeting Doris. He could use a dose of caffeine to shore him up.

Mitch didn’t look up from his paper, but he jerked his chin towards the back wall. “Yep, but the only coffee I got is hot. Ain’t no ‘spressos around here, Slick.”

“Hot is fine.” He didn’t bother correcting him on the name. Started with an S, close enough, they’d be best pals in no time. The carafe of coffee smelled surprisingly fresh, considering that Mitch looked like he’d been holding that chair down for a few hours. There was a plastic basket next to the carafe filled with little coffee mate creamer cups. He added four French vanilla, carrying his murky coffee up to the counter with Red’s six-pack. Beer was one thing they didn’t sell at the store, no alcohol at all, something to do with the liquor laws in this county and Red not paying those skinflint jackholes for a license, not on his ass, thanks much.

He paid for both, picked up his change from where Mitch tossed it unhelpfully on the counter and went outside, fumbling out his smokes on the way.

Stretch sat down on the crumbling curb, drinking his coffee and smoking, letting the caffeine and nicotine wash over him in a twin, soothing rush. He’d been trying to cut down with his funds being on the uncertain side, cigarettes were a pricy vice, and he couldn’t bum any from Red the way he did the beers.

The sun was still high overhead pouring down the heat, coming up off the pavement in shimmery waves. Sweat was rising up on his bones, his t-shirt clinging damply to his ribs and spine. Somewhere nearby, he could hear children playing, the hollow thud of a basketball and their laughter carrying on in the still air. He didn’t have anywhere he needed to be, no one’s expectations to live up to.

When his cigarette was done and pinched out, Stretch climbed back to his feet and headed for the grocery to drop off the beers before they got warm. Again, he went easy on the door, keeping the bell to a faint rattle rather than a clang. It was only when he turned around that he saw the front counter was empty, Red’s book bent open on the counter but no skeleton around to pick it back up.

He set the beers on the counter, calling, “red?”

No reply and that was strangely ominous in a little store where even a short skeleton would be hard pressed to hide.

There was a long hallway in the back that led past a couple storerooms to the apartment Red lived in. He gave the storerooms a glance, just in case Red had a sudden urge to restock the sanitary napkin display, and wasn’t very surprised to find them unoccupied. He saw the door to Red’s apartment was open a crack like it never was and that cranked ominous up to sinister. The lingering sweat on his bones was chilling in the air conditioning, but that wasn’t the only reason a sudden shiver rattled him.

“red?” Stretch called weakly as he pushed open the door.

The living room was small with a ratty plaid sofa and a coffee table littered with beer cans and balled up chip bags, and standing in the center of it was a person who was not Red, not unless he got one hell of a growth spurt while Stretch was gone.

Once, Stretch would’ve just taken a shortcut out, right the hell to the Sheriff station down the road and never had he missed the skill more than when the guy-who-was-definitely-not-Red started to turn around. The instinct to teleport was still there even if the ability wasn’t, fizzling out with an aching pain right in the middle of his chest.

It was only a minor distraction and Stretch blundered over to grab a lamp from a side table, yanking the cord right out of the wall as he brandished it over his head like a club, yelling shrilly, “what the fuck are you doing in here?”

The guy turned around, looking back at him with deep crimson eye lights that flicked briefly up to the lamp before meeting his wild gaze. His voice was as smooth and dark as deep water as he stated coolly, “I believe that’s my question.”

Stretch could stare and the only coherent thought amongst the many tangled ones scrambling through his mind was only two words. Simple. Descriptive.

Oh, shit.

-tbc-

[cherrywoes]

acanthus. (go.)

NINJA WERE NOTHING but trouble. That was what ran through Kuchiki Sachiko’s mind as she surveyed the rain pounding down over the miles of rice fields she owned. She had harvested what she could before it had gotten truly awful, a few sacks worth a pretty ryo with the shortages from skirmishes between Iwagakure and Kumo. It would line her pockets for a brief period, feed her children well enough until their bellies ached a little less, but it wouldn’t last—it never did, with conditions like these. She was fifty-six, going on fifty-seven, with her youngest only nine years old and, fortunately, her last. She had lived long enough to take part in wars and make her peace with them, and with another brewing on the horizon, she knew her days were limited, and her childrens’ even more so.

Sachiko almost loathed to lie to them; to stare into their innocent faces and wide eyes, so much like her own with her husband’s nose and ears, and tell them that, yes, everything would be okay, and that Kaa-chan would take care of them and make sure they had everything they wanted. It was obvious enough to her older children, twenty and twenty-five respectively, that she lied out of necessity, and they turned a blind eye to it and pitched in where they could. She might find a few ryo tucked into her worn, tattered shoes; she might find a couple stowed away in the pots and pans she rarely used, because they couldn’t afford so much food for a single meal; and she might even discover some hidden deceptively within the threadbare stuffed animals in the corner. She would deny the help if they asked, so they took stealthier measures to make sure she took it and never returned it. Sachiko, despite the offense taken at being perceived as unable to take care of her own family, would flip the ryo in her hands in thought, grimace at the image of ribs protruding out from under skin, and hide them away on the inside seam of her apron and sew it shut.

She had saved a hefty sum this way, obtained healthier, heartier meals for her children and grandchildren: deer in the morning, procured from the butcher down the street who used his former ninja skills for less than acceptable means; vegetables and fruit for lunch to replace what nutrients they had lacked in the years before; and for dinner, rice to fill them up and bone broth to wash it down, because clean water was only seen once in a blue moon. She would never give her children the feces-laced, cloudy water that the rest of her village was drinking that made them ill and, eventually, gave them enough parasites that eating wouldn’t be their first concern.

“Kaa-chan,” one of her children called for her. His tiny hands were embedded in the wash basin, their clothes turning the water dark with dirty, mud, sweat, and tears. When she turned to him obligingly, hand falling to her sternum, she saw he was not looking at her, but out beyond the rice fields, eyes trained on something she couldn’t see through the rain with her blurry vision. “There’s someone out there.”

Sachiko huffed. “Out in this weather? They’d have to be insane, or—”

She swallowed the words when the rain brought a dark red trail of blood to her porch steps, just shy of her feet. It cut a crimson swathe through the clear water, disappearing as quickly as she had seen it, but she knew the look of a lethal amount of blood, having seen it many times before. When she looked up again, peering above the rice, she watched the abnormally tall stalks—nourished by her kekkai moura—sway as they were pushed aside, and violently. When they bowed, they did not return to their former stance, and she stiffened as a head of pink hair became steadily more visible the closer they got. At the basin, she could hear her child drop the soap into the dirty water and get to his feet, coming to her side to watch as the intruder crawled through their crops and nurtured them with their blood.

“Kaa-chan, we should help them,” he said, after a minute, watching the same threads of blood float through the water as she had. “They could be really hurt!”

Her mouth pulled in distaste. It was, in all likelihood, a ninja who had found themselves fatally wounded and stumbled their way from the war fields and into their crops by accident. She knew how this would go: the ninja would approach them, offer them some halfhearted promise while delusional from blood loss, in exchange for healing or a safe space to stay; then, when all was said and done, they would apologize, for what they had said was untrue and something they couldn’t do, offer them a paltry sum of ryo or expensive ninja equipment they knew nothing to do with and couldn’t sell, and vanish back into forest, either ending up dead or somewhere they were never coming back from. Sachiko had been on the butt-end of a bad deal one too many times, and this was a risk she wasn’t going to take. Not again.

“If they really want help,” she said snidely, turning him around by the shoulders and pushing him inside,”they’ll make it to the door and knock. If I’m feeling considerate, I might help them.”

“But Kaa-chan, that’s cruel,” he said, as if he knew what cruelty was, but didn’t fight her as she wheeled him towards the kitchen and out of sight from the broken windows. “What if they die?”

Sachiko flicked him in the back of the head. “They’re ninja. They know what they’re getting into. Now sit and eat your lunch while I go get your siblings and nieces and nephews.”

At that, she watched his face contort and sour. “I still don’t understand why we have to keep Nii-san’s kids, too. Aren’t there enough of us as it is?”

She deliberately ignored his hypocritical comment—having gone straight from wishing to help a stranger and right to resenting his relatives for being in the same home as him— and made her way to the front side of their hovel. Outside, squealing and playing in the mud, much to her delight, were her six missing children, each one thoroughly covered in it. She doubted they even realized they were playing in a mixture of dirt, cow feces, and fertilizer, and brought her fingers to her mouth in a shrill whistle. They stopped and turned to face her with sheepish grins, the rain already clearing them of some of the swill they had just covered themselves in.

“Inside, children,” she said, tiredly. She was unable to produce anger when they were having fun, even at the expense of their own health. By morning, they would be moaning and groaning about chores and post-rain cleanup, but they had a little piece of normalcy, and would treasure it despite the consequences. “Wash off in the rain—and do not play anymore—dry off, and get inside. Lunch is ready.”

Their ‘lunch’ was running later than usual, running into their dinner, but there was nothing Sachiko could do about that. The butcher had no more bones to give her and she had only two hundred ryo left to keep them from starving, once again. In the big cities, like Amegakure and Konoha, that would be nothing but chump change, but in their village, it was enough to keep them fed for at least three weeks, provided there were no other extreme shortages in the supply lines. She patted her tiny stockpile of ryo in idle thought, feeling each individual piece and its engravings, and sighed.

If she was lucky, the ninja would die in her fields and might have enough ryo to get them through another month without incident.

When all of her children were clean and dry, they all sat down at the table and began eating their food: an assortment of various lettuces, spinach, tomatoes that she had cut the rotten spots off of, and corn that had seen better days but ran cheap in the market. She forewent her own meal and took up sentry at the window, eyes tracking the unusually still body face down in the mud. Right when she was beginning to believe they were dead, they twitched and pushed up to their hands and began crawling, and even from the distance and her bad eyes, Sachiko knew what an aura soaked in anger felt like. It had been some time since she had felt it, but this was potent, made her eyes sting with tears, and a finger of ice trail up her spine and through the part of her hair.

This was a ninja she wanted no association with.

She pulled a ratty curtain over the windows hastily. What you didn’t see wasn’t there, so went the old saying, and she desperately hoped blood loss got to the ninja before the night. When her son sent her a quick, knowing look, spooning another forkful of lettuce into his mouth and grimacing at the taste of tomatoes, she knew her hope was for naught: once she laid down to rest, he would be out the door and helping the ninja before she could blink. A hypocritical, sympathetic heart, he was—she wasn’t sure if he got it from her or his father.

When night fell and Sachiko laid on the floor over a thin blanket to rest, she knew she had been right when the floorboards creaked and the soft footfalls of small feet echoed through the room. She closed her eyes and hid them in the lumpy, hard pillow, clutching a fistful of ryo to comfort herself, and listened as he turned the knob and opened the door.

Instead of continued feet patter, there was a gasp, and then a loud thud that sounded suspiciously like a body hitting the floor. Sachiko was up and stepping over slumbering children before she had a second thought, yanking her child back from the door and pushing him behind her. Lying face-first on the floor, covered in mud and bleeding all over her already dry rotting floor, was a ninja. Pink strands of hair, dark with water, were plastered to the back of her head, obscuring the mask that was clearly attached to her face. It was a deceptively small figure, that was certain, but Sachiko knew that underestimating a ninja like this one would be her death—if said ninja didn’t die first. And this ninja was very clearly ANBU, one of the more dangerous breeds.

“You have to help her,” her child said, reminding her of that ill-made promise.

“She didn’t knock,” Sachiko replied, if only to be petty.

She could feel his glare on the back of her head, harsh and sharp. “You promised.”

“Fine.” After a moment, she prayed to the heavens that she wouldn’t regret this, and with a well placed shove, rolled the ninja to her back. Her breath caught at the strikingly familiar face—not quite Mebuki Haruno’s but a very close rendition—and half lidded green eyes, crusted with dried tears, rain, and mud. She looked, overall, like she had been dragged miles down the road and left for the crows. Something that felt a little like obligation welled in her belly, despite her aversion for ninja. “But you’re helping.”

Without waking the other children, Sachiko dragged the woman to a bare room, tossed down a sheet and sack of rice, laid her down, and got to work. She tore open the vest and discarded it in a corner to air out, the smell gradually turning from wet dog to rank sourness, and tugged up the girl’s shirt, but only after telling her son to turn around. She caught the tiny ends of petals sinking into her skin before there were open wounds, deep and crudely glued together, weeping freely onto her floor.

She grimaced and mentally counted the deep punctures as she uncorked a bottle of foul moonshine—her personal stash that she hadn’t touched in years—with a high alcohol percentage. She saw over twenty severe punctures, but there were easily thirty or so injuries interspersed in the same area, and poured the liquid over the wounds. It cleaned the skin around it and Sachiko was mildly surprised that it wasn’t a particularly deep tan she had, but such a thick layer of grime that it had almost sunk into her skin entirely. When she looked up to her face, her breath stilled in her lungs when she found a pair of bloodshot, green eyes staring at her warily, a hand halfway up and reaching for something hidden in her pants pocket.

Sachiko went still, her gaze darting from that hand to her eyes, and breathed a sigh of relief when said eyes rolled back into her skull and the hand fell to the floor, limp.

She did what she could. Some of it was beyond her knowledge; they were more than just surface wounds, and the poor girl looked like she needed a medical ninja more than some backwater farmer with a handful of ninja experience. She cleaned the area up and stitched them closed, adding the gauze she had found in the ninja’s sealing scroll (that she knew how to open, at least) and pinning them in place with senbon that didn’t look like they were poisonous and had been rolling around in the bottom of a pouch stuffed full of ration bars.

When she was done, she got to her feet with a loud complaint from her knees. She would be regretting that for a few days to come, but when her child peered around her at the still body in the room, she figured it was worth it.

“Let her rest,” she said, ushering him to his own makeshift pallet and laying down on her own. “When she wakes, then you can pester her.”

But when morning came, and Sachiko opened the door with a plate of food she had grudgingly made for their guest, no one was there. The sheet had been cleaned, somehow, and folded and put into a corner, only faint blood stains visible upon it. The sack of rice laid atop it, innocent, and even the floors had been scrubbed clean of blood. And there, in the center of the room, was a pile of ryo, haphazardly placed as if she had put it there as an afterthought, along with seven ration bars that had bloody fingerprints on them.

Sachiko harumphed and scooped the ryo up, placing it in her little pocket, and regarded the ration bars with a narrow glare.

“Ninjas.” She scoffed, turning and taking the plate with her. “Nothing but trouble.”

Sakura had no way of knowing what her unintentional savior had thought of her parting with a vital resource to her survival. She had shelled out three hundred ryo from her meagre supply of just over a thousand, and she knew she couldn’t afford to do this again—to go to civilians for help when they were already as troubled as she was. She had tiptoed through the house, inspecting it for any sign that it might have been tampered with, and only found signs of a starving and poor household. She had given them ration bars, as well, to replace the bottle of moonshine she’d found sitting by the door that she was now taking swigs from to distract her from the pain.

It was almost as if her wounds being clean was more painful than them being dirty, really. She took a final swig and corked it, ambling through the forest and avoiding the more social members of the village coming out to play. The woman had looked mildly familiar to her, but nothing immediately obvious was coming to mind for her, and so she dismissed it as something irrational. It wouldn’t do her any good lingering on something like that. She was now off-course from Amegakure and, of course, had no way to track Neji now—she would have to go by her instincts and make her way there, if there was anything left of them by now. War Ops, she recalled, were easily wiped out if taken unawares.

It reminded her of Sasuke, in a way—he had taken her unawares, and nearly killed her for it, as well. He might have missed her heart, but he had not missed another vital organ she might have needed, one day. Tsunade had given her a solemn look when she had woken up in the hospital, tugged down her gown, and exposed a grisly scar from hip to hip, and Sakura had known what had happened. He had cut deeply enough to wound her ovaries, and there had been no saving them, as much as her former mentor had tried. It wasn’t as if she had any prospects for a future husband; she had originally hoped Sasuke still harbored some flame for her, even after all that time. It had been in the hospital where her love for him had withered and died and turned into something more malicious.

Perhaps it had been then that her problems had started. Sakura’s hand went to her belly in thought, darting under her shirt and tracing the scar that still felt raw and fresh, even after almost a year of healing and a unique skin therapy. Her life had spiraled from there, devolving from a broken heart to exile and execution in the span of a few months—though she wasn’t so delusional as to think her chakra turning on her like that was because of a broken heart. It had to be something else, something to do with the seal on her head; the Byakugou didn’t just change like that. She knew that innately; even Tsunade had said as much, when Sakura inquired if she could change the shape into something less attention-catching, like a circle. She no longer had the well of medical chakra, but a violently shifting lake of chakra that sent a chill through her every time she tried to mold it into some confined shape. Her chakra control, excellent and above even Tsunade’s, was her issue, now. She would have to have the recklessness of Naruto and the blind trust in skill that Sasuke had before she could even think about touching that chakra. Not that she even wanted to to begin with.

She paused in walking down the trodden path of broken underbrush and dying grass. What did she want to do? Other than her selfish need to live, what else was there to do? She had no village to fight for, no one to fight for except for herself. She relied on having others to occupy her selfishness, her unnerving sense of right and wrong, but those lines had been blurred and her selfishness was starting to turn inward towards her own wellbeing. She wasn’t getting anywhere not touching the malevolent chakra within her veins, and avoiding the deaths her contract required would most certainly kill her.

Living, Sakura decided, just wasn’t enough for her.

But then, she thought, as she ducked underneath a set of branches and found herself at a fork in the road, what would be enough for her, in the end?

She ignored the tiny little voice in the back of her head whispering “Nothing,” as she avoided the path on the right and set off on the left, walling off the quick succession of imagery that depicted Sasuke Uchiha dead at her hand, mutilated in the same way he had left her, flashing through her mind.

Maybe one day, she would give her ex-teammate the beating he deserved. But for now, she was going to go to the War Ops camp and fulfill her contract’s stipulation; after that, if she survived the war, she would entertain the idea of killing Sasuke Uchiha.

And the darker part of her heart told her she wouldn’t mind a bit if he was dead.

五 (yon) | masterlist | 六 (roku)

[carnegiemuseumnaturalhistory]

The Bromacker Project Part IV: Diadectes absitus, A Project-Saving Fossil

This post will be the first of a series focusing on notable fossil animals discovered in the Bromacker quarry. I selected Diadectes abisitus, a member of the ancient group Diadectomorpha, to present first because, had it not been discovered in the first year of the collaborative field work, the project might not have continued.

Dave Berman and his colleague Stuart Sumida (California State University, San Bernardino) joined Thomas Martens for five weeks of field work in the summer of 1993. They dug a quarry over six feet deep in their search for fossils, while working in a mix of hot and humid or near freezing temperatures, with plenty of rain. It wasn’t until the second-to-last day of the field season that the Diadectes specimen was discovered. By then, as Dave later told me, he was so discouraged by the lack of fossils that he assumed this would be his first and last field season in Germany. I should mention that Stuart had previously uncovered a few small vertebrae, but because the vertebrae resembled an animal described from the Bromacker in 1991, the team was not very excited about the discovery. They couldn’t have been more wrong in their field identification of the vertebrae, however, but more on that in a later post.

The 1993 quarry shortly before discovery of Diadectes absitus. Pictured are Stuart Sumida standing in the quarry and Thomas Martens crouched to his right. The Diadectes fossil was found in the corner opposite Stuart’s left shoulder, which is out of sight in this image. Photo by Dave Berman, 1993.

The team’s collective attitude changed when Stuart knocked off a chunk of bone-bearing rock from a bench in the quarry corner while shoveling away rock rubble. Careful examination of the fragment revealed part of the top of a roughly five-inch-long skull. We have since joked that Stuart gave it a lobotomy. While collecting the large block of rock containing the remainder of the skull, another piece of rock popped off the the edge of the block adjacent to the quarry wall. This piece had vertebrae in it. The team then realized that only the front portion of the animal was in the block freed from the quarry. The rest of the fossil skeleton remained in the quarry wall. Thomas later excavated the rest of the specimen and shipped it separately to Carnegie Museum of Natural History (CMNH).

You can watch Dave and Stuart excavate the fossil-bearing block by clicking on the video link at the end of this post.

Based on the shape of both the exposed teeth in the broken skull and the exposed vertebrae, Dave and Stuart were able to identify the fossil animal as the genus Diadectes. Thomas had already collected a juvenile skull and other bones of Diadectes before his collaboration with Dave, but the specimen discovered in 1993 was by far the most complete and best preserved.

Skeleton of Diadectes absitus. Some of the limb bones are preserved on the underside of the block. Photo provided by Thomas Martens.

Once my preparation of the specimen was completed, which took a little over a year, Dave, Stuart, and Thomas begin their detailed study and description of the fossil. They determined that it represented a new species, which they named Diadectes absitus. “Absitus” is Latin for distant or far, in reference to the species being the first occurrence of Diadectes outside of North America. The generic name Diadectes was coined in 1878 by the famous paleontologist Edward Drinker Cope, and is a combination of the Greek “dia,” meaning crosswise, and “dēktēs,” meaning biter, in reference to its broad teeth. Other species of Diadectes occur in similar-aged rocks in the American southwest, and a few specimens are known from the Tri-State area of Pennsylvania, Ohio, and West Virginia.

Diadectes is a member of the group Diadectomorpha, which has oscillated between being considered a member of Amphibia or Amniota. Amphibians lay their eggs in water, which then hatch into tadpoles that later undergo metamorphosis. Today this group includes frogs, salamanders, and caecilians (limbless, worm-like burrowing amphibians). In contrast, amniotes either lay their eggs on land, like reptiles and birds do today, or the embryo develops sufficiently in the mother for live birth, as in most mammals. Except in rare cases, the type of developmental pathways of fossil animals cannot be determined because they are rarely preserved with their eggs or fetuses. Paleontologists instead study a variety of preserved features to determine group membership. As an example, amphibians typically have four fingers, whereas amniotes generally possess five.

Diadectes and its close relatives were herbivorous, that is, they ate plants. Their spatulate, incisor-like front teeth project forwards and were adapted for cropping vegetation. Longitudinal, parallel striations on their broad cheek teeth suggest that Diadectes could move its lower jaw fore and aft to grind plant matter against its upper jaw teeth, a motion called propalinal.

Skull of Diadectes absitus in right lateral (= right side) aspect. Notice the forward-angled front teeth and the bulbous cheek teeth. A black pen was used to mark the boundaries of individual bones in the skull, which aided study of the animal. Modified from photo provided by Thomas Martens.

The presence of an enlarged torso and teeth adapted for grinding tough vegetation are evidence that Diadectes absitus likely consumed a diet of high-fiber plants. Animals that eat high fiber plants, such as cows, have enlarged torsos framed by a rounded rib cage to hold large guts for processing plant cellulose through fermentation by microorganisms.

Diadectes absitus lived at a time when herbivores were just beginning to evolve. One of the oldest known herbivores is the diadectomorph Desmatodon hollandi, which lived about 305 million years ago, whereas Diadectes absitus lived roughly 290 million years ago. We discovered a surprisingly high number of herbivores at the Bromacker.

Teeth of one of the oldest known herbivores, the diadectomorph Desmatodon hollandi. This specimen was discovered in Pitcairn, PA by Percy E. Raymund (Assistant Curator, Section of Invertebrate Paleontology) in 1907 and named in honor of Dr. William Holland, the second Director of CMNH. The teeth of Desmatodon are very similar to those of Diadectes absitus. Photo by the author, 2018.

A cast of the skeleton of Diadectes absitus is exhibited in the Fossil Frontiers display case in the Dinosaurs in Their Time exhibition. Be sure to look for these once the museum re-opens. And stay tuned for my next post, which features another diadectomorph, Orobates pabsti.

Photograph of a model of Diadectes absitus made by the Museum der Natur, Gotha exhibit preparator Peter Mildner. Photo provided by Thomas Martens.

Dave and Stuart excavate the fossil-bearing block (video)

Amy Henrici is Collection Manager in the Section of Vertebrate Paleontology at Carnegie Museum of Natural History. Museum employees are encouraged to blog about their unique experiences and knowledge gained from working at the museum.

[randomfandomfamily]

You know what Sonic likes? Long drives with his favorite Donut Lord.

You know what Sonic doesn’t like? Well, I’d be spoiling the story if I told you now. Read on, dear Tumblr folk, I hope you enjoy!

On an unrelated note, does anyone remember that one song by Post Malone? The one in the Spiderverse movie? Wonder what that was called…

Ever since almost dying on a road trip to San Francisco, Tom and certain a blue hedgehog took some time every couple of weeks to go take a drive. It was an unofficial tradition, and Maddie understood that it was kind of just a them thing.

Sometimes they picked out a destination and sometimes they didn’t. Honestly it was just fun to hang out with Sonic for a few hours and drive aimlessly. Gave them a chance to talk and let Sonic see a little more of Earth without potentially exposing himself.

It wouldn’t seem like much fun to most people, but most people hadn’t been living in fear and total isolation for years. A crooked road sign could entertain Sonic for five minutes, laughing and speculating what happened and wondering if he should fix it and ‘oh my god did someone paint on that one?’.

So yeah. It was usually pretty great.

Sonic pushed the buttons on the radio absently. “Any destination in mind?”

“Nah,” Tom replied as he batted Sonic’s hand away from the radio controls. “Think we’re just gonna drift for a while and see what we come across.”

“Sounds good. I’m always up for an adventure.” Sonic sat back in his seat. “So long as I can hop out every now and then.”

Tom gave him a warning glance. “Give me a heads up first.”

Sonic waved his hand flippantly. “Yeah yeah, I know. I promise I will not jump out the window without permission.” He started rolling down the window. “But just in case, I’m-”

“Nope,” Tom said. “Roll that back up.”

“I’m not gonna jump out.” He took his hands off the controls. “Halfway down. Deal?”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Okay, halfway down, but not any further than that.”

“You got it, Donut Lord.” Sonic drummed his fingers the door. “You know, these trips are really cool. Because the world is, like, huge. And we only drive for a few hours, but you could see a lot in a few hours, and there’s still so much more to see later, you know?”

“Yeah, Earth’s a pretty big place,” Tom agreed. “You never really run out of new experiences here.” He took a left at the next intersection.

They usually took a right to heads toward a highway that could take them pretty far in a short amount of time, but Tom decided to take a scenic route. Sonic seemed more restless than usual, so he’d probably need to take a run soon. The highway wasn’t a good place for that.

“I mean, just think: there are whole other continents,” Tom said, “You could explore every inch of this mass of land we’re on and still have six other ones you could explore.”

Sonic tilted his head thoughtfully. “Yeah… I’m not so sure I’d want to explore Antarctica though. It’s cold there.”

“You know the continents?” Tom asked. “No offense, but I kinda figured that you didn’t have an education.”

“I don’t,” said Sonic. “But classrooms have windows, and there was stuff I wanted to know. Like reading? I definitely learned to read by hanging around outside a classroom.”

That’d be kinda creepy if it was coming from anyone other than Sonic. “That makes sense. Probably helps to know the language of the strange planet you’re on. Is our language written differently than yours?”

Sonic shrugged. “I mean, probably, but I never learned to read on my planet either, so I don’t really know what it was like.”

“You couldn’t read?” Tom asked. “Geez, how old were you? Four?”

“Somewhere around there, yeah.” Sonic’s brow furrowed in thought. “Or maybe I was three. Yeah, I think it was three. I was kinda preoccupied with surviving, so my memory’s a little hazy.”

Honestly, Tom wasn’t expecting a yes. “Oh. Um… that’s pretty young to be stranded on an alien planet.”

“I guess. It was better than the alternative though.” He tapped on the window. “Can I uh…?”

Tom slowed down a little. “Sure, go for it.” Sonic rolled down the window and zipped out of the truck. He checked the rearview to make sure Sonic couldn’t be seen from the road. Green Hills might be okay with Sonic, but they agreed they’d be a little more cautious with the rest of the world. For now, anyway.

After maybe thirty seconds, Sonic was back in his seat. “It’s really pretty around these parts. Lots of places to run around.” He went back to messing with the radio. Tom let him. It looked like it was gonna empty fields for a while and the radio was keeping Sonic occupied.

The roads were mostly straight and, aside from the few cars that passed by them earlier, empty. So Tom took the opportunity to gaze around. It seemed vaguely familiar but he didn’t know why. Maybe fields were just like that.

And, as he suspected, there were a lot of them. Some had crops growing. A few with tractors sitting idly in the middle of them. Every so often they’d even come across a pasture of horses.

They’d been driving for a while when Sonic said, “Hey, Donut Lord? You know I can see the horses too, right?”

Tom blinked at him. “Yeah. Why?”

“You keep… doing a thing. Every time we pass a field with some horses in you say something like, ‘Oh, wow, look at the horses’ or ‘Hey there’s horses over there’.”

“Oh. It’s just something people do while they’re driving,” Tom explained. “It’s, like, mandatory to acknowledge horses. And cows.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s-” His brain short-circuited. “Uh…” Why did people do that?

“It’s… what?” Sonic looked confused. “Is there not a reason?”

Tom, completely baffled, admitted, “You know, I don’t think there is. I don’t know why we do it, we just do.”

“That’s weird,” Sonic told him.

“You’re not wrong.” A hill in the distance caught Tom’s eye. He squinted at it, then he remembered why this stretch of road seemed familiar to him. “Oh… oh, no way.”

“What?” Sonic asked. “Is it another horse?”

Tom grinned. “Nope, but it’s gonna be something cool.” He started to pull off onto the shoulder. “And also pretty.”

“Cool and pretty?” Sonic took off his seatbelt. “Consider me sold.” They hopped out of the truck. “So where is it?”

“Up the hill,” Tom said. “Stay here a sec. I just wanna make sure it’s still there.”

A few years ago, he’d gotten lost in these backroads. He’d climbed the hill to see if he could recognize anything from a higher vantage point. It didn’t work because he was in the middle of nowhere, but what he did find was a field of sunflowers.

He’d meant to come back, maybe show Maddie someday. Then he completely forgot about it. Hopefully it was still there. The odds of an entire field of flowers dying out was pretty slim, but not entirely impossible, and he didn’t want to drag Sonic all the way up there if the flowers were gone. Not that it’d be any trouble for him, he’d be there and back before Tom took two steps.

Luckily, the sunflowers were still there, just as bright and yellow as he remembered them. They were in orderly rows, so it was obviously owned by someone. That meant they couldn’t go in the field, but they could admire it from a distance. Sonic was pretty easy to impress anyway. He probably wouldn’t need to be surrounded by the sunflowers to be amazed.

Tom waved for Sonic to join him and there was a blue streak at the top of the hill before he could even put his hand down.

“Here it is! We can’t go in the field, but we can go get a closer look.” Tom started down the other side of the field. “These are sunflowers. And they’re probably the biggest flowers you’re ever gonna see. Seriously. Some of the flowers are bigger than my head and the stems are… “

He realized Sonic hadn’t run ahead of him yet, which was strange. Looking back to the top of the hill, he could see that Sonic hadn’t so much as moved, his eyes fixed on the field.

Tom chuckled. “What’s the matter? Intimidated by the giant sun plants?” He thought that’d snap Sonic out of whatever trance he was in, but he was still staring blankly. “Sonic?”

Sonic not being excited about seeing some new Earth thing was… kind of concerning. He was usually bouncing off the walls about this kind of stuff. Tom walked back up the hill, thinking maybe he had said something that made Sonic upset, but he had no idea what it could have been.

“You okay?” Tom asked.

“I don’t wanna go down there,” Sonic said.

There was a slight quiver to his voice that made Tom immediately kneel at Sonic’s side. “Hey buddy, it’s okay. We don’t have to go down there if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t.” He took a couple of steps back. “I really really don’t.”

“Sonic,” Tom reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you oka-”

“Don’t!” Sonic recoiled so hard that he nearly fell backwards. “Don’t touch me, just… s-stay back.”

Tom stood slowly. “Do you wanna go back to the truck?”

Sonic’s gaze darted around. “I need to- I have to go, I-”

“No,” Tom said gently, “You don’t need to run, remember? I’m here to help.”

“Help?” Sonic asked. “I- no? I’m not…” Giving the field another panicked glance, he took a step back. “She wasn’t supposed to… it was my fault…”

Tom moved to block Sonic’s view of the flowers. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Sonic was probably the most upbeat kid Tom had ever met, but there were times when the years he spent alone broke the surface.

He and Maddie weren’t sure what to do the first time it had happened. There wasn’t always a conventional solution. Sometimes all he needed was a hug, other times he was so overwhelmed that just wouldn’t work.

They figured out that it was always best to just ask before doing anything. “Lil Blue, I need you to tell me how to help. Do you want a hug? Need to talk?”

Sonic instantly looked more terrified than he already was. “No.”

“No hug or no talking?” Tom asked.

“Yes. I mean no! I mean…” Sonic shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Tom tried again. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Sonic shook his head. “You’ll h-hate me if I do.”

“No I won’t,” Tom reassured him.

“How do you know that?” Sonic demanded. “Y-you don’t even know what I did.”

“There is nothing you could do that could make me hate you.” Tom held out a hand. “Wanna go back to the truck now? We can head home if you want.”

Sonic looked past Tom for a moment, then nodded. “Okay… yeah, home sounds… nice.” He took Tom’s hand and they made their way back down the hill. There was a car that passed by, but Sonic was safely in his seat by then and Tom was getting ready to start the truck.

They drove in silence for a few minutes while Tom looked for a place to turn around. Tom didn’t ask Sonic to talk about what happened. The last time he and Maddie tried to force him to talk about something, it had resulted in him running. Not exactly what he needed right now.

“I wasn’t supposed to leave home.”

Tom was silent. Sonic rarely opened up about anything. The last time this happened, there was a massive storm that sent him spiraling into a panic attack. It took an hour before he was calm enough to talk, and even then he didn’t really say much.

“Longclaw would go outside with me sometimes. It wasn’t very often, but she only did it so I’d be safe.”

Now Tom was really making sure to keep quiet. Because as rarely as Sonic talked about his past, the thing he talked about the least was Longclaw. Were Tom and Maddie curious about her? Of course they were. Did Sonic flinch every time they mentioned her? Every single time.

“Longclaw, protected me. But I’m… you know, kinda reckless… and really stupid.” Tom wanted to argue that Sonic was most definitely not stupid, but he was still going with silence for now. “So one day, while she was asleep, I uh… I went outside.

“I shouldn’t have, and I knew that…” He grabbed his seatbelt like it was a lifeline. “I was just gonna go out and come right back in, I wasn’t even gone for that long.”

Tom spotted a driveway up ahead and pulled in to turn around.

“I came back. And I thought that… I thought everything was fine.” Sonic went silent for so long that Tom thought that he had stopped talking entirely. “Until they showed up. They chased us, they shot her out of the sky.”

Turning the truck around, Tom started heading for Green Hills. He wished he could text Maddie to prepare her for the emotional kiddo he was about to bring home.

“They were after me. And they never would have found her if I… if I had just.” He took a shaky breath. “She told me to go to Earth. That someone would always want my powers and I could never stop running.”

Well, that explained where the ‘I’m not allowed to have friends’ mindset came from.

“And I went through the portal. Can you believe it? I actually left.” Sonic shook his head. “I saw them, with bows and arrows and nets a-and spears and they were just running towards her and… I couldn’t leave her, so I tried to go back-” His voice broke. “But I wasn’t… fast enough. The portal closed before I could get to her.”

Tom could hear the tears in his voice and it was taking all of his willpower not to reach over and hug Sonic as tightly as he could.

“And you wanna… y-you wanna know what was s-so important?” Sonic managed. “I wanted to bring Longclaw a freaking flower.” He buried his face in his hands. “I-it was a little yellow f-flower, with a… a black center and I th-thought she’d like it.

“I never should’ve left her, Tom.” A choked sob escaped him as he cried, “It’s not fair, it should’ve been me.”

Now, Tom felt like he had earned the right to say that not much could rattle him. He’d befriended an alien, punched a government official, became a wanted criminal, participated in a bar fight, had his truck totaled by robots, fell off a building, helped send a mad scientist flying through a portal to a planet full of mushrooms, and that all happened within the span of two days. Safe to say there wasn’t much that could faze him at this point.

But that last sentence? That got to him. Sonic was thirteen.

Now was probably the time to say something. “Sonic,” Tom said in an even tone, “I don’t want you to say anything like that ever again.” The kid didn’t run, so he took that as a sign that it was safe for him to continue. “I can’t–and I won’t–deny that what happened was bad.

“And I’m not going to tell you that it’s gonna get better, because I don’t know that. I can’t pretend to know how that feels.” Truthfully, Tom couldn’t even begin to imagine it. He didn’t want to. “But I know it feels bad. And it’s going to feel bad, because that’s how feeling works.

“But it is not fair to blame yourself like that,” Tom told him firmly. “You can’t keep beating yourself up for a mistake that happened years ago.”

Sonic scowled. “But I got her killed.”

“Were you holding a spear?” Tom asked. “No? Then you didn’t kill her.”

“I should have done something!” Sonic shouted.

“You were three!” Tom responded with equal volume. Normally he wouldn’t yell, but this needed to be fixed, and it was getting fixed now. “Sonic, you can’t keep blaming yourself for a mistake that any kid would make.

“Everybody breaks a rule every now and then. Especially kids. You were a super-powered toddler who was essentially under house arrest for powers that you didn’t ask for. I can’t blame you for wanting to go outside for a few minutes, and I refuse to let you blame yourself.

“Bad things happen. But you walking outside did not kill Longclaw. Some assholes, who thought it was okay to hunt down a child, killed her. For no good reason.” His tone softened. “But like I said, I know that doesn’t make it suck any less and you’ve got every right to be upset. Just… don’t say something like that again, okay? It makes me worry.”

Sonic hesitated. “I… okay.” He pulled his knees up to his chest and stared out the window.

Tom, worried he’d gone overboard, asked, “You think you’re gonna be alright?”

He shrugged. “I mean, probably? I don’t know, it’s just… no one’s ever worried about me like that before. Not since Longclaw. Sounded like something she’d say though.”

“She sounds pretty smart.”

“Well, she was an Owl. So… yeah. Pretty smart.” Sonic fiddled with the window controls. “But, you know, you’re pretty smart too.” He cleared his throat. “And I uh… I’m sorry for freaking out about the… flowers.”

Tom patted his shoulder. “Don’t apologize. Everybody’s got their moments.”

“They just looked so much like the flowers from my island, except they were way bigger. Which was… scarier somehow. Like they were threatening me.” He glanced at Tom nervously. “Is that dumb?”

“Of course not,” Tom said. “Stuff like this just happens. You don’t get to pick what sets it off, or when.” He smiled. “But you know what we can do?”

Sonic tilted his head. “What?”

“We can go home to Pretzel Lady, then sit on the couch with way too many blankets and watch a movie.”

The kid managed a smile. “It’s not cold outside.”

“Hey,” Tom said, “There’s never a bad time for comfy blankets.”

“Whatever you say, Donut Lord.” The smile faded just as quickly as it appeared. That was fine. Tom didn’t expect his mood to improve immediately.

It was a while before they got back home, and Sonic hadn’t so much as touched the controls on the radio. He parked the truck and opened up the door, pausing for a moment to look over at Sonic.

Still hadn’t moved.

Tom walked over to the other side of the truck and opened the passenger side door. “Wanna lift?”

Sonic blinked, barely registering the question. “Huh?”

“Yeah, okay, c’mere kid.” Tom scooped up Sonic and closed the door. Sonic looked bewildered at first, then he relaxed and let himself be carried inside.

It wasn’t even hard to hold him. He was tiny. Tom wondered how small Sonic might’ve been when he was younger. How little was at age ten? Or five? Or even three, when he had first arrived here?

Maddie was just coming down the stairs when they walked in. “Hey boys! You’re home early.” She noticed Sonic in Tom’s arms. “Everything okay?”

Tom gave her a look that said he’d explain in a minute, then smiled at Sonic. “Why don’t you go pick a movie, huh?”

Sonic nodded and jumped to the floor. Maddie watched him leave with increasing worry. “Is he okay?” She asked once he was safely in the living room. “He didn’t even run.”

He ushered her into the kitchen. “We had a rough ride. Got something else to add to the ‘List of Things that Freak Sonic Out to All Hell’.”

Her expression became serious. “What is it?”

“Sunflowers.” He stopped her before she could say anything. “I’ll explain later, I promise, but the kid’s not having a great time at the moment. So I’m gonna grab some blankets-”

“And I’ll help him pick a movie,” Maddie finished. “Because it’ll take him forever to pick one himself.”

Tom gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

She rolled her eyes. “You may have mentioned it before.” Shoving him gently, she added, “Now get us some blankets, it’s movie time.”

He made the usual rounds around the house to gather up blankets. This was probably going to be one of their quieter movie nights, since Sonic was clearly in no mood to be his usual rambunctious self. And he still had no idea how he was going to explain all of this to Maddie later.

But he could cross that bridge when he got there.

Maddie was already putting on a movie when he got back, and Sonic was sitting quietly on the couch. Tom dumped the blankets on him unceremoniously. “So! What are we watching?”

Sonic unburied himself from the pile of blankets. “Something Maddie picked. The Incredibles, I think.”

“Really?” He plopped down on the couch and helped spread out the blankets. “No Keanu?”

“Nope,” Maddie said as she sat down on the other side of Sonic. “He hasn’t seen this one yet. Figured it’d be fun. Plus, I think there’s a character I think he’ll really like.” Dash, of course.

Tom tossed her some blanket. “Sounds good to me.”

Thankfully, Sonic seemed a little less upset as the movie progressed, even laughing about halfway through. But that didn’t stop Tom and Maddie from glancing at him every few minutes or so just to make sure.

He didn’t know when their next drive would be, but he hoped that it didn’t end like this one had. The three of them with a movie? Yes, absolutely. That was about the only good outcome of the trip.

But they’d definitely be avoiding that stretch road from then on.

[meteor-writes]

Death Threats For An Astronomer

A short story about two cousins venturing along country lanes to solve the mystery behind the death of a Victorian gentlemen a century earlier.

Rating: Teen Wordcount: 4446 Buzzwords: Exploration, Mystery, Cousins, Country Lanes, Abandoned Houses

Please enjoy!

In the countryside, roads ran into field as easily as concrete ran into carparks. Walking in tire tracks, you could be sure to land somewhere, but whether it be amongst yellowing bales of hay or meandering mooing cows was less obvious. All Zoe could see below the crystal blue sky was towering grass banks. For all she knew, this path she walked was a crop circle and her cousin Callum was actually an alien about to abduct her. It wasn’t like they looked that similar, her skin brown like the woods, his an olive tone, her hair falling in pencil-tight ringlets, his the windswept mess of a seasoned surfer. Could she really trust anything this boy declared?

Then again, her Auntie never failed to mention the curiosity in their cat’s eye at every single childhood scolding and she pinched their cheeks with equal success so there was evidence to suggest some sort of relation. Plus, a vague idea of a house could be observed if you focussed past the garden growing with neglect and remembered that by all logic ivy had to be attached to walls. Still, Zoe would have liked a road sign too, just to be safe. But then who would sign post an abandoned mansion nestled between even more abandoned fields?

If you were a foreigner to Buckfield you could be forgiven for assuming that this place was just another area left to go wild. A last outpost of human-nature solidarity. Unfortunately, this was not the case. Had there been a less gruesome tale attached to this house, Zoe was sure it would be in the hands of a plucky young couple with jobs in the city and heads in the clouds. But Zoe wouldn’t be visiting if that were the case.

“Zoe, horse shit.”

The squelch sounded before Zoe could react. Beneath her, a huge pile of dung splattered the grass like cannonballs, and Zoe realised with disgust, her boot was lopped centre of attention. She grimaced.

“Coulda told me sooner.” She muttered, easing her foot out and gagging as the smell released like a bomb.

Callum shrugged. “M’not your keeper.”

Then, instead of stopping to offer help, Callum continued lumbering up the path as if nothing had occurred, picking grass off the bank and casually scattering the seeds like a gremlin reaping mischief.

Zoe fought against a growl.

Callum wasn’t just irritating. He was insufferable. There was always an excuse. Always a way out. The perfect thing to say that would take responsibility cleanly off his shoulders and slam it down on Zoe’s. Because, no, he was not her keeper, and no, it was not his fault she stepped in horse excrement on the daily, and yes, he did say something, but by God couldn’t he have said it a little sooner!? Wasn’t there some sort of cousin code!? A common decency between relatives! Zoe was sure in all Callum’s laidback, child of the woods, we’ll get there when we get there attitudes, there was a little weasel waiting to get out, and it just so happened to make a break for freedom every time Zoe was about.

The rest of the trek was made in simmering silence. Zoe kept her eyes pinned to the earth, making sure to stamp around any dung piles present. It seemed this path, whilst barely being a path, was a frequent haunt for horses. Maybe even cows if the smell was anything to go by. Or perhaps that UFO from before hadn’t come down to probe humans and instead simply used Earth as its personal toilet. Zoe shuddered at the thought. At least the extra traffic meant the hedges were relatively kempt. Callum couldn’t flick her in the face with stray brambles.

“We’re here.” Callum announced.

Where the boy stopped was in no shape or form a house.

Zoe folded her arms, stepping up suspiciously to the roadside, where Callum stood, hands on hips, staring at a hedge. She toed at the brambles with her boot. There was some sort of rusted metal pole poking through the undergrowth. Zoe determined it to be hiding tetanus.

“Expand.” She said, pressing her weight into the pole and finding more than a little give.  

“We’re here.” Callum repeated. Zoe was not amused. But after a brief cold war of blank stares, the boy sighed. Pulling the sleeve of his waterproof over his hand, he crouched down and stuck his hand into the nettles, forcing a clump aside like a curtain. Zoe leaned closer. There seemed to be a large headstone sitting in the undergrowth. It was a little moss covered, but she could just about make out letters carved into the lump of grey.

“orho, ar?”

Zoe’s tongue knotted just trying to form the words.

“Manorhouse farm.” Callum said easily, dropping the weeds. And before Zoe could ask how he knew, there was a loud clang and the boy threw himself over the hedge.

“Wha- Cal! What are you doing!?”

A puff of brown hair popped over the greenery. “Going to the house?”

Zoe squeezed her nails into her palm. Don’t rise to it, she told herself breathing deeply through her nose, it’s just what he does.

“Just grab onto the gate and climb over.” He said, already heading off.

Zoe wanted to yell. Of all the cousins in the world, why did hers have to be Callum? Just once, she’d like to explore as a team. Instead she was left tearing ivy out a hedgerow, trying to find a hidden gate just so she can jump over it without getting dismembered. Obviously, Callum didn’t have to since the weasel was protecting him.

Zoe dropped onto the other side and a sharp pain shot up her shins. It seemed Callum had forgotten to mention the path this side was nestled into a ditch. How kind. She kicked the nearest fern.

“This really the way?” Zoe yelled, wrinkling her nose at the smell of earth mixed with cat pee.

“To the murder house?” Callum asked, swinging around with his hands in his pockets. His mouth twitched with mischief. “Yep!”

Murder house was not it’s given name. That was Manorhouse farm – not too far off really, but far enough for the last innocent dwellers never to have suspected a thing. Of course, the house itself was not murderous. Neither was the setting. Buckfield saw its fair share of petty theft, sure, and the strange incident of ’06 where a man claimed to receive death threats from Mars, but cases of serious crime were few and far between. Murder certainly was not to be expected. Especially not involving this particular family who resided in Manorhouse farm circa 1893.

The Winter family were a respectable family of three, one daughter, two parents and a domestic servant who was paid kindly. They visited the village every Saturday, sparing change for root vegetables and home-brewed mead. Their farm was kept by local hands, all of whom spoke fondly of the landowners. That was until the 23rd night of November 1893.

It had been an evening sitting just the wrong side of bonfire night for sparkle and fizz. A chill permeated the air and the maid pulled on her gloves as she set out to gather firewood from the garden. Cornelius Winter entered the orangery. A keen astronomer he simply could not resist peaking at the stars on a clear night. His daughter, Mary, held a disdain towards the hobby a “mere woman” could not understand. She remained in the drawing room, practicing her scales on the grand piano, as her mother listened on, wishing that for once in his life, her husband would listen too.

Then there was a crash.

The women came hurrying. But it was too late.

At eighteen minutes past nine on a normal Thursday evening, Cornelius Winter dropped dead.

Zoe hadn’t found her Uncle’s ghost story of much interest when she was twelve. The Coroner reported an impact to the head. The police suggested a faulty roof tile. The family left and never returned. In her eyes it was a case closed. Worse happened on a Friday night in the city. Fortunately, her Uncle held a grudge. And on Zoe’s thirteenth birthday gifted her the age-appropriate book: ‘murder, mystery and malice, what the history books won’t tell you about Buckfield’. Here the story became far more interesting.

Because the roof tile was never found.

And a quick flick through the Buckfield Press returned a less than picturesque story of the Winter family. Accounts of a father over-indulging in ale, a maid but skin and bone and a daughter screaming bloody murder whenever she was told to act like a “proper woman”. Bitterness. Strife. Resent. It was all brewing under the thin veil of class at Manorhouse farm. Eventually, it had to break.

But by who? And how?

Zoe had to know.

Which brought her to her own investigation numerous years later. And a begrudging partnership with Callum.

The two waded their way up the path, dodging overbearing ferns and nettles that grew high enough to sting Zoe through the rip in her jeans. She wondered whether this path really would lead them to the house. And whether it was visible from space. Between the large mounds of earth and megafauna sprouted on top, Zoe hadn’t even seen a chimney spire in the last half an hour. And when Callum disappeared around the corner, Zoe was convinced she had entered a labyrinth. But then, she followed.

Around the corner, the path immediately opened up. Gorse spread in sheets and brambles crept out from underneath, thin branches interlocking like barbed wire. And what it protected was the dilapidated mansion itself; Manorhouse farm. The building sat like a single brick thrown out a Giant’s castle, lumped onto the landscape with only its two tiny antennae keeping it the right way up. Any exposed brickwork was moth bitten and water stained, rust dripping down the walls like blood from a wound. Vampiric ivy clung to the masonry, winding around the arches of the porch before spilling across the front door where broken bay windows sat miserably either side. Through them, Zoe could just about make out the ceiling collapsing under hefty beams. She pressed closer, rising on her toes, but the spikes were unforgiving.

She fell back, clicking her tongue.

“How exactly are we supposed to get through that?”

Her cousin was nowhere to be seen.

“Callum?”

The house was far more overbearing when it stared at just one. Zoe edged back towards the path, the quiet disconcerting. She peaked back around the corner but there was only grass waving back at her. Tugging on the strings of her hoodie, Zoe began toeing at the gorse, the unhelpful image of a pair of rotting feet slowly manifesting in her mind.

“Here!”

Zoe had to catch her heart when it sprang out her chest. Callum’s face had popped out from nowhere, right in the thick of the brambles.

“What are you doing over there!?”

Callum disappeared again. Zoe could feel the wind on her neck like the breath of a stalker. Then, like a Jack in the box, Callum jumped out again right on the edge of the thicket. He nodded back towards it.

“Path.”

“Right.”

Zoe’s heart had trouble sitting still.

“Come on.”

Zoe frowned. Was this going to be another shin-splitting tetanus gate? Because seeing the house was enough really. Callum could go ahead, how important was evidence to a century old crime? Being amongst nature, that was the real treat. All the fresh air, the peace, the emptiness, the feeling of being watched when no eyes were visible except that of the ghosts trapped inside a murder scene. Zoe miraculously found her feet.

Hurrying up to the boy, Zoe discovered some sort of path, or more accurately, a semi-traversable gap between the gorse. It curved towards the rear of the house and was mined entirely with thistles and thorns. At least none reached past Zoe’s knees. It was not ideal. But equally, it far surpassed the other option of getting shredded to pieces hiking through spiky gorse. Or being left alone. Zoe shuddered. Zipping up her hoodie, she tucked her trouser cuffs firmly into her socks, and proceeded to stamp on any thickets that tried to get in her way.

As it turned out, the back of the house had fared no better against time than the front, ironic for all the dandelion clocks. Overgrown butterfly bushes sprawled higher than the first floor and knotweed was the only lifeform to launch counterattack, leaving behind countless twigging trees that appeared like zombies dragging themselves out the grave. Past the foliage, or lack thereof, Zoe’s eyes were drawn to the shiny shards sticking out the side of the house. Although the glass was cracking, and the wood rotting, Zoe gasped as if witnessing Venus herself. The orangery. The exact scene of the crime. It was there at the end of this golden path.

Zoe stumbled up to the white door. The paint peeled in thin lines and the metal handle was rusted red, but Zoe pulled the sleeve of her hoodie over her hand and attempted to turn it.

“It’s locked.” Said Callum helpfully. Zoe tried forcing it with her shoulder.

“You’ll have to come up here.” He added. Zoe glared at the door. She doubted Fort Knox had better security.

Stamping around the side of the conservatory, Zoe found the weasel in control once again. Callum was balancing on the very tips of his toes on the thin lip of brick that acted like a windowsill. He wasn’t standing still either. The boy eased his way along, poking at each waxy window until one gave with a mighty shriek.

“This one.” He said, sending Zoe a mightily pleased grin. “Just step up here and-”

The boy slipped inside with the ease of a slinky.

Zoe stared at the space he left. Those instructions were… less than par. But she had no choice but to follow them.

Shoving a foot onto the barely-there ledge, Zoe launched herself upwards, catching the open window and immediately losing her footing. Slipping towards the ground, panic struck her like a shot, and she kicked off the sill swinging wide. It was brief respite before she noticed the gleaming of the glass and let out a screech, squeezing her eyes shut just in time to crash through the window like a battering ram.

“Shit!” Callum yelped. Zoe winced at how loud and unblocked his voice was. “Guess that’s one way to do it.”

Zoe tentatively opened her eyes. The entire table was covered in tiny diamonds.

“You okay?”

“Uhh…”

Zoe looked back at the window smirking with its new bite. Those teeth. They were sharp. She curled her toes, rolling her ankles. No pain - luckily. She shuffled around onto her knees, pulling at the frayed fabric of her hoodie to check for cuts. Nothing more than hairline.

“Yes.” She said finally, sitting up straight.

Now, the heat hit Zoe. Like the blast of air expelled from a bag of crisps left out in the sun. It smelt the same too; stale and vaguely reminiscent of potatoes. Though, looking around, Zoe doubted any vegetables were ever grown here as underneath the doming windows and vines dropping through like a jungle canopy there was a telescope. Complete with tableside reading and a dusty velvet stool, it stood proud at the centre of the hexagonal room, painted with gold trim and delicate cursive font. Cornelius Winter’s true love. The cause of his undoing.

Taking Callum’s hand, Zoe picked her way across the bench, avoiding the insect carcasses and dead leaves that lay scattered like blossom of the underworld. Falling more than jumping onto the floor, she hissed out a thanks and let Callum go to poke around the old telescope. What must it have been like? Observing the sky. Cornelius alone, in his study, under the watch of the moon and the stars and the murderer waiting in the dark.

Zoe tugged her sleeves over her hands. In all the fuss getting here, she’d forgotten about the murder. Now, the splotch of blood on the concrete had her immediately wanting to forget. Maybe there was an argument for letting nature take over? Free this place of all its ghosts.

Sufficiently unnerved, Zoe went back to inspecting the room itself. There was something growing– aside from the mould – in the back corner, a fuschia bush, thriving under the abundance of light and water dribbling out a broken pipe. It was almost a comfort to Zoe. As if the incident all those years ago had a bright side. It returned the land back to nature. Set it free from human hands. That was, until Zoe noticed the mattress propped up against the far wall and the bleached magazines stuffed down the back of it.

“Oh nice!”

Zoe jumped. Having almost forgotten Callum was exploring with her, it was a surprise to find the boy, butt in the air, scraping for something on the floor next to the rusted door.

“What!? What’s nice? What’s going on?”

“This.” Callum flipped something shiny into the air and span around. “A coke bottle top. From the 90s.”

“The 90s!?”

Had people really been exploring Manorhouse Farm for that long? Nature didn’t stand a chance.

“Are you sure?”

Callum hummed in affirmation and Zoe moved closer. The red cap was severely rusted, but the swirly logo was unmissable. It was certainly cola, but not quite the same as usual. A bunch of ingredients were printed below and although the stamped-on production number was severely scratched, Zoe could see at least one of the characters being a nine. All the evidence, it pointed somewhere. Zoe took the cap and turned it between her fingers. Some teenager, some twenty years ago, had held this cap too. Had used this place as a hideaway. Or a hangout. Or an exciting adventure they could reminisce about on this future day. Zoe’s stomach went warm.

“Add it to the collection.” She said firmly, placing it back in his hand. Callum’s eyes sparked. He grinned widely, stuffing it into his pocket.

“I’m gonna look for more.”

With that, Callum hurried back to his corner. Zoe watched him a moment, bobbing about the greenhouse making little hisses and whoops as he picked at the seams. She thought of the collection, sitting on the wonky shelf in Callum’s bedroom. It was something to behold. Gnarly old beer tops, outdated sweet wrappers, questionable magazine ads, even an unsteady Homepride man kitted out in black bowler hat and suit found at the back of their gran’s shed. Every time Zoe visited, a little bit more space was taken up. And every time it felt a little less like Zoe’s. Granted, the shelf was in Callum’s room, in his house, but still… when was the last time she’d added to it?

Zoe turned around. There was no use in watching. Callum was far beyond her in terms of collecting. So, she had to find something worthy. Analysing the gaps between the weeds where the stone met the walls, Zoe felt like a hawk stalking it’s prey. A bottle top? But they already had plenty. A dead beetle? She didn’t fancy picking it up. An old crisp packet? It didn’t hold enough presence. She wanted something grabby. A show piece. Something with drama. Perhaps, a vintage murder weapon? The idea hit Zoe like the slap of a recoiling branch. The roof tile. It had to be here.

Zipping about the orangery, Zoe dived under the benches and rifled through vines. She whisked about the telescope and hauled aside the mattress. Nothing but mould and debris. Zoe threw it back with a huff. Then she made a beeline for the fuchsia bush. There was no way a roof tile could have fallen in at this angle, but, given the right throw, a weapon could almost certainly be hidden in the growth.

Zoe dived in.

Immediately she was met with the smell of soil, followed by a sudden hit of memory. It was of the afternoon she spent planting sunflowers with her cousin in her Auntie’s back garden. Dripping with sweat, Zoe had been desperate to finish and watch cartoons. The problem was Callum had been digging for hours. With a spoon. Finally, she’d had enough and waltzed over to yell. But she didn’t even finish the first word as, when she looked over the boys shoulder, Zoe found Callum holding an old Roman coin. Bastard. He had been one-upping her from the start. With renewed vigour, Zoe ploughed forward, snapping twigs and crushing leaves.

The greenery was surprisingly thick. Even squinting didn’t aid Zoe’s view as she buried herself deeper. So, shifting onto her side, Zoe tugged a miniature torch out her jeans pocket. Her uncle had gifted it her before they left with a very strict: ‘don’t come back without a ghost’ and a rather less strict: ruffle of the hair. With a click there was light, and Zoe grinned at the circle, crawling further in at a more leisurely pace. She took time to peek inside a pile of ripped tires, finding criss-crossing spider webs and unfortunate flies. She ran her light along the lines of pebbles. And the gravel that got stuck to her palms. None of it seemed particularly sinister. But, in the back corner, there was something bigger.

“D’you think they were looking at Mars?”

“What?” Zoe flipped around and winced as her hair tangled with the branches. Callum was sitting at the telescope, flicking through the little book on the table beside. He lifted it up to her, pointing to a page she assumed was describing Mars.

“I don’t know, look?” She suggested, leaning back to uncurl her hair from the bush’s spindly grip.

“Oh!” Callum’s face popped with idea before melding into a grin. Dropping the book, he swivelled around, lowering his eye to the lens. Zoe rolled hers, opting to break the branch rather than her hair.

Then, she resumed her investigation.

The ground grew muddier as she crept closer, and she did not enjoy the way the slime slithered between her fingers. But, in the yellow light, the mound was taking form. A tantalising lump of something. Zoe licked her lips.

“Mmm.” Callum’s hum was like an echo in Zoe’s head. “Yeah. That’s totally Mars. Has to be. No doubt. Zoe? You think it’s Mars?”

“I dunno!” Zoe called, dragging herself closer to the dirt pile. There seemed to be something hiding underneath. “Is it red? Wait.”

She stopped and grabbed a handful of leave, ripping her head around to face Callum.

“It’s daytime! There’s no way you can see Mars!”

“Oh shit yeah.” Callum laughed to himself. “Must have been a cloud.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. Stupid Callum, asking inane questions. She had important business to attend to. Namely, playing archaeologist as Zoe had just landed on top of the mud pile and there was definitely something hiding.

Zoe brushed away the dirt.

Underneath was a rock.

It was the colour of charcoal, but the consistency was smooth and undulating. Like someone had smelted it with their thumb. She brought her torch closer, missing how the magnet on its end swayed until it snapped suddenly, attaching itself to the rock. Zoe peeled the magnetic back, testing the field. It was magnetic. So not a rock at all. Zoe grabbed it now. It was cool to touch. Picking up another stone, she tested the weights. The magnetic one was far heavier. Like a lump of metal.

“Hey, Callum?” She called. The bushes rustled. Then a slash of light slapped Zoe in the eyes.

“Yeah?”

Zoe growled. “You trying to blind me?”

Callum had the decency to look sheepish. He offered Zoe a hand and she hauled herself up, fuchsia flowers spilling onto the floor around her.

“Look at this.”

Callum leaned in close enough for his lashes to brush the stone. “What is it, a rock?”

“I think…” Zoe said carefully, a warmth bubbling in her veins. “I think, it might be meteorite.”

Callum’s eyes blew wide. “Whoa!”

She hadn’t really believed it before, but after seeing Callum’s reaction, Zoe’s chest began to ripple with her racing heart. She turned the rock over in the light, observing how the nooks caught against her thumb. A stone from space. That was pretty cool - a decent substitute for a murder weapon. Callum seemed to agree too, if the way his knees were bouncing was anything to go by. Zoe was getting giddy. Deciding it was too much not to share, she went to hand over the rock when she stopped.

There was something stuck to it. Like the remnant of a label on the back of an ornament. Ignoring a crestfallen Callum, Zoe brought the meteorite closer to her face. Scratching at the strange overhanging, Zoe was relieved to find it was not stuck to the rock but rather more suspicious when she realised it was something buried inside. Taking the scrap between her nails she tugged. The remnant became a piece and it grew larger as she pulled, until she was able to catch it between her thumb and forefinger and pull it all the way out. Shifting the stone into the crook of her elbow, she unrolled the scroll, breath hitching as she realised a curling script had been drawn over the paper, all in a bright aqua.

It read: ‘Quit watching us, human.’

Zoe read it again. And again. And a third time as an unease crept into her stomach. She looked over to the corner where the meteorite was hiding. Followed the line back, past the telescope, up to the hole in the roof and beyond to the sky. Mars. That’s what Callum had said. And if this were a meteorite…

“Oh my god.” Zoe breathed, hearing every puzzle piece snap into place. “It was a murder.”

“What!?” Callum jumped back like the thing was a bomb about to go off.

“Manslaughter at the very least.” Zoe muttered, shoving the note and the meteorite into Callum’s un-awaiting hands.

“Cornelius Winter was looking at Mars,” she continued, walking over to the table and sliding the book towards herself. On the open page was a diagram of the planet, instructions for spotting it highlighted and indecipherable scrawl surrounding every line. What was the headline in ’06? Death threats for an astronomer? Zoe felt the eyes watching her again, the breath tickling the hairs on her neck. She didn’t dare look up as she finished her sentence.

“And Mars was looking back.”

[froggonoboggo]

Answer all the OC questions Erika. D O I T

Alright then! lol I’ll do Persedimun Rigas as he is currently in the rp thread I have with my friends🌹 Where in the world does your OC feel most at home? Is there any reason why? If it’s not the place they were born, where were they born? Is there a certain somebody that makes them feel at home where ever they may be? What does home mean to them?

Percy feels most at home on his farm and anywhere in the ocean. He made the farm his own after he had been in hiding for centuries, and as a water dragon, he and the ocean are one. Percy was born up north somewhere deep in the ocean but left when he was old enough to separate from his family. There is absolutely someone who makes him feel at home, and home to him means somewhere he feels safe, happy, and can just be himself without holding anything back.🍄 What are your OCs favourite snacks? Their favourite comfort food which always cheers them up when they’re down? Favourite meal to make? Do they enjoy baking and cooking and are they any good in the kitchen?Percy has a sweet tooth and he’s not picky either, the man will eat about anything you give him. He’s also a big fan of soup, and any soup he can fix up is his go to in order to cheer him up, the same goes for favorite meal to make. He adores baking and cooking and he’ll tell you that he’s alright in the kitchen.

🍁 Where does your OC go when they need to have some time to themself? Would they ever have their own “comfort corner” filled with all the things they like? Do they have a favourite spot outside that feels like its theirs and theirs alone?

Percy doesn’t have many places to escape to, due to needing to keep himself inconspicuous from higher beings, and he doesn’t need to for the most part because his safe place is on the farm. If that place is compromised he disappears into the ocean for awhile.

🍂 Does your OC enjoy hugs? What do they do as a show of affection for: their friends, their family, their significant other(s) or for strangers? Over all what are they like with recieving affection from others?

He adores hugs and will readily give them out whenever it is needed. For friends and family he shows the same type of affection for both. He’s a very touchy guy, lots of pats and jokes, always ready to do something for them. The same goes for significant others actually, but more kisses involved, hand holding, and lingering touches. Does not hold back from PDA. For strangers he’s less involved with the touches. Percy loves receiving affection, and depending on what it is, may become bashful.

🌻 What little things do they notice about people or the world around them that make them happy? What tiny little treasures do they find in the normal every day that makes the world seem a little brighter for them?

Percy is a bit of a cheesy sap, and smiles and laughter really brings him in. The sounds of happiness really strikes him. The soft eyes of his cows, his dog, and the soft pattering of rain calms him.

🌾 Describe your OC through the eyes of someone absolutely head-over-heels in love with them

Persedimun is warm and soft, as well as a big boy who’s chest serves as the best pillow. He’s super goofy, adventurous, caring, and has incredibly kind eyes and gives the best hugs. Percy is a cheesy romantic and its adorable, his hands are rough but they hold what they cherish so delicately and tenderly, with every ounce of love and admiration he has to offer. He’ll hang on to every word you say and will say your voice is one of his favorite sounds.

 💐 How does your OC handle being unwell or forced to rest in bed? Who cares for them and in what ways? Does your OC enjoy being doted on or are they a terrible patient? Reversed: is your OC good at taking care of others who are ill or in need?

He’s not particularly a fan of being sick and he’s usually the one who takes care of himself, since he was a rogue dragon for a long time and he’s also by himself for the most part. He does, to an extent, like to be doted on, though he’d rather do the doting to the ones he cares about himself. He’s an excellent caretaker and usually stays by their side unless asked otherwise.

🌿 What way does your OC show that they care without using words? What way do others show your OC that they’re cared about without using speech?

As stated above, he shows that he cares about someone by always being willing to help them out, no matter what he’s doing or may want to do. Percy likes to take care of people. He also likes to give gifts, things that remind them of someone or he creates something.

🌳 What is your OC’s favourite way to relax after a stressful day? Do they have a favourite book to curl up with? A hobby? Or do they have a nice bubble bath and have an early night to bed?

He draws, paints, or naps, for the most part. If he could, he’d morph into his dragon form, hop into the ocean and sun himself on the surface like crocodiles do. Or he sits under a tree in the field, surrounded by cows and sheep and just looks out across the moors and into the trees, perhaps doodling. Percy’s an artist, and likes creating paintings or sketching, perhaps writing as well.

🌲 How deeply does your OC feel? Are they typically empathetic or do they have a hard time connecting with others in this way? What are they like when offering support and comfort to someone they care for?

Persedimun cares perhaps too much, sometimes. He’s incredibly empathetic and sympathetic, always available to lend a hand and help someone, whether it be an innocent bystander or someone they care about. Him caring about the wellbeing of his people led him to where he is now, shamed and hiding in the middle of Scotland by himself.

🌺 What does your OC do to calm down when they’re scared or after a nightmare? Do they have any special comfort items or need to be reassured by a specific person? How do they handle this if they’re alone?

He usually stays up, gets out of bed and just looks outside and thinks to himself. Or he’ll go outside and listen to the sounds of the night, sit on the porch and just contemplate. He’s not too keen on asking other for help in this situation, and usually deals with it by himself unless they find out. He will accept help at that point, and contact is great at calming him down.

🌸 What are some of their favourite things and why? List as many as you can think of!

Naps, eating, shiny and pretty things, painting, the ocean, rain and storms, cows, being cozy and warm, sweaters, animals in general actually, flowers (specifically gladiolus).

🥀 How would your OC decorate a notebook or journal? What kind of things are written in there? Could you give an example of a nice entry?

If he can, will doodle on the cover and within as well. Would write about random thoughts and rambling, notes about what he’s learned about his curse, notes about his art, things for him to remember and things he does remember because if he’s not careful with his protection spells or forgets to bring his charm, he’ll slowly forget things that he should remember. An example of a nice entry would just be him rambling some random fact he learned today from one of his friends and a silly doodle at the end. 

🌼 Who are this characters friends and found family? How did they meet, how long have they been friends for, could they ever be something more than just friends? What do they look for in a friend or a romantic partner?

Percy’s new friends would be Matteo, Artemis, and Killian, who belong to @sanguinemori @cacticouture and @technologicalnoiz respectively. As it currently stands in the thread, the closest Percy is to any of them is Matteo. They technically first encountered each other in a seedy bar when some werewolf decided to insult Matteo’s sister and Matteo pulled a sword on him. Percy interceded before things got too crazy, as well as the other two. They haven’t known each other for long, but their chemistry is perfect, and there is definitely a chance that they could be more than just friends. 

What he looks for in a partner and in a friend is not much different from each other. He loves to hang out with adventurous people, people who know how to get rowdy and have fun, people who can be as goofy as him and don’t mind that he tends to ramble about things that sometimes don’t matter. And people who care, who are warm.

💫What is your favourite fact about this character and why?

My favorite fact about Percy is that when he became a god he was like “fuck hanging out and hiding in the clouds, I’m staying right here and interacting with my worshippers as if they were family and helping them directly” and I love that because how easy would it be if you were some guy in ancient Greece and you could just walk over and ask your local dragon god if he could make it rain since your crops aren’t getting enough water and he’s like “yeah no problem dude” and then it just happens. No middleman, no catch, nothing, just straight up answered.

☄️ Does this OC deserve better treatment from you? Do you make them suffer just a little bit too much? Be nice to them!

As of right now, his backstory takes the brunt of the suffering, but hey, there’s always room for more >:)

🌠 On a scale of 1 - 10 how Baby is your OC? 

on a scale of 1-10, Percy falls on a 6. He is baby to me, but I’m not actually sure how much baby.

💦 If you as the writer could erase one traumatic event from this OC’s life what would it be and why?

His rebellion caused a whole string of traumatic events, just one after another, but I’d take away him losing his first friends, where they were captured, stripped of their godhood and are now being tormented. Percy didn’t deserve to lose them, and there could’ve been a very high chance they all made it out alive. The man would probably be in a better place if he still had their support.

God this is a lot, sorry about this but those are all the asks Aary XDD as you requested! I had a lot of fun doing this!

[nijicx]

Hangnail- Story Preview

ᴴᵉʳᵉ ᶦˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᶦʳˢᵗ ᶜʰᵘⁿᵏ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ:

⁽ᵀʰᵉ ᵃʳᵗʷᵒʳᵏ ᶦⁿ ᵖᵃʳᵗˢ ᶦˢ ˢᵗᶦˡˡ ʳᵒᵘᵍʰ⁾

.

.

.

“Kusamura.

The town that hasn’t aged in 50 years. Where farmers fields outnumber each actual citizen 3-1. Big enough for just one elementary school, and a highschool with a dwindling registration every year. The towns population practically doubles when the train makes its way through. But for just a moment I look at all the people in their business suits looking out the windows at Kusamura and wonder if they think about escaping to this side.

I would trade them in a second.

I would take their place on that train in a heartbeat..

And just..."

"Disappear...”

_____________________

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.

.

“Watanabe, Fumino

Born: 12/16/1996

Sex: Female

Parents:  Watanabe Suzuki [Father] Watanabe Yoko [Mother]

Grade: 秀 •Shū

Average Scoring: 92

Grade History….Academic Placement….Ah. here we go…’Disciplinary notes’…”

“Fumino possesses sturdy foundation as a good academic student, though she lacks the fundamental social skills to get along with other students.”

Lacks fundamental social skills.-

‘Hoh hoh hoh….is that how you worded it…’

Fumino sighed, blowing air up at her bangs to push them from her face. Pushing her oversized glasses up her nose to peek over her shoulder for anyone watching her. The faculty room was calm and quiet this time of day. The rural school only had a handful of teachers anyways so they were almost always tied up in other business. The only sounds being that of the distant echoes of the track team outside, and the gentle rhythm of a large school clock in the corner.

‘Idiots’ she thought, trusting someone like her to remain there without supervision. It was their own fault.

“She lacks..the fundamental social skills…”

She mused, leaning against the open drawer of the cabinet, rocking it dangerously back and forth without a care.

‘I suppose I lack... the fundamental social skills of being a complete doormat…’She thought.

Her social skills were the least of the reasons for her repeated presence in the faculty room. It definitly not being that she wasn’t allowed to eat with the other students. After an incident involving a girl who had called her a name-what it was she couldn’t even recall now, only fondly remembering how good it felt to pull the front of the girls uniform collar out and dump her entire lunch into it. Shoving her off the back of her chair onto her back, giving everything saucy a chance to soak into her clothes.

That wasn’t the only incident by far she had been involved in, but the teachers determined it to be her last. After that, she was confined to eat lunch in the teachers lounge for the rest of the semester. Eventually, she started helping out with the handouts and filings out of boredom, and the overworked staff quickly found her to be a blessing in disguise. Paperwork, it turned out, was easier than putting up with the other kids and their trash. She was sick of fighting.

There was more dignity in disappearing than simply giving in.

At the sound of footsteps, like routine, she slipped her student record back into her file and opened the drawer below it, containing the master copies for the handouts she was re-ordering. As she pretended to innocently look for something, the door flung open, and a teacher stormed in, towing a tall brown-haired boy behind him.

“How many times must we have this meeting? Hmm!?”

The boy didn’t answer, though, it didn’t look for lack of trying. It seemed as though he just couldn’t get the words out.

“I’ve received another complaint. That’s three from parents of the other students alone about the changing room situation, when will you drop this nonsense?” The boy was quiet this time, only this time it didn’t seem like he was trying to get anything out.

It was over, she could tell by the way his shoulders slumped. He’s toast.

“I’m going to have to call your parents in again. Remain after class today an-ah- hang on a moment-” The teacher spun on one heel and rushed out of the room, catching another teacher passing by  in the hallway.

Fumino's attention was drawn back to the boy, watching with mild interest for a moment, wondered what such a meek looking boy did to get complaints from other students parents. They shared a class together, but could never fully bring herself to commit thier name to memory. A wicked idea striking her, and slowly opening the top drawer once more. Her mind was often too clever for her own good she thought, as she shuffled through pictures of all the students in their year, keeping a mindful ear out for the sound of approaching footsteps. She thought she remembered his name.

Naka- something..?

‘Nakagawa, Nakano..Nakaoka...Ah. Nakamura.'

She discreetly opened the file, oddly thick, even in comparison to her troubled track record, full of envelopes and letters, and several page-long documents, his school picture paper clipped to the file.

‘Nakamura, Asuka

Born: 06/12/1996

Sex: Female

Parent-’

Female?

With her peripheries she skated the room and back to the form hunched in a the plastic chair far too small for thier height, pulling the whole cabinet with her as she leaned back on her heels to snoop. Wondering if the teacher who’d typed the file perhaps just made a really embarrassing error.

They were tall and broad-shouldered, with a somewhat thin frame. A strong jawline, high cheekbones and shortly cropped hair framing a rather delicate looking face. Thinking to herself that they really couldn’t tell one way or another, realizing after a few moments of careful gawking why.

The uniform.

When they were dragged in, they’d been wearing the boys uniform, pants and all.

The situation suddenly becoming very clear.

‘Ah….I get it now.’

A few moments later the door slid open once more and the teacher leaned in. Sweet little angel Fumino innocently resuming rummaging through the master copy drawer as the teacher turned thier attention too, to the form hunched in the chair.

“I only have 15 minutes left to eat before next period, Watanabe-san, would you please get Nakamura-san  a copy of the incident form please? Nakamura-san you can go to class after you’ve finished filing. Leave it on my desk and come straight here after class. Until this is solved, change in the bathrooms.”

With a sharp clack, the door shut, leaving silence to claim the room again.

‘-Ah-the form…’

Fumino rummaged around the drawers with rare good intent, before retrieving the incident form. Turning to face Asuka full on.

Boy or girl, they were handsome. Already showing hints of a tan even though the warm season had only just started, and when the sun hit it, thier brown head of hair turning that of fresh rust.

They just sat there, defeated and small. They didn’t even try to fight back.

It was…

Pitiful.

The worst of the three options.

Fight, disappear, or take it. There is only dignity in two of them.

The easiest of the three is to just disappear.

The weight of Nakamura’s folder was still on her mind. And if thier actions just now were any indication, the weight of somebody’s dignity.

It didn’t feel good.

‘If you don’t like it, just disappear like I did.

It’s easier to disappear.

It’s easier than lying to yourself  and saying that you accept it.

Disappear.

Disappear.’

“Disappear.”

Asuka turned her head, Fumino was already holding the sheet out to them, the two meeting eyes for the first time.

“Um...Pardon?”

‘Ah- I did it again…’

She hadn’t purposefully said anything, but wasn’t entirely surprised that she had either. It hadn’t been the first time something came out of her mouth without her permission. It being the spark of most, if not all the incidents in her own extensive folder alone. But this time she really hadn’t meant for it to happen to someone who didn’t attack her in some way first. Maybe she'd be lucky and they didn't hear her right, but she wouldn't allow herself to find out. There really wasn’t any way to explain it away.

So she did what she does best.

She let the report flutter down onto the desk in front of them and turned, gathering up the re-ordered handouts, and left the faculty room.

_____________________________________________

If you’re town could smell like anything, what would you choose?

a) sweetgrass, b) cow manure, c) algae, and d), all of the above.

If you chose D, then you would love Kusamura.

But if Kusamura was anything, it was empty enough that the wind felt clear and nice. Her walks along the empty country roads past seas of rushes and crops to and from school usually being the most peaceful moments of her day.

When she arrived home, the door pushed back against her. Blocked yet again by several large black trash bags. Groaning under her breath and removing her shoes, placing them beside the only other pair, and stepping up into the dark corridor. The flickering of the tv light illuminated her fathers figure lounging on the couch. Slouched, and vacant.

‘This is what happens to you if you keep taking it all your life.’

She thought, mumbling hello as a courtesy before heading upstairs to get changed out of her uniform. Returning a few moments later to begin dinner.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I’m going out for a walk!” She called as the door shut behind her, a heavy black trash bag in each hand. She no longer waited for an answer to follow her, she knew that no one would ask where exactly she was going.

Outside, she grunted as she swung the bags onto the pile. Bending to pull the vermin nets over top of it. From under her arm a beam of dying afternoon sun caught a swatch of fabric, sticking out of one of the bags she'd just flung. She didn’t pay it any mind, just more women's clothing.

Her mother's clothing to be exact.

She pulled the vermin nets over and promptly changed direction. Heading in the opposite direction of her house and off into the quiet, darkening streets of Kuramusa.

__________________________

‘Sometimes you don’t notice a crack in the sidewalk until you’ve tripped headlong over it.

I wasn’t watching for the cracks, and even if I had been, I’m not sure I would have noticed them anyways. They were thin as hairs, and they ran along the edges and seams of our family unit.

And by the time they all connected up, it was too late.

Dad had found out mom had been seeing another man and threatened her with divorce if she didn’t leave him.

He overestimated my mother’s compassion and she promptly filed for divorce before him, remarrying the other man almost as soon as the paperwork went through.

Toshi went with her and didn’t look back. He didn’t seem to mind what mom had done, as long as it got him out of this town. You almost have to commend them for that. If there was a medal for heartless-ness, they'd have gotten gold.

When you can’t fix something, it’s easier to run away.

So you ran away.

So, what now?’

And just like that, the all-to-familiar, and every present burning in her stomach reared, the sensation that forced its way up her throat and made her jaw tight. The burning that crawled into every fibre of her muscles, coiling and bunching them like springs. The blinding numbness that creeps up over the back of her head and over her eyes like a hood.

Ignition.

In an instant her quirk was activated. Her fingernails growing hard and dense as aluminum, shooting out of their seating at each fingertip and growing to several feet in length.

Time to get to work.

Narrowing her sight to the first unimportant object she saw and swung. A trash bag, its contents spilling out over the alley pavement. Another swing, another tear, and then another, shredding and scattering the trash around like leaves.

Spinning around, another target.

A hedge this time.

She crossed the alley in a leap and slashed again. Severing it’s vulnerable limbs that dangled over the alleyway fence. Blindly, she shuffled down the road, leaving devastation in her wake. Slashing and ripping, heaving and crushing until nothing of monetary importance in the quiet alleyway remained in one piece.

At the end of the path of destruction Fumino stood panting raggedly. A cold sweat permeating through her sweater as the streetlights began to flicker on. Her "walk" was just about over.

A sudden bark of a dog dumping her back into reality, like a bucket of ice water. Instinct telling her to not bother looking around, and quickly darting into the nearest sidestreet. Stumbling shaky and weak through the quiet rural streets of Kuramusa.

[I’ve decided to make this a multi-parter! So I will be posting in small digestable chunks like this, thanks for all of your feedback!]

[weakzen]

Wretched Form

Edér loves his salty little skull. To a certain point.

Rating: T

AO3 Version

“This ship is a blight on Eora, a putrescent carbuncle festering with buffoons, hooligans, and dunderheaded tosspots.”

As he neared the starboard side of the hold, Concelhaut whirled and continued to pace, as much as a disembodied skull could pace, anyway.

“Xaurips in the rigging, imps in the forecastle, drunkards at the cannons and the helm! Bah!” he spat, whirling again. “And always the belching, the caterwauling, the slop of spilt drink, the vacant eyes over open-mouthed mastication and the ever-present, unending reek of hagfish. Disgusting, all of it! I would be doing the world a great favor if I excised this malignancy by chewing through the hull and sinking this abominable vessel to the bottom of the sea.”

“NEMNOK AGREE WITH TALKING SKULL, EH! NEMNOK WILL HELP DROWN NASTY GROUNDSTINK!”

Nemnok rushed through Edér's legs, skittered across the floorboards, and began to aggressively scratch at the wall of the hold.

“Oh, buddy, don't listen to him.”

“Yes, Nemnok! Do it! Together, we shall bring them all down!”

Edér sighed, then walked over to scoop up the tiny imp.

Nemnok screeched in protest and feebly swiped his claws, but he quickly became silent when Edér pulled a suole from his pocket and popped it into the imp's small mouth. For a moment, Nemnok stilled entirely, then he lowered his arms and curled inwards as he began to suckle the coin like a pacifier.

“Aw, that's right, buddy.” Smiling broadly, Edér shifted Nemnok into the crook of his elbow, cradling the creature against his chest while he began to rock his arms. “Who's a good imp? You are, little guy. Yes, you are.” Edér gently scratched the imp's belly and Nemnok's legs kicked in pleasure. “You got the cutest little feet and the cutest little tail. The cutest little tummy, too. I'm gonna bite it,” he cooed, cuddling Nemnok closer as he hunched over. “Yes, I am.”

“How revoltingly saccharine,” Concelhaut sneered. “Were that I still had a stomach myself, so I might express my disgust by vomiting upon the two of you.”

Edér glanced up. “No need to be grumpy, little skull. If you want some attention too, all you gotta do is ask.”

“For whom do you mistake me, you simpering mooncalf?” Concelhaut reared up and glowered down at Edér, the flames in his eye sockets burning brightly. “I am Concelhaut, fool! Greatest archmage to ever grace this miserable planet—and I do not ask. I take what I desire, whenever I desire it, just as I shall take your pathetic life once I have secured a new body!”

“C'mere,” Edér said, reaching for the former lich. “I got a whole other arm here just for you.”

Concelhaut hissed and swerved away from Edér's outstretched hand. “Keep your grubby fingers away from me, you cow-handed oaf! How many times must I tell you that before it penetrates that overgrown cabbage atop your neck?”

“Sure sounds like somebody needs a nap.”

“I do not require a—a nap.” Concelhaut grimaced, as though it had pained him to say the word. “Nor do I require your cuddles or your petting or any of your incessant gibbering, you lumbering, half-witted bespawler.”

Edér carried Nemnok over to one of the straw beds for the ship's numerous animals. Kneeling before it, he gingerly placed the imp into a blanket then carefully swaddled the creature, pressing a kiss to Nemnok's forehead after he finished.

“Look,” he began, glancing at the skull as he straightened. “I'll make a little bed for you too, okay?”

“I do not require a bed, either!” Concelhaut seethed. “Curse this wretched form! If I still had arms, I would smite you into the form of a swine, silence your flapping maw with an apple, and roast you into a succulent, honey-glazed dinner.”

“Well, I always did like a pork chop. My mom served 'em with applesauce on top, roasted potatoes and buttered green beans on the side.” Edér chuckled as he grabbed another blanket and shook it open. “Now you got my mouth watering, thinkin' about it.”

“Of course you would salivate at the thought of consuming yourself, you daft pillock. I wager you would be equally gluttonous if I served up a pan-seared cut of your fishy friend with a slice of lemon and some mashed parsnips.”

“Uh, wait,” Edér said, pausing. “Which fish friend, now?”

“That fribbling, layabout libertine.”

Edér squinted slightly.

“The dawdling dew-dropper, with all his insufferable singing and monkeyshines.”

Edér titled his head to the side, his mouth scrunching into a frown.

“Confound it, you dolt! Ondra's blasted whelp! The shark man! The marine godlike! That one. I can't be bothered to actually remember any of your names.”

“Oh, you mean Tekēhu. Okay, I got it.” Another chuckle rumbled past Edér's lips. “Heh, 'fishy friend.' That's real good. Gonna tell him that later.” He whipped the blanket behind himself, draping it over his shoulder, then paused once more. “Uh—what about him, again?”

A noise of deep displeasure rattled from Concelhaut's mandible and he surged away to resume his pacing.

“Damn this humiliation! Reduced to suffering the vacuous fiddle-faddle of a farmhand. Pah!” He swished back and forth across the hold, grinding his teeth. “Damn that ghastly, meddling busybody. Once more, this is entirely her fault. Damn her and her tedious puns and her consistently overcrowded pack. Who requires that many eggs, anyway? And for what purpose? They are not even hard-boiled for the rigors of travel!”

“Never know when you might want a road omelet.”

“When I regain corporeal form,” Concelhaut continued, ignoring him, “I shall delight in her vivisection. I will slowly dissect that loathsome saucebox, layer by grisly layer, until I hit bone and peel that Watcher's soul free. Then, victorious at last, I shall mount her ridiculous horns in my study as a trophy and a warning.”

“Y'know, I almost got to touch those horns once,” Edér said, as he gathered straw into a pile. “I had my hand and my face buried in her smoke hair—which is real soft and pettable, by the way—and I started to reach for her horns when, suddenly, I just couldn't move anymore. I fell over, and she started to drag me across the ground by my foot. At first, I thought she was tryin' to get me to some help, but then she just left me under this tree with a beehive in it. Few seconds later, an arrow knocked that thing clean off the branch.” He grinned. “I had to go jump in a pond. Couldn't sit down properly for a week after, neither.”

“It does not surprise me that a dullard such as yourself would be easily ensnared by a cipher's parlor trick.” Concelhaut rolled his flames. “Mindhunters,” he huffed in disgust. “What an inappropriately overwrought title for those Glanfathan savages who practice that feral excuse for magic.”

Edér hummed in consideration as he hugged the pile of straw together and shaped it into disc. “Well, I dunno 'bout that. I think it's fun when Serafen goes mindhuntin' and guesses my thoughts.”

“What, precisely, is there to guess?” Concelhaut twisted to face Edér. “You are all field and no crops, farmer! One does not need the proclivities of that mangy, orlan guttersnipe to deduce that obvious fact,” he said, snorting. “And when I have fingers again, I will fashion that hirsute cockalorum into a rug for my washroom, right after I pluck each and every feather from that dour, grumbling bird-woman to stuff my bed pillows.”

Edér fluffed the blanket over the straw bed, then patted the middle.

“All yours, buddy,” he said, flashing his favorite little skull a smile. “It ain't as soft as that rug, or as fancy as that feather pillow, but it should be comfy enough.”

“By the degenerate standards of a Dyrwoodan mongrel, perhaps,” Concelhaut said, scowling at Edér. “Why don't you join your family and all your flea cousins and lie down in it yourself? Or, better yet, do that whimpering, foppish fussbuget a favor and push him into it, face-first preferably.” Concelhaut huffed again. “If that milksop represents what passes for a mage these days in the old empire, then it is no wonder they lost their little war to a bunch of inbred yokels and the pack of illiterate stone-worshippers a hill over.”

Shrugging, Edér sat on the floor by the newly-created bed.

“Guess I'm not as picky as you are when it comes to who's casting, long as they're casting lightning spells, anyway,” he said, leaning back against the wall to rest one of his arms on a bent knee. “Think that might be my favorite type of spell. Well, other'n that piggy one,” he added, grinning. “I've always liked the way you can feel the lightning 'fore it's cast, by the way all your hairs suddenly stand on end. And I like the way the bolts streak across a battle and leave that ghost of themselves behind, haunting the air between everybody for a few seconds. I also like that hot, sharp smell that lingers too. Makes my nose and throat burn a little. It's almost like breathing in a storm, y'know?”

As Edér glanced at him, Concelhaut jerked upright from where he'd tilted to the side, listening. He glared at Edér for a long moment, then abruptly spun away.

“Feh! Like breathing in a storm, you know,” he mocked. “You know nothing, farmer. Your barren mind could scarcely even begin to comprehend the arcane, much less appreciate its full and beautiful glory. You do not know magic. You cannot grasp any of its numerous intricacies. Beyond base superficiality, you will never understand it, not what it truly means, and neither will that long-eared, knock-kneed poltroon! In fact, it offends me that his soft hands are allowed anywhere near a grimoire!”

Concelhaut vibrated in agitation and began pacing so rapidly it almost made Edér dizzy to watch.

“When I am whole once more,” he spat, “I shall grant that pusillanimous mollycoddle the mercy of being adjacent to my wondrous, arcane world, but he will observe it all from a position befitting his mediocrity, one where he may finally contribute something of value to the field by serving his unmistakable superior!”

“Uh, serving how?”

Concelhaut shot across the room and stopped short of slamming right into Edér's face. Shadows danced over his rictus grin while his eyes flickered with malicious glee.

“I shall flay him into sheets of vellum and bind them together into the grimoire I will use to finally scribe those elusive spells of time manipulation. Then, once completed, he and every other mage on Eora, including the members of that despicable Circle, will be forced to bow and scrape and acknowledge, over and over as much as I please, that, short of the gods themselves, I, Concelhaut, am the most powerful creature alive and the only true and worthy master of the arcane realm!”

Bobbing gently, Concelhaut's gaze bore into Edér eyes, hard and expectantly.

Edér blinked.

Then raised an eyebrow.

“…So you're gonna make a whole grimoire, now?”

Concelhaut sputtered. “Th-that is the least important aspect of what I just said, you dim-eyed clodhopper!”

Edér shook his head as he reached for his pocket. “Well, I'm just sayin', you ain't exactly gonna get more'n a few pages outta Aloth, much less a whole grimoire.”

A long and seething noise of distaste whistled through Concelhaut's gritted teeth, then he soared away.

“Then I shall create more from that ample, Rauataian lickspittle! And if she does not suffice, I shall salvage an index out of that prattling, starry-eyed priestess!” Concelhaut shook in anger again, but he immediately spun around when the sound of Edér lighting his pipe echoed across the hold.

“Stop that!” he cried. “Stop that at once!”

“Stop what?” Edér asked from around the stem.

“The smoking, you imbecile!”

“Why?”

“Why? Why?!” Concelhaut sped towards Edér again. “Are your faculties truly so addled at this point that you cannot even recall the countless times I have already answered that inane question?”

Smoke leaked from Edér's lips, a slow and guilty trickle that ended in a billowing, choking cough as Concelhaut glared down at him sternly. Before he was forced to answer for himself, though, salvation rounded the corner of the alcove and meowed at him.

“Hey kitty,” he coughed, smiling. Then coughed again.

The cat darted towards Edér, her purrs rumbling with each step. When she reached his leg, she meowed again, then closed her eyes as she arched and began to rub against him. Edér cleared his throat and beamed down at her.

“Aww, who's the best kitty?” he asked, scratching her head.

Concelhaut glared at the animal. “The best at being an unsightly, imposing nuisance, perhaps.”  

“Oh, don't listen to him, sweetheart. He's just cranky 'cause he's tired.”

“If I am tired, it is only because I am exhausted by the burden of being in your general vicinity. And now you force me to endure the pain of experiencing you stunt your wits, yet again, while you coddle that failed science experiment!”

“He's jealous 'cause he doesn't have a cone,” Edér whispered, winking at the cat as he continued to pet her. She stepped onto his thigh, purring while she kneaded his leg, then jumped into the empty straw bed.

Concelhaut gasped sharply.

“Remove that creature from my bed immediately!”

Edér took a drag on his pipe and exhaled. “I thought you didn't even want it.”

“It does not matter whether I wanted it or not. It is mine now regardless—and I do not share! Remove that detestable creature at once!”

“No way,” Edér said, shaking his head. “She's too cute and there's plenty of room for the both of you.”

Quivering with fury, Concelhaut scowled at Edér then burst over to follow the cat as she circled the blanket. “Get out my bed, you impudent feline! Shoo! Shoo, I say!”

Animancy cat meowed in response, then rubbed against him.

Gasping again, Concelhaut recoiled in horror.

“How— How dare you!”

“Aww, she likes you!” Edér laughed and took another pull from his pipe. “Bet she'd even cuddle if you asked nicely.”

The former lich said nothing. He merely stared at the cat, watching as she kneaded circles in the center of his blanket on his bed, round and round, smaller and smaller while Edér puffed away, until she finally lay down in a coil and nestled into herself, purring in satisfaction.

“…When I regain my body,” he uttered quietly, a long moment later, “I shall find immense pleasure in ripping those tubes from your sides and kicking you from—”

Concelhaut never saw the mace coming until it smashed him into the floor.

“You speak one more word 'bout harming that sweet kitty and I'm gonna have to crush you completely, little skull.” Edér leaned his weight into the weapon for emphasis, pressing a squeak from Concelhaut's bones. “Now, I don't wanna have to do that, but I will if you make me. Are you gonna make me, or are you gonna behave yourself?”

A long and humiliating moment passed before Concelhaut spoke again.

“I…” Concelhaut started, then cringed. “I… I-I promise you I shall never harm the cat.”

Edér nodded once. “Good,” he said, then pulled his mace away. He inhaled from his pipe again.

Concelhaut floated upwards again, then whirled towards Edér.

“…But I never said anything about you!” he shouted, then hurled himself into Edér's forehead with a violent crack.

“Son of a bitch, little skull!”

As he bounced off Edér's face, Concelhaut cackled maniacally and zoomed away. Sucking air through his teeth, Edér groaned and gingerly touched the lump on his forehead. He shook his head, then pressed to his feet to follow his favorite little skull.

“When I catch up to you, I'm gonna put you in a time out!”

Notes:

Written for @pillarspromptsweekly #56, a random roll for Concelhaut, Edér & threats (which I initially misread as 'treats' …lol)

Bonus footage of Concelhaut

[egoiistas]

may i feel, said he (3)

first | tag | ao3 | ffn

a/n: blessings on you, blessings on your cows, blessing on your crops, for the feedback on this trash heap! <3

Rated: M | royai Words: ~4500

CHAPTER THREE

Riza waits after class.

As she’s pacing in the front of the bathroom stalls, it feels more like hiding. The surprise coffee on her desk has given her the jitters and everytime she had taken a sip out of it, she felt an unsettling guilt like there was a secret she was hiding.

This is ridiculous, it’s literally just coffee... even if it had a personalized note written on it. He was doing something nice; her professor was doing something nice for her. Maybe that’s what it boiled down to. But she couldn’t just expose him by thanking him in front of the auditorium.

Indecisiveness wiggles its way into her en route to his office. Perhaps a simple thank you note would suffice then she would never have to think anymore of it. A coffee maker would make for a good investment as well.

In the end, she doesn’t have a say in the matter.

“Miss Hawkeye.”

Riza steps out of the way and into him almost knocking into him trying to get out of his way. She was under the assumption to be in his office already, judging by the embarrassing amount of times she’s been there.

He gives her concerned looking pointing to his coffee cup as if to say: “Not again.” Instead, she picks up uncertain undertones when he casually mentions, “You didn’t fall asleep.”  

Riza doesn’t consider herself shy - reserved maybe, but the amount of times she’s been mortified in the last three weeks in the presence of this man alone is throwing her through a loop. She trails behind him with her heartbeat drumming in her ears. “No,” she says quietly. “I did not.”

“What a joy it is to not have to interrupt a lecture to wake you up.”

She bites her lip at the sarcasm. Even though she vowed to never come back, he opens the door for her and Riza edges her way inside. She keeps her arms close to her body eyeing him carefully as he strolls by her, fluffing strands of her loose hair. “I wanted to thank you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He fans out the papers across his desk and the rich oak surface disappears as he empties his bag, just like the night before.

She tries to look over a little, to read his expression because she thinks he’s joking. “For the coffee?” Riza clarifies a little bit braver, clearer.

She straightens herself when his suddenly head snaps to her; his eyes narrow and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Wordlessly and intimidatingly, Mustang walks over to his office door and she can see him checking either side of the hallway before he shuts the door. Riza takes a step back. She’s thoroughly confused when a hand on her shoulder guides her away from the door. “I know it’s from the same place where you get your coffee. It wasn’t from an on-campus cafe.” She doesn’t know why she feels the need to state it out loud; it’s not quite an accusation, nor is it just an innocent statement. She doesn’t understand why this is bugging her so much - yes, it’s a little unusual but as far as she understands there are no rules about it being wrong to be given a coffee by your professor.

Right?

He runs a hand through his hair and it somehow gets even messier, sticking out in all the wrongright places. “Please don’t misinterpret, Miss Hawkeye. I don’t make it a habit to reward students who sleep in my class with coffee in the morning.”

“No,” she says to the floor, uncharacteristically, and then, unintentionally glances the length of him until meeting his eyes. She cranes her neck a bit just to do so. “Of course not, sir.”  

Mustang clears his throat as he walks away. “I am your professor and you are my student. It’d be precarious to both our careers if you assumed our relationship extended beyond anything than an academic one.”

Her brow twitches and it feels like she’s been hit with something out of left field. She turns and his back is already to her. Pursing her lips, her cheeks radiate with heat. “I only came to thank you.”

He turns his head slightly to regard her out of the corner of his eye. “Then why are you still here?”

“I - “ Riza struggles with her words; a thick knot caught in her throat as if she’s been caught when, in truth, there isn’t any red on her hands. She racks through her brain, frustrated that he expects her to explain her reasoning when he’s the reason she’s standing in his office in the first place. “I’ve calculated the totals for possible grades at the end of the semester alongside past assignments, and even if I achieve top marks on your assignments, at most I’ll get is a C for the class in the best possible situation.” She lies to save face, but, to be fair, she’s made a really broad estimate in her head.

“And?”

She sighs, starting to feel like a parrot, “Extra credit.”

His shoulders visibly drop as he exhales emphatically. “I don’t even know why I asked.” Mustang turns around properly and leans on the edge of his desk, crossing his arms. He fixes a gaze on her and she almost loses her nerve from the scrutiny. He shrugs, ”Take the C. I’m not changing the rules for one student.”

Riza huffs, pushing her bangs away from her face. Her request isn’t unreasonable. She can feel a little tempering simmering in the back drop from the way he shoots her down, almost cruelly. She can finally empathize with Rebecca whining about her stubborn professors. But Riza can’t back down herself because she can’t risk her scholarship - it’s her only real means of paying for her exorbitant tuition and her job is her only real means of paying for her lifestyle, however meager.

Her brow flattens but his demeanor doesn’t change. She defiantly mirrors him, crossing her arms over her chest as a lightbulb goes off, “You just said you don’t make it a habit to buy a student coffee.” Right then, she doesn’t know what that means; she doesn’t connect the dots that it means more than just her ace in the hole.

His face drops. She swallows hard. The air is stifled from her little stunt and she holds a breath looking at him looking at her wordlessly. She becomes painfully aware that she is a student in a closed office with a professor who has bought her coffee.

His abrupt laughter fills the room, like she’s told the funniest joke, and it adds a different tension to his office. Mustang sets aside his glasses to rub at his eyes.“I didn’t expect that to come back to bite me so quickly. Do you always bite the hand that feeds?”

She doesn’t say anything. She’s won and he knows it. Anything said to her beyond that confirmation is distraction, so she lifts an eyebrow emotionlessly.

He smiles and that manages to stir something in her otherwise steel gut, “Right. Since you managed a successful checkmate, I’ll concede to your victory.”

The rigidity in her muscles dissipate, finally.

“Please note, Miss Hawkeye,” he says matter-of-factly with a push to his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “That I won’t just give extra credit. You will have to earn it.”

“Understandable.” She nods, and despite her relieved smile she knows enough stories, true or imagined, to be wary of that tone and diction, for her own reasons. “What will you have me do?”

Mustang chews on his bottom lip while staring at the space in front of her feet, contemplating. His fingers drum on the overhang of his desk.

Riza’s eyes wander around the room while he thinks - an order for herself to stop staring at the man and, for as many times as she’s been here to grovel, she’s never noticed how spartan the room is. Filled with books and frames with diplomas, but nothing telling about him, like pictures, personal or professional. There isn’t a ring on him either, not that it matters for her, but she hasn’t considered how young he really looks for a professor. Couldn’t be older than thirty. She couldn’t be sure. Something tells her that, underneath his clothes, he’s undeniably fit for someone in academia.

Blushing lightly, she doesn’t follow that train of thought, but her attention snaps back to him when speaks again.

“I chose to work for this university because of its extensive resources.” He raises his eyebrows but not his unfocused gaze. “It’s amazing, actually, how much this place pours into scientific research.” His eyes fix on her. “It’s why you saw me yesterday night at the library and why there are papers all over the place on this desk.”

Her head tilts in the slightest way, unsure.

Mustang pushes off the desk and at last takes a seat in his rolling chair. “I need an organizational assistant. The department had informed me I’d be able to choose one in a couple of weeks from the class list, but I really don’t have the time for that...nor the patience.”

Papers she can do. No problem, easy. But being around him more than she should feels like a red flag. Something in her gut tells her to walk away from it, like a premonition of danger -- or bad decisions. She repeats back to him, “You want me to be your assistant?”

“Unofficially,” he corrects. “To help me organize and other administrative tasks, like finding books and indexing sources, until I’m cleared to find one of my own.”

Riza breathes out. “I’m sorry, sir, but I barely have time as it is with my courseload and my position in the library.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem. Overnights can be surprisingly productive for me.” He smirks, flipping a pen in his hand. “Think of it as a few extra tasks to do while you work at the library. For only a limited time.”

Rebecca’s cackling laugh is one of her…less endearing features and it grates on Riza regardless if she’s had any restful sleep or not. She finds herself slinking away from her food and into her chair. It’s already boisterous in the dining hall on campus and people are still looking in their direction.

Her words are choppy, in between breaths. “I cannot believe you convinced him to give you want.” Rebecca obliviously remarks, “You look so angry all of a sudden. ...what did you have to do?”

“Please don’t phrase it like that.” Riza pokes at her fruit. “And try not to draw attention.”

“I can tell it’s not an easy feat, Riza. You said you’ve been living at his office for the past month.”

“Rebecca please.”

“Relax, I’m joking. I’m happy that you won’t have to lose your scholarship. Really. You wouldn’t shut up about it. Are you sure you shouldn’t be in law with Olivier with your uncanny powers of persuasion?”

Without answering, Riza looks up from her plate and a knot forms in her throat when she sees him at a distance picking up a to-go order. She only notices him for a second.

“Oh, fuck.”

Her eyes snap back to Rebecca. “What is it?”

Rebecca glances behind her and swivels back with a quirked, suspicious eyebrow. “Did you fuck him?”

A chunk of strawberry nearly lodges in her windpipe. Strained, she says, “I won’t dignify that with an answer. I managed through respectable means.” Technically, he bought her the coffee. “You, of all people, should know that.”

Rebecca slumps in her chair, “You’re right.”

“I’m terribly sorry to disappoint,” Riza says unapologetically.

Her friend is quiet for a moment and Riza earns a moment’s peace from her. That is, until Rebecca’s switch flips and she perks up again, leaning eagerly into the table. “You totally have the hots for him, don’t you?”

Riza frowns, brow knitting in disapproval. “No,” she responds pointedly, aggressively poking her fruit now. “Absolutely not.” Riza sees him leave and Rebecca follows her gaze.

“Riza.” Rebecca scoffs teasingly, “Did I or did I not just see you ogle at him?”

“I don’t ogle.”

“He caught your attention like the heavens above shined a light for your --”

“All right!” Riza glares. Into her plate, she mutters, “He’s not the most unfortunate looking.”

The gasp Rebecca releases is obscene, along with the flailing in her chair. “I’ve never thought I’d see the day! You have such high standards - usually. But, I mean, I can’t totally blame you. The boys here are just that - boys.”

“This is why I can’t take you anywhere.”

“You love me. Okay, now that the cat’s out of the bag, sweetheart, what assignment has the hardass given you? Something tells me it’s not just a paper.”

“I’ll be helping him organize his research.”

“Scandalous…” She shimmies her shoulders. “Alone? In his office? At his place?”

“At the library. While I’m working there overnight.”

“It might as well be alone.” Rebecca’s voice is dripping in innuendo, and Riza flicks a piece of pineapple her way.

“Even if I find the man attractive, that doesn’t mean anything. There are consequences for things like that and I’d rather not risk my education for something so careless. I’m acting as an assistant until he finds a new one - and that’s all there is to it.”

And she does. With her best intentions.

Mustang arrives at the library that same night and every night the following week. Riza gives him access to the study room; this time away from where she can sneak glances from the help desk. She’s still tired from her eight o’clock classes (three bloody times a week - why can’t they just be combined escapes me) except now there’s always a warm coffee sitting on her desk with only an R.H. to tell her it’s hers. She’s learned to tolerate black coffee. The sheer bitterness is more than enough to keep her awake, though Riza is hesitant to admit that there might be another part that is beginning to enjoy his classes - not for the knowledge he is imparting, but rather that he’s become somewhat of a character study for her. The margins of her notebook are littered with observations and witty responses to things he’s said in class. She’s grateful that she sits at the back of the class; he can only suspect she’s not giving him her full and rapt academic attention now that she’s conscious during his classes.

She encounters a different obstacle however.

Riza didn’t account for the consequences following Rebecca’s conversation where she verbally, and foolishly, admitted she finds him attractive. On the first night, her awareness of how she acts around him becomes keen and that makes her feel off. His presence sends off little pings in her head that tell her “don’t look at him too long”, “don’t laugh too hard at his jokes”, and “don’t overanalyze his gestures.”

Ever since then, she never stays in the room with him, decidingly taking the notes back to the help desk and sorting it there -- a clever maneuver on her part. She finds the many books and articles printouts he requires.

In light of it all, Riza is eternally grateful for his professionalism. If he’s noticed her frigid behavior, he’s said no word of it. The focus the man has is something to be admired. She catches glimpses of it whenever she has to walk back into the room and it feels like she’s invading a very private and personal space. Even when she’s reshelving books, she sneaks in a look from the open door.

There’s nothing wrong with simply looking. It’s like window shopping without any of the costs.

At the end of the week, her perfect maneuver to stay out of his hair backfires when he asks her to stay with his notes. Mustang tells her he needs them to be readily available, but would still like them to get organized and, with a distracting smile, that the little colored tabs she puts on them makes it really accessible.

She doesn’t say much; she minds her own business, working diligently through his handwriting. Just like in class and the first night, he walks around the room as he thinks, stepping up to the dry-eraser board in the room, toying a marker with his mouth.

He always comes dressed comfortably, probably to gives appearances of a student, and today is no different with sweatpants and a sweater to combat the bitter cold that has settled over the city for the last week. It’s precisely when he rises from his chair that she notices, to her misfortune, that it’s a bit too… tight to be decent. She doesn’t have the heart, or enough energy for the gall to say anything and honestly, it’s none of her business - let alone inappropriate. That would be admitting that it was obvious, plain as day, calling her attention and she-

Riza takes a deep breath for focus, looking away from any and all prohibited areas. With every stride, she tries very very hard not to notice his ...endowments shifting around. By the time she is back to blankly staring at the notes, the image is already ingrained in her mind. She’s baffled by how it is clearly outlined under his pants, including which side its favoring, and she can feel her ears getting warm with a rapid pounding pulsing in them.

She’s sitting at the end of a four person desk and Riza tilts her head the opposite direction when he walks to the chair on her right. He asks her plainly, “Can you hand me the stack you have?”

Riza glances at him cautiously when he takes it, but he’s mumbling to himself sorting through the looseleafs and she swears his habit of keeping writing utensils in his mouth is a punishment or maybe all of it is. She is a statue in her chair, looking forward, until he begins to scribble a name and a title on a sticky note. Leaving the room, she reminds herself not to spring out of her seat so quickly next time.

Eventually, Roy finds her in the 800 section - again. She cradles a heavy tome in her hands, and is completely diverted by it. At first he’s a little annoyed - he had sent her off half an hour ago - when really, it should’ve taken her ten minutes at best. But she’s curled up against the metal shelving, completely distracted by the words in front of her, her mouth sounding them out quietly. All thoughts of chastising her flies out the window as he watches her more, watches how her fingers descend with each line, stopping in places as she murmurs to herself - the barest hints of a smile curls into her lips.

It feels like he’s intruded on something sacred, not meant for his eyes. She seems smaller in this space; completely unconcerned with what is happening around her and absorbed wholly with what’s in front of her, and it isn't until he crouches down next to her that she’s pulled out of her reverie.

Gentler than he intended, he says, “This isn’t the journal I asked for.”

She smiles guiltily, and gestures to a printout next to her, already stapled and highlighted. “There’s not much in that one,” she says by way of excuse, gripping the book tightly. “My apologies, sir, I didn’t mean to-”

Roy shakes his head and sits down next to her, resting his head against the cool shelf behind him. “You’re probably right. Yoki has always been full of his own bullshit.” He sees her relax, and it’s probably the most relaxed he’s seen her the entire week. “What I’m more interested in is a chemistry major spending her free time with the likes of-” he leans in closer to read the name on the front of the book, brushing against her fingers with his own and tipping the book forward. “e. e. Cummings?”

He ignores how that surname rolls off his tongue.

“A long-time favourite of mine,�� she says quietly, almost reverently. “Poetry isn’t for everyone, but the sentences he creates are…”

Roy knows he should should tell her to get back to work. He knows he should stand up and return to his cubicle. However, not for the first time this semester, curiosity meddles in the way of reason: he taps a finger on the page. “Which one of these is your favourite?”

She hums pleasantly, flicking to the front of the book and slowly working down the index.

“I like my body when it is with your body,” she begins, still staring down at the index page, and the words alert him like splash of ice water. He thinks she’s joking until she goes on: “It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more. I like your body. I like what it does, I like its hows. I like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling-firm-smooth-ness and which I will again and again and again-” She stops here, a shaky smile on her face. “It’s not-” she says quickly but he holds up a hand.

“It’s lovely,” he says tensely. “An you’ve memorised it all?”

She nods once, hesitantly, but he doesn’t discount the pride gleaming in her eyes. “Only the important ones,” she explains.

“Is there more?” he prods carefully, investigating. Roy had never been much for poetry in his younger years. They were just words in his eyes, prettily arranged at best and desperately misaligned at worst. Hearing them recited, with such reverence and affection was an entirely new experience. Fleetingly, he speculates if this is really her favorite, or if this is a play of hers.

“Yes, but-”

“I’d like to hear the rest,” he says, nudging her shoulder slightly with his own.

She exhales heavily, murmuring under her breath, her tone rising and falling as she quickly recants the first half of the poem. “...which I will again and again and again kiss, I like kissing this and that of you, I like - stroking the - shocking fuzz of your electric fur-” her cheeks are stained pink and she keeps her eyes firmly on the book in front of her. “And what-is-it comes over parting flesh...and eyes big love-crumbs - and possibly I like the thrill - of under me you quite so new.”

He’s silent for a moment and averts his eyes from her face, trying to give her some semblance of space and propriety and for himself, some composure. Her hands grips the thick book tightly, her knuckles blanching white.

The next question falls from his mouth before he can catch it. “Why is that one your favourite?”

Her head jerks around and Riza gapes at him a little inelegantly, her cheeks rapidly shifting from pink to a darker hue. She quickly scrambles to her feet, stumbling over the piles of books surrounding her and she scoops up the printout, thrusting it towards him. “I need to - to do restocking again,” she says jerkily, and Roy sighs, accepting that he may have gone a step too far.

In hindsight, he should’ve walked away.

She visibly struggles with the weight of one of the book. Her toes push down on the carpet floor and she stretches up, bearing some skin from her lower abdomen. The book wobbles from the inadequate support the tips of her fingers supply and it doesn’t take a genius to know it’s about to smack her in the face.

All in good faith, Roy closes in swiftly, standing behind her, to catch the spine of the book before it falls on her. He nudges it back into its place. She turns around and he’s blindsided by an alluring scent of perfume still lingering on her skin. Their hands touched again when he helped her, and the electrifying sensation was present there too. He looks down on her with a hooked arm over her head. Her mouth is slightly parted like she still has a line of prose she wants to recite, but she’s searching for it in his own eyes.

He’s not moving. He doesn’t want to.

The scant distance between them is all too small; too charged in the respect that there is something unspoken between them. The breathing changes for them both, hitching or holding breath or a combination of the two. It seems all too cliched that it’s a secluded area of the library in the quiet of an early morning.

Roy finds it intoxicating to be on the precipice like this and for a while, for the good innocent days he's dealt with her help, he thought he could dwell on the edge. Yet, something else, something carnal, yearns for more in that specific pocket of time, probably because it’s within grabbing distance. He admits to being ensnared by her little poetry, but it’s a slippery slope that could cost him everything. Unfortunately, he knows he has a blurring line in the sand, for inexplicable reasons, when it came to her. Trying to make sense of it in the few silent seconds they stood like that, he’d say: she's the exception, his exception.

He really should have walked away.

In the same moment she curls and tugs at the strings of his sweatshirt, Roy angles her jaw towards him. Their mouths meet, joining together like they were magnetized, crashing like waves from a turbulent tide. The fragrance from earlier wafts prominently as his fingers comb through her hair - not a perfume, a shampoo - and it only adds fuel to the fire coursing rapidly through his blood.

Theirs is not a timid or gentle kiss, it is forceful and heady, gripping at each other. He learns that she enjoys nipping at his lower lip and teases with the echo of an amusing whimper when his tongue dances with hers. She abandons the strings and grasps a handful of his sweatshirt.

Without thinking, the hands on her hips push against her. The shelf behind collides with her back and his leg pushes to part her own. To his delight, the moan-that-wouldn’t-escape finally does, wreaking havoc through his body and encouraging the small tenting in his pants to grow. But it’s only seconds before the books on the other side hit the ground. They rip from each other, wet sounds entering their ears as they do, and the severity of it dawns on them simultaneously.

Roy takes note of the coloring of her lips before he turns his shoulder away from her. He leans on a shelf with arm and a hand covering his pulsating mouth. He can hear her catching her breath. He wants to say something - anything. But conflicting thoughts murks his clarity, and he cannot conceive a rational one. He’s speechless, astonished, unsure. Roy stammers just trying to formulate a sentence in his own mind.

When he shifts to face her, Riza is already gone.

next

[dunmerofskyrim]

37

Downriver a line crossed the water. A slack rope that traced over the fine skin of ice near the banks, and trailed beneath the surface in the middle of its slow dark flow. A flat square barge was moored up on the far side. Its frame was lashed together from wood and a patchwork of leather and cloth stretched between the spars to form a kind of deck. At waterlevel, leather bladders tight-full with air kept the barge afloat.

“Fucking boatmer…” Simra grumbled under his breath. His purse had barely recovered from the route they’d taken down the Balda. “Fucking pirates, all of them…”

“Ho!” The cry came across the water. Already the ferryman was picking the rope from the water with leathermittened hands and beginning to pull. “Ho there trav’lers! Fine fair mornin’!”

Tammunei looked skyward and frowned. The weather was tin-grey and threatened drizzle. No sky for how thick it was banked in clouds and all the colour of cinders. The sort of sun you had to search for, active and earnest, squinting after some small change in light. And all around the river, the grasses were bearded with frost, the reeds frozen stiff and pale.

“You think so?” Simra called back.

“Nothin’ too bad, nothin’ too bad at all… Still workin’, am I not? A dear fine mornin’, then! A fine dear fair morning…”

A fine fair blighted grey morning to squeeze coin out of the choiceless, Simra reckoned. They were in the crutch of two rivers now, the better part of a day’s travel deep, and could either cross the water or else turn round and hope to skirt it. Fording the flow was scarce any choice at all in this cold and the ferryman knew it. That accounted for his grin, Simra thought, as the barge drew up closer. Or might be that was just his teeth.

The ferryman was Orsimer. Tall and broad in the shoulders but otherwise rangy as a skinned hare, to reckon what you could through the heavy outdoor clothes he wore. A short waxed cape, its hem tasselled with beads, was draped round his shoulders and chest, front and back. It hung to his waist and clattered as he moved. He wore a short coat under it of parchment yellow roughcloth, quilted and padded into squares and diamonds. Almost an arming garment, Simra reckoned — almost a soldier’s aketon. A long grey kilt was belted over that, its skirts girded up and backward between his legs, to show his wiry-haired calves and bare green-grey feet. From out the back of his broad conical farmer’s hat, a thick braid of black hair hung heavy over one shoulder and down his chest, to end in a clattering black iron bell. Like you’d collar a cow with, Simra thought. How long since he’d last seen a cow? He’d seen ‘beef’ for sale in Narsis – he’d never eaten it; wouldn’t know the difference after all – but if beef was dear in Skyrim, whatever passed as cowflesh in Morrowind was sold at thrice the cost. He’d seen no cattle in years…

A wheeze of filled air-skins; a grind of silt. The barge bumped onto the near bank. Its ferryman looked them over, counting them slow and careful. He stood on the boatside like it was a rampart, and he looking down from the high-ground. Confident as anything, swagger even in his stillness as he put hands to hips and leaned in, nodding slow as he spoke:

“Three of you, is it? Mmmh. And two o’ them, hm? Guars…” He drawled over the word, butchering its plural. Simra noticed one of his hands rested casual near a bone handle wrapped into the folds of his kilt’s belt. A half-hidden knife.

“How much?” Noor said.

“Hold on.” Simra shuffled and slipped from the back of the guar he and Tammunei shared. He stumped the butt of his spear against the sod. Strolled in reach of the ferryman. Stumped the spear again into the dirt, ponderish, and looking at the rusted spike as it bothered the frosty grass. “Conversation first. Fine morning for it, right? What’s closed Senie up so tight? What’s that?”

Simra pointed with his free hand downriver, towards the fork where Senie sat on its hill and behind its walls. Smoke rose from the river’s opposite side, trails on trails into the sky where they hung together, mingling in the windless heights. Simra’s hand flashed silver proudflesh and three pale fingers as he gestured. Red beads around the wrist, and plaited silk threads hung with teardrop pendants of green trueglass. Then the rags that bound his sleeves in, to wrap and safeguard the warmth of his body.

“Depends as what it’s worth to you, knowing,” said the ferryman.

“Nothing overmuch,” said Simra. “Except that it’ll help us decide if we want to cross or turn back. Use your fine-looking boat or not.”

The Orsimer stuck out his jaw and twitched his lower lip. “Not heard then, have you?”

“No news from down the road our way, no.”

“Huh. Overtaken, Senie is. Some scuffle inside, two months back might’ve been. All I know’s their lord and council — they strung them from the walls. Hooks in them. Bled or parched to death, all of them by now.”

“Why?”

“Something about their gods. Your gods. What-you-will.” The Orsimer shrugged. “Want to be left alone is how it seems to me.”

“Know the feeling, but never so much that I’d shoot at someone who came too close.”

“Not hurt, are you?” The ferryman sounded almost concerned. “Could be I’d have saved you that near scraping. Don’t go downstream, that’s what I say, but there’s been plenty crossing down here.”

“Which gods?” said Tammunei.

“Eh?” Another shrug from the ferryman. “How should I know? Three of them.”

“Which three?”

“Ffah. How should I know?”

“Hm. And them camped on the far side of the fork,” said Simra. “Who’s that?”

“Some army brought in from eastward over the mountains.”

“Indoril then,” Simra said.

“Some scouts of theirs I ferried over. Oh, two yest’days back and of a mornin’. If they’ve come back since then, it’s not been with me. What they’d be doin’ over from eastward and here in Winter, I surely don’t know… They were asked here’s what they said.”

“That all they said?”

“That and something about pulling some priest out the fort by his hair. They said plenty ‘bout that.”

Borderguards and ferrymen, bridge and gate sentries — you could always trust them to have news worth sharing. Seemed this ferryman wasn’t yet well-versed in that side of his chosen career.

“Been here long?” Simra asked. “At this pitch with your boat?”

“Long enough,” said the ferryman, defensive. “Work’s good lately. Picked right up, it has. Not used to folk wantin’ so much of a chat though, can’t say I am. Most part it’s that they’re in too much of a hurry to cross. You? Two journeys, I’d say. You and your beast, then yous and yours. Extra, that is.”

“How much?”

The two crossings came to a yera and two in total. A shil per passenger and another two for each journey over. Simra had been gouged worse before, but he’d also known plenty work for longer than this ferryman and earn less for it. Still, fair’s fair, even when it’s not fair to you. Given the one boat on this bridgeless length of river, Simra would’ve charged higher — that if only for the boredom of being a ferryman in the first blighted place.

First Simra, Tammunei, their lighter-laden guar. Then Noor and the packguar. Simra watched over the water as the ferryman’s mouth moved, trying for talk, his jaw jutting and juddering. Noor’s mouth stayed firm shut. The beasts peered over the boatsides, one staring deep into its own murky reflection, the other peeking and balking and shying from the water until it was sound and stable-footed on the other bank once more.

On this side of the river, the fields were stripped bare. Paddies deep with frozen mud and ice-chased standing water. Ditches to draw the river and feed the crops stooped much the same: gutters of filth and frost. Rows of fruit-shrubs, bare and stiff, skinny at the trunk and skinny at the limbs. A path of stripped earth ran along beside the water.

Tammunei didn’t remount the guar. Give it a rest, they said, after the water and carrying two riders for so long. The three of them and their two mounts plodded along at footpace. They tended towards the smoke, downriver to the fork and the camp. A wordless verdict between them.

“Is there any need?” Noor said.

“To go through the camp?” Simra said. “A few needs, yeah.” Not that he liked it any more than she did, though he fancied their reasons differed. “Food’s the foremost, if you want to know.”

“We can forage. Hunt. Ghosts preserve me but surely you can go a few days without rice.”

“Forage.” Simra snorted. “In the wake of all them? You heard the orc. They came from eastward. We’ll be tracking back the way they marched from, down the Davon’s Watch road. If you think there’ll be anything left to glean where an army’s foraged through..? Nchow. The pickings’ll be poorer than piss-poor. I’d bet on it. Gold or glass, I’d bet on it any day.”

“You said they were Indoril,” Tammunei began. “New Temple Ordinators…”

“Some of them. The officers maybe. I’d say mercenaries and levies for the rest.”

“I’d have thought Ordinators would mean honour, discipline, restraint…”

“They’re no guarantee of good behaviour, if that’s what you mean. Or good supply lines for that matter. Some people, you give them a bronze mask and they’ll hide all they can behind it. Do whatever they’d never dared to do, and say, no, now it’s for the cause…”

“Will it be safe then?”

“We’re wisewomer,” said Noor. “Sacred servants of the oldest ancestors, the oldest gods. The baelathri Temple reclaimed them only lately, but we’ve given the gods their due since Veloth’s day. They love us now as much as they hated us before. Of course we’ll be safe.”

“Mmh. They love the idea of you fine enough,” muttered Simra. “It’s when you’re there before their eyes, all skins and beads and braids, they decide they’ve got a problem…”

Tammunei shied close to their guar, edging into its neck and putting both hands on its leading-bridle.

“We’ll be safe,” Noor repeated, firmer now.

“Course we will,” said Simra, “if we keep each other that way.”

Senie’s outer walls showed smooth and slightly sloping in the nearing distance. Brick and mortar the colour of bones til they seamed down into the sides of the hill the fort-town had its roots on. There the incline slacked and tumbled in heather and crags of stone to the brown waters where the rivers combined.

Around the three on the riverside path, a feeble breeze picked up, fretting with their hair and the hems of their clothes. None were dressed for Winter, or a journey slow-leading into lands with colder climes. Stupid of them, Simra reckoned. Of him most of all. Noor in her tasselled blanket-cloak and shawl, her ragged threadbare riding-coat — she was best prepared, for all she looked like a small and lope-stepping scarecrow in those tatters. But Tammunei had only the coat Simra had given them, ocean-coloured, with a recent-patched hole in the gut of it. And Simra himself had no coat, no cloak at all.

“What’re the other reasons?” said Tammunei.

“Hm?”

“We could just carry on past. Follow the road when it turns east. But we won’t because of food, and what else?”

“Oh.” Simra shrugged, and fidgeted with his fingers and the shaft of his spear. “Sheer bloodyminded curiosity. Wanna know what’s happening here. We got less than half a story from that bastard ferryman. I want the whole fucking thing.”

[lenaglittleus]

Does Organic Really Matter? All Your Questions Answered

A couple of weeks ago I was invited by Stonyfield Organic to come out to some Northern California farms to explore the world of organic food (and then some!) and why it really matters. To be honest, I wasn’t really sure what to expect. I’ve explored the avocado farms of Mexico and the orange groves of Florida. I’ve seen where coffee comes from in Guatemala and eaten more hummus than previously believed possible in Israel. Those experiences were all super cool, but this tour was not only incredibly cool but also SO enlightening. I left the two day trip feeling more knowledgable, positive and empowered to make a change. I just needed a little extra time to figure out how…

Which brings us to today’s post. Does organic really matter? It’s a loaded question and one which I am willing to tackle today. It’s a complex issue that starts in the fields and moves up into government policy makers, but ultimately I truly believe it falls in our hands to demand the change. My hope is that I can inspire you to be an advocate for that change – a privilege which Stonyfield imparted on me.

During one of our long bus rides from one farm to another, I asked Stonyfield CEO Gary Hirshberg: “What’s in it for you?” It’s not like we were visiting dairy farms and spending two days learning about yogurt making. His answer blew me away (and can we acknowledge the fact that the CEO was riding on the bus with us for the entire trip?! That NEVER happens!). He looked at all of us women and influencers and reminded us the power we have to use our platforms for good. He feels similarly about Stonyfield. If he can get more people to switch to organic yogurt, great! But the goal of Stonyfield reaches so far beyond yogurt. We need to make some massive changes to our food system if we want to see our planet survive. There will be no Stonyfield, or The Healthy Maven or even organics if we continue our current farming practices and use of herbicides and pesticides.

This is Gary Hirshberg, Founder and CEO of Stonyfield

That’s why we were invited there and that’s what I’m going to be talking about today…

DOES ORGANIC REALLY MATTER?

Simple answer? Yes. It matters both for your individual health and the health of the planet.

Though still up for debate on the nutrition-side, there is no arguing that organic food has substantially lower levels of heavy metals and chemicals due to the lack of pesticide-use. Pesticides have been linked to Leukemia (source) and Parkinson’s disease (source). More research is needed to further explore this issue, however most of these pesticides have been approved for use in small quantities. The reality is that they are not being used in small quantities, and we are not consuming them in small quantities. On top of this, by using pesticides, we’re actually depleting the phytochemicals present in plants that actually help them build up resistance to bugs and weeds. This has massive impacts on our health as well as the health of the planet.

Long-term pesticide use leads to depleted soil, huge impacts on the bee population (who we need for pollination) as well as harmful pollutants in the air. This is on top of the heavy use of antibiotics and hormones in our livestock. All of this means the quality of our conventional food is decreasing. There’s proof that the dairy from organic cows is actually 25% higher in Omega-3s than traditionally raised cows (source).

The sad part is that the jury is still out. Not enough research has been done to prove all claims but in the process we’re making our food less nutritious and chronic disease is only increasing. So to answer the question, in the short-term it may not seem like it matters, but in the long-term it does and the long-term is right here, right now.

This is Doug Lipton, one of the co-founders of Healdsburg SHED, an organic farm-to-table restaurant in Sonoma

YOUR ORGANIC QUESTIONS ANSWERED

So I asked you guys to hit me with your questions about organics and buying organic. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting as many questions as I got but I’m glad you sent them along. It really helped me gage exactly where people are at when it comes to this topic. As always, this is just the tip of the iceberg but I hope you find these questions/answers helpful.

What’s the difference between organic and conventional farming?

Organic farming means that plants (fruits, veggies, grains, textiles) are grown without the use of pesticides and artificial fertilizers. For meat and dairy, they are fed a diet consisting of organic food and are not given antibiotics or hormones. Conventional farming has access to all approved herbicides and pesticides for growth purposes. Some synthetic substances have been approved by the USDA but they are very minimal and have limited use. Here is a list of approved substances for organic certification according to the USDA. Organic farming also supports more sustainable growing practices and crop rotation meaning the soil itself is healthier and therefore the food is more nutritious. I could go into more detail but this is the gist of it.

What’s the difference between organic and non-GMO?

A good way to remember it is that certified organic NEVER uses GMOs. Non-GMO does not necessarily mean organic. If a product is USDA Certified Organic, GMO seeds are prohibited as are the use of pesticides and fertilizers. However, Non-GMO certified means that the crop has been grown from non-GMO seeds but they can still you pesticides and fertilizers to grow the plant. You’re always better off buying certified organic but non-GMO is a good start.

*I’m adding my personal opinion in here: I don’t believe GMOs are inherently bad. In many ways they’ve helped us produce more food in areas of the world that need it. The problem with GMOs is that they’re almost always used in conjunction with herbicides (particular Roundup/Glyphosate) which are harmful to the environment and our health. Research has not been conclusive in this, but the main issue is that glyphosate has been approved in small quantities. The problem is that we’re not consuming it in small quantities. This is my personal opinion as to why organic is better than non-GMO.

What’s the difference between organic and grass-fed?

This was a popular question. The short answer: Both are good for you and much better than conventional beef. Grass-Fed beef means that the cow is free to graze on the land it lives on and eat the grass, weeds, plant-life etc…Organic beef may be grass-fed but according to USDA organic standards, they don’t have to be grass-fed year round. The animals must be free to graze for a certain amount of time, but can also be fed an organic grain-fed diet. The downside to grass-fed is that the land *could* be sprayed with pesticides (though not likely since cows eat the weeds) and *could* be given hormones or antibiotics (though much more rare in grass-fed). The downside to organic beef is that they may not be free to graze year round and may be grain finished. The upside is that both systems make for healthier cows overall and are much better for us and our environment.

What’s the difference between organic and all-natural?

Put simply: All-natural is a marketing term that holds little value. The definition of “all-natural” varies so much. Some people consider this free of artificial ingredients, others will still include synthetics. If organic is important for you, don’t fall for this trap. Look for the certified organic label or ask questions (more on this below).

How do I know if something is actually organic?

This is a tricky question. A tell-tale sign that something is organic is having the certified organic label on the packaging. However, something can be organic and not have the label. Some farmers can’t afford the certification and as we discussed a lot of on the trip, farmers are often so preoccupied on the fields that the paperwork required to get certified feels like too much of a hassle. If buying from a small, local farmer or your farmer’s market, ask questions! Ask them how they grow their fruits and veggies or raise their meat/dairy. Oftentimes they are using organic farming practices but don’t necessarily have the label.

Why is organic more expensive?

Short answer: The government minimally subsidizes organic food production. They do provide some support to farmers seeking organic certification and some organic farming research, however compared to the $15 Billion set forth in the Farm Bill to support conventional farmers, compared to less than $100 million for organic farmers and research. Only 1% of farms in the US are organic certified and with so few subsidies, there just simply isn’t enough incentive there for farmers to adopt more sustainable farming practices. So now it really comes down to government and our elected officials having a more active role in increasing subsidies for organic farmers.

Here’s another way to think of it: We’re either paying for it now or later. We can pay the cheaper prices for conventional food and pay higher premiums for our healthcare later. For me, the moderate price difference between a conventional and organic apple over the course of my lifetime will hopefully be less than what I might have to pay for the health issues I might develop from eating all conventional my whole life. There is no denying that organic is food is better for you (source) so I’d rather invest in preventative medicine than treatment protocols. Again, this is an option for you to weigh for yourself.

Do I need to eat ALL organic?

In an ideal world, yes. We should support sustainable farming methods so that we have a planet that will continue to nourish us. That being said, this is not affordable or accessible to a lot of people. So my main piece of advice is this: start with what you can. The Dirty Dozen and the Clean Fifteen is a great place to start. The Dirty Dozen are the fruits and vegetables with the most pesticide contamination (aka buy organic when you can!) and the Clean Fifteen are the fruits and vegetables with the least pesticide contamination (aka ok to buy conventional if you’re not eating solely organic). That’s where I started and have slowly started to transition into almost all organic. It’s about progress, not perfection.

Do I need to buy organic skincare/bodycare products?

Similarly to above, this is ideal, but not always necessary. Our skin is the largest organic in/on our body so it makes sense that if we care what we put in our body, we should also care what we put on it. I’ve switched to synthetic-free skincare and body care products, however not all are organic. A lot of this is due to the fact that they are small producers who can’t necessarily afford organic certification. Better to start somewhere.

Do I need to buy organic house cleaning products?

I don’t think this answer will surprise you, but yes…if you can. Like food and skincare, you are interacting with your home everyday. One touch of your counter will not have an effect but repeated exposure of synthetic chemicals over the course of your lifetime does. I don’t personally use all organic cleaning products but they are chemical-free. Apple cider vinegar + essential oils is an amazing cleaning solution that you can make at home and is actually cheaper. Stay tuned for a tutorial!

Where do I start?

Do I think you’re better off choosing 100% organic? Yes, I do. However, I also know that this isn’t realistic or accessible for most people. So my best advice for you is to do exactly what I’m doing, the best that you can with what you have. Try your absolute best to purchase what you can in organic. Encourage your friends and family to do the same. Encourage your policy makers to care about these issues. Support your local farmers. There are so many ways to get involved. More on that below!

Organic lettuce grown at the UCSC farm where they teach organic farming practices

* * * * *

If I’m being completely honest, this feels like a topic that could never be captured in a single blog post. The question of organics is not one that I’ve shied away from or avoided here on The Healthy Maven. I’ve made it clear many times over that I mostly choose organic products. I have a history of going to extremes so approaching this topic from a more moderate stand-point has made it more accessible and sustainable for me.

I’m not someone whose clothing is exclusively made from hemp, washes their face with coconut oil and reaps what they sow. If this is you, more power to you! This just isn’t sustainable in my life and truthfully would take away a lot of joy and happiness in living. In my world, healthy must meet living.

Over the past couple of years I’ve started to dabble more in the world of organics. I almost exclusively buy organic food for our home (except those Dark Chocolate Peanut Butter Cups from Trader Joe’s!), use mostly organic house cleaning products and some organic skincare. I have not even begun to tackle the world of organic textiles but it’s something I’m open to. If I’m out and forget to bring a snack, I’d rather eat something that isn’t organic than nothing at all. I’m not afraid of non-organics, but I’m choosing to vote with my dollar in the best way I can. Now that I’m so much more aware of how deep and high the problem goes, I am also more aware of my points of entry. I think twice before buying a fast fashion garment and I always order organic from my Imperfect Produce box and get my grass-fed meat and organic chicken from Butcher Box.

I also want you to remember that even if you can’t afford or access all organics, know that there is so much power in your voice. Ask your grocery stores to carry more organics, use your social media platforms to talk about the importance of preserving our soil or better yet, WRITE TO YOUR REPRESENTATIVES. Get educated about what your regional politicians support so if you can’t vote with your dollar, vote with your vote!

Lastly, a huge thank you to Stonyfield Organics for this incredible opportunity to learn from some of the best in the organics world. I’m truly so grateful and hope that I can make you proud!

Disclaimer: This post is sponsored by Stonyfield Organic. I was compensated for my time, however all opinions expressed are 100% my own. Thank you for supporting the brands that help make THM possible and answer even more important questions like this.

Interesting in learning more about organics? Here are a few resources for you:

Megan Faletra (The Well Essentials) – Registered Dietitian, MPH and sustainability wizard. She’s my go-to resource for how to take lead a more sustainable lifestyle in a realistic and attainable way.

Melody Meyer (Organic Matters Blog) – Vice President of Policy at UNFI and has worked in the organic food space for 40+ years. When it comes to food policy in this country, she’s an incredible resource.

Rodale Institute – a non-profit dedicated to organic farming research. Rooted in science, the research they produce has been key in answering all the questions above.

Do you choose organic? If so, which products? I’m curious!

The post Does Organic Really Matter? All Your Questions Answered appeared first on The Healthy Maven.

from News About Health https://www.thehealthymaven.com/2018/02/does-organic-really-matter.html

[bothsandneithers]

Day 2318

To experience totality, I took a drive through Kansas, and landed on the couch of my sister, her husband, and their two cats. 

It’s true what they say -- that, unlike a lot of scales ranging from 1 - 100, the difference between a 95% eclipse and a total eclipse is not an arbitrary difference in experience, but rather: everything.  And, even if those two minutes, when the sun was perfectly occluded by the moon, was the most phenomenal thing I saw that week -- there were a number of runner-up phenomena, of acute instances of humanity that could probably be found all over, but are more easily detected in small towns, when the pretenses that fill a larger city are not obscuring the image.

Middle of Kansas

The huge ornate egg stood tall in the town center, with almost enough poise to make one not question why the twenty-two-foot object was even there. The placard said it signified that the small town was the Czech-capital of Kansas. Even though the 2010 census added up all of its inhabitants to be a few shy of 800 people, the town did have a train-station-turned hotel that was in plain sight, once you turned left for a few miles from the freeway, and then right onto a dirt road, littered with skeletons of farms and mercantile buildings.  

In the basement of the hotel was a restaurant, and in the restaurant, everything was a dilemma. I sat at the bar. The glass used for a vodka and lemonade was first too small, and then re-poured into something entirely too large by the bartender. The components of this vodka and lemonade needed to be clarified with the customer by two different servers. The older woman, probably new on the job but maybe not, had a question about every order, every button on the register, and every action that took place between the bar and the small section of three tables she was serving, which was then discussed in depth with either other server, the bartender, or the busboy. 

It looks like you are learning, said the manager, who momentarily stepped into the basement, either not detecting or, more likely, not being distressed by the slow motion movements of all of her earnest employees. 

The busboy busied himself on the other side of the bar. What book are your reading? he asked, with his adolescently long hair, acne, and dirty black baseball cap. He was holding a stack of ten or so pint glasses. It’s turtles all the way down, I thought, even though the imagery didn’t align with any present metaphor. His lower hand firmly gripped the entire rim of the first glass -- making me wonder and hope that he was taking them to be washed. His hand palpitated around the rim as he anxiously talked to me. 

I showed him the cover. It’s called Plainsong. What is it about? he asked. 

I’m not quite sure yet, I just started. I do know that it’s set in a small town, because all of his books are about the same small town near here, in eastern Colorado. I like small towns because there is no posturing. The sky is big, the streets are wide, and people are people. I didn’t say any of this to him, because it sounded as if I were describing a scene in a snow globe. 

I read a lot, he says. Whenever we get a new book in the library, the librarian gives it to me. I’ve read over 300 books. I can’t pronounce the name of the book I’m reading now. There are a lot of words in it that I don’t know. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be reading it. 

I think it’s always a good idea to walk away from a book you don’t like, I advised him. 

He shrugged and continued on about his school: We share our school with both the middle and elementary school. It’s just so cute to see all of the little kids walk around. It is just so cute. 

The repetition of that phrase seemed out of the ordinary for someone like him, but it’s as if he knew that it would take at least two times before I realized that he was talking to me, an apparent full-fledged adult, who was not only well-versed in the cuteness of small children, but also had enough authority to validate his perception of the little ones in his community. 

His glow subsided a bit when I asked him how many students were in the high school. About 20, he said. We keep losing students to the next town over. We lost four this year. He said with some amount of loss, wrapping up the conversation and his hand tightly engulfed the bottom glass. 

Then he turned away from me to take the stack of glasses where they needed to go; I’m not sure of their final destiny, and I’m not sure if it really matters. 

Middle of Missouri It didn’t have the painstaking detail of the small-town large-egg, but someone had painted a twelve foot pink strawberry on the shed behind us. We sat on a blanket in the field, and behind us was the crop of vegetables that the urban farm that would soon donate to the local food shelters. The sky grew darker, as the moon further eclipsed the sun, and the cicadas started to lose their minds in the rush of cool air. 

The car, that must have noticed the change in light, had turned its lights on. It drove, under the sun and moon, and past us onlookers. To add to the disorientation of feeling as if we were in a time-lapsed version of reality, with the darkness presenting itself in record time, the car gave off the impression of an anachronistic event. It pulled up to a stop sign, turned left away from us and the eclipse, and onward to something else entirely. 

Quarter of Kansas

After making my own journey a few hours west and back into Kansas, I learned of the nearby park and its facilities.

The swimming pool is empty, said the Inn-keeper upon my arrival -- but it doesn’t have to be, she said with some amount of disappointment that extended beyond the pool and on to a systematic misuse of labor and resources in the town. It’s hot for another month -- but all the student employees have already gone back to school. 

The drained swimming pool, which consisted of both laps and a tube slide  -- that, if measured in height was small, but if measured by the number of turns, was moderate in size -- and the large park were divided by a minimally used road and a handful of diagonally painted parking spaces. 

The park contained all sorts of things: A playground, an equestrian arena, old World War II tanks, a rose garden, a gazebo, and a fountain. The air was perfectly warm, and the sun was slanted to remind you that summer nights last a while. To be an outsider, it was refreshing; to be a resident I imagine it could feel a little stifling, though I couldn’t tell you why. 

Within the handful of the diagonally marked parking spaces between the park and the pool, a white Buick was parked. In the next parking spot over, a man and a woman sat in folding chairs. They were old -- probably great-grandparent old. They faced the metal fence, which retained the drained swimming pool. She was crocheting, and he was reading a magazine. He brought a wooden footstool with him, because he had done this before. 

To be deliberately outside; to be faced with systematic mis-handling of a summer that was coming to an end earlier than it had to. I wanted to ask them what they thought of everything, if they knew how unique they were. I’m sure they had regrets. I didn’t care about those. But I wish that I could have asked them what they thought that they would regret, but never did. 

Up-and-Over in Kansas

Mrs. Pratt said that if she could do over, then she would never have moved here from England. 

The house historian reflected on these words that he had found written in a letter to her daughter, as he stared at her travel chest, which had crossed the Atlantic Ocean and arrived at the house in the middle of Kansas over 100 years ago.

We were standing in one of the oldest, and definitely the most carefully restored houses in Kansas, that was built and lived in by Mr. and Mrs. Pratt who had moved here from England. I was standing inside, but a few minutes before that, I was standing outside, thinking I was alone and reading a placard in front of the house. 

You can come in, you know. I heard a man’s voice from inside the  house — over the hedges and behind the screen door. 

Where are you from? He asked. Denver, I said. Oh, I think I’ve heard of that place, he said. Without further ado, he dived into the history of the Pratt’s and the house. It wasn’t intentionally scripted, but he had lived and breathed their life for so long, that none of the words that came out of his mouth hadn’t been recited before. 

He had a deep appreciation for Mr. Pratt, who had impeccable record keeping. He recorded every penny he spent (he was a tightwad, the historian repeatedly said), and even documented the size and sex of every cow that was hit by the train that used to run through this area. The historian owed Mr. Pratt a great deal. It’s anthropologists all the way down, I thought, only partially appreciating the sacredness of one person carefully documenting their life, and the care of someone else, one hundred years later, piecing all of the pieces back together to continue telling the story. 

This chair here broke, and so they took off the back, and used it to practice their needle work, he pointed to a vibrant cross-stitched flowers that looked newer than old.

The house looked old yet maintained. He did all the work himself, of both physically restoring the place, and triangulating information that he had received from his various data sources (and tracking down the original bathtub that had made its way to the farmyard of a neighbor down the street).  

We walked through each of the five rooms, and he described in detail the fixtures, the tin paneling, including how much everything cost. He knew the precise cost of everything, because Mr. Pratt had told him. 

We went into a final room, which doubled as his messy office. This is what the wall paper looked like during different  years, he said, pointing to five 8x8 inch squares, each square going one layer deeper back time. I’m a trained archaeologist, he said. 

We walked around the property and across the pasture, in a manner as if I were interviewing him for a filming of a PBS documentary that nobody would ever see.

Did you watch the eclipse? I asked him. He had mentioned that the last week had been pretty busy because of travelers passing through. 

No, he said. I was out here working. I liked the blueness of the sky, and the softness of the shadows. But, I didn’t watch it.

love,

amy