#anyway. maura be upon ye

[jackiesarch]

hello hi im late but. ❤️💔🔺👨‍👩‍👧‍👦 for maura pls :>

❤️ RED HEART — what are three of your oc's positive traits?

OPSTIMISTIC — Maura’s the perpetual optimist. She always has been. Even in the midst of a global, apocalyptic outbreak event, she still manages to see the glass half full. It’s probably annoying to some of the people around her, but it’s the reason she survives. It’s the reason she survives the outbreak, survives the Quarantine Zone, survives captivity, and survives running for her life; the light at the end of the tunnel kept her waking up every single morning to face another day.

COMPASSIONATE — There’s good in everyone, Maura thinks — even the people that held her captive and tried to break her spirit. Working as a paramedic (and later as de facto doctor in Jackson) has opened her already giant heart to just about everything. She’s a natural caregiver, even to her own detriment, and all she wants to do is ease suffering. It’s all she’s ever wanted.

SOCIABLE — She just loves people. Like, so much. Maura’s a talker, a conversationalist, a warm presence in a not so warm world. She loves her work, because it means she gets to talk to just about everyone in Jackson at one time or another, and honestly? They’re better off for it too. She makes people feel welcome and wanted, even if just because she knows how to make small talk.

💔 BROKEN HEART — what are three of your oc's negative traits?

NAÏVE — As much as her optimism and compassion serves her well, it also opens her up to danger. In all honesty, Maura is incredibly naive. She believes the best of people, even when the best doesn’t exist in them. That bit in Pittsburgh, when Joel and Ellie are flagged down by the hunter pretending to be hurt? Maura believes that. Maura trusts that. And trusting everyone is what gets her held captive by a group of hunters for a little over a decade.

COWARDLY — Maura endures things because she is afraid. Once she’s settled in Jackson, the people who found her ask her why she stayed with the hunters for so long. Why didn’t she run sooner? Why did it take ten years? Why? As embarrassed as she is to admit it, the reason is that she never had the courage to. She allowed herself to be used for so long because she was afraid of what would happen if she tried to leave. That’s not the only example of cowardice getting the better of her, but it’s certainly the biggest — and something she knows she needs to learn from.

SELFLESS — I hate to use something perceived as a “good” trait like this is a job interview, but when I say her selflessness is a negative trait, I mean selflessness in the most unhealthy way. Maura is kind to people and gives whatever she can to help them, but she doesn’t know when to stop. She’s never known when to stop. That viral quote about someone overwatering flowers because they didn’t know when to stop giving? That’s Maura. She’ll drain herself for another person if they let her.

🔺 RED TRIANGLE POINTED UP — does your oc know how to use any weapons?

God bless her, but not really. Maura is so deeply conflicted averse and for so long didn’t even have access to a weapon that her skills are severely neglected. She did learn basic firearm handling at the beginning of the outbreak when she started working for FEDRA in the QZ, but those skills are so rusty by the time she’s settled in Jackson and made a life for herself that it’s almost as if she never learned at all.

Tommy did teach her how to use a bow, and it definitely suits her more. She just prefers to never have to use it — and lucky for her, she’s never really had to.

👨‍👩‍👧‍👦 FAMILY WITH MOTHER, FATHER, SON AND DAUGHTER — how many people are in your oc's immediate family? how many people are in your oc's extended family? do they have aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, etc? who in their family are they closest with? are they close with their birth family, or do they have a found family?

Maura’s birth family was always really small. Her mom, Hazel, was a young, single mother, and Maura was her only child. Maura never knew her dad — not even his name — and the only other family member she knew was her grandmother, who passed away when she was a teenager. For a really long time, Maura’s family is just her and her mom. No aunts, no uncles, no cousins. Just her and her mom, and she is deeply close with her mom.

Hazel dies in the initial outbreak (at least Maura thinks she does — she never gets to find out one way or another), and it’s the family she finds that fills the void in her heart.

There’s Zach, a man she meets during her time with the hunters. He’s part of their group, but he doesn’t belong a bit, and he’s ultimately the person who encourages her to escape, even though it means leaving him behind. In a different world, she and Zach would have fallen in love, but this version of reality wasn’t as kind to them. She never sees him again and isn’t sure he’s even alive after her escape.

Tommy quickly becomes her best friend when she finds herself in Jackson, and then, after disgusting amounts of pining, her partner. She marries him five years before the game events, and he is easily the most important puzzle piece of her found family. He’s her everything — confidant, cheerleader, guiding light.

And of course, there’s @corvosattano’s Maxine, who becomes something like a sister to her, and not just because she’s her sister-in-law. Maxine is everything Maura isn’t, and it’s their differences that make them click so well. Maura admires her strength, her courage, her quiet bravery and determination. I don’t think Max would say any of those things about herself ever, but Maura sees them in her, and she loves her for them. (Sorry to wax poetic, Macy. I miss them.)

There’s plenty of other members of that found family, of course, but those three are the ones that shaped her the most. They filled an empty, aching void in her chest when she needed it most.

[girderednerve]

okay i am an old man at heart & am quickly tired out by videos but i am also a total sucker for participating in the cultural moment when it seems that there is one, so i have now watched about three hours of the hb*mberguy video about plagiarism. it's very annoying, actually, probably because i am an old man & none of the discussion of it i have seen shares my preoccupations & concerns

the problem i am having, & i acknowledge that this is perhaps resolved in the last hour of this four-hour-long youtube extravaganza, is that our intrepid investigator (he's very good at videos! not meant dismissively) declines to like, actually define plagiarism or look into what citation norms are or how they differ in different contexts. the proposed referents are journalists & academics, which is really funny to me because there are regular vicious arguments in both of these communities about what proper credit looks like & what it's meant to do, and both of these fields have been around as pretty established things for a few hundred years now (you could argue this point, especially regarding when precisely academia or journalism became recognizably modern). there have been a reasonable number of pretty high-profile arguments about what constitutes citation malpractice in both fields over the last few years, & there aren't necessarily neat conclusions (not referring to e.g. maura dykstra situation of obvious & widely agreed upon malpractice; i mean, people arguing about what the politics of citation are & what our responsibilities are—for example, academics regularly complain that journalists will consult them or read their work for a piece & then not cite them in it, journalists complain that academics will brush past their work when compiling bibliographies, academics across disciplines have several long-simmering differences of opinion about what kinds of politics one expresses with one's citations, journalists argue about credit & republication; i am not an academic or a journalist, so i am missing a lot!).

anyway setting these problems aside, there's the bigger issue that youtube videos as a rule are, i realize this is controversial, not academia and also not journalism. i don't think they are documentary filmmaking either, although our hbomb man is not particularly interested in the information culture of documentarians either. internet video is its own thing with its own information culture! but instead this is a video about how some people i have never heard of before on youtube did unethical stealing from other people i have mostly not heard of before, which i agree is not great but it does not seem to me like a four-hour emergency, probably because i am an old man who doesn't understand youtube. like, okay, we spent several lengthy minutes on what's going on with this illuminaughty person copying documentaries, but that argument felt to me weirdly both belabored & underdeveloped: yes, yes, we get it, the whole thing was lazily cribbed, i agree, that's really obnoxious, sure, okay, but like, do we have some articulation of what the line is? of what the norms are? because it seems to me like we kind of don't have a clear way that we handle citation in that space, by which i mean not just like 'APA format' or whatever but the substantive idea of referring to & building upon other people's intellectual work

please note here that i did not say 'intellectual property', because to me this is of course the elephant by the floral wallpaper. maybe it's in the last hour & i simply lack staying power! well-documented personal flaw! but in my experience, functional definitions of 'plagiarism' & theft of intellectual property arise only from disciplinary processes, either academic proceedings or legal ones, & each case is decided individually. more importantly as others have pointed out, when we make someone's ideas into legally codified property, they become alienable from their creator; intellectual property is a kind of enclosure of the commons. there's a reason i think that hguy's last video was about the ownership of a sound effect, & that he spent a lot of time being angry that someone else claimed the credit along with the legal ownership of/right to profit from the sound effect; the frustration with youtubers appropriating other people's work & the frustration with some bozo video game composer lying about how the "oof" got made are the same thing, but the thing is not "credit" or "rudeness" or "theft," it is the entire institution, i think, of intellectual property. not that there have never been reasonable claims made using intellectual property law, but come on almost none of this is the māori suit against lego, it's mostly corporate C&Ds and NDA'd artists stuck with non-competes. it's bleak! but we know how it happens, & it's not that some people are uncreative & moneygrubbing, so they look down on creatives (??), which has so far seemed to be the argument of this four-hour-long cultural moment

also i am still thinking about what kind of ideas & assumptions go into citation pratices, because i am a professional librarian (a bad one!), so i am professionally obliged to care about the set of skills referred to as 'information literacy' (the skills are real but i have like, mixed feelings about the framing, that's why scare quotes). if you are an academic librarian they will ask you to do 'information literacy,' and a lot of what they mean by that is 'tell students how to find sources for things & cite them properly,' which is, i think, kind of an interesting sleight of hand, in which a broad & powerful set of interpretive & analytical skills become [what is for many students] the dullest part of essay writing? but that's a problem with all of undergraduate education, basically. anyway if you talk to most students about citations they think they're onerous nonsense, and that plagiarism/'academic honesty' policies are arbitrary (& scary); they're not usually encouraged in any particular way to think about how citations are meant to function or what they're meant to do. i don't mean to disparage my colleagues in academic libraries; i am painting with a broad brush & anyway librarians usually have almost no input into course design or assignments.

it's disappointing how these information literacy discussions tend to go, though, because citations are interesting! they're also recent, in the grand scheme; the idea of telling us where you got some idea or other is very old, but the specifics of how & in what circumstances you're meant to do it aren't & they vary wildly by context. i often will tell people where i picked up whatever little factoid i am drolly recounting (sorry everyone) but that isn't particularly common in casual conversation. youtube videos are closer to a conversational register than they are to a documentary or a news article, much less an academic paper; i don't really know what to make of it, & i suspect this is part of why it is so easy to be a youtube personality who steals other people's work—it isn't really that youtube audiences are uniquely credulous & lazy, but that their expectations aren't the same. i guess i should note here that i do think you should cite things in a clear & easily followable manner, be honest about what is your own invention & what is borrowed from the work others, and avoid like. being a huge asshole. but to some degree i am bored by hearing about Some Guy Who Lies On Youtube, because my baseline assumption for most youtube videos is that they are not reliable & are probably trying to lie to me! i am not trying to be superior here that is an honest account of how i engage with anyone who appears to have a specialty lighting rig

i think continually & with affection of the late antique proliferation of the pseudo-somebody, and it seems to me now that the common modern practice of online (kindly) under-citation is a near-perfect inverse of the medieval approach, in which it was generally difficult to look things up and writers enhanced their authoritativeness by making referential claims to well-known authors. now it's usually easy to look things up & everybody wants to be an original thinker & an artist, so they don't cite. not me, though, i am just giving you here the garbled mash of things i've seen in posts & remember from my undergrad lectures eight years ago. i'm an idiot! but at least nobody here is making any money :)

[100storiesin2020]

There's a raven in Fox Tower (her name is Chainsaw)

This is chapter 1 in a crossover fanfic for The Raven Cycle and All For The Game! Major spoilers for both series. Enjoy!

*****

Blue exited the court, racket balanced over her shoulder. She was sweating and tired and extremely proud. Henrietta High School had won their rivalry match against Aglionby for the first time since Blue had joined the team, and she was fully aware that she was responsible for it. She had scored 4 of the 7 goals herself, after all, and each one of them had been hard-earned. Her friendship with members of the Aglionby team did not affect the ability to play against each other. Instead, it made all of them fight harder, and made the game that much more satisfying to win.

"Hey Sargent! C'mere."

Blue paused without turning around. "What do you want, Coach?"

"There's a recruiter here to see you."

That got her full attention. Turning around, Blue saw Mr. Moore, her Exy coach, standing next to her mother outside of his office. "Can they wait? I'd like to shower," she said. She did want to shower, but more importantly she wanted to change back into her handmade clothes. They weren't just a fashion statement or a desire to be different. They served as a warning sign, a protective shield against people who might judge her. She didn't want to meet a prospective coach without her armor.

"Come in, Blue," her mother said, tapping her toe on the floor. This morning, during the daily card ritual, Blue had drawn the Knight. Maura had told her that she would be meeting somebody today. This person would open a door for her future, and Blue would need to decide if it was the door she wanted. Blue had asked for more specifics, but Maura had declined, always insisting that Blue's future was her own. "It's time. This is it."

Blue sighed in defeat and stalked over to the door, which Moore opened for her. The office was a bit cramped, because a room that was originally intended as a cleaning closet really shouldn't have been able to fit a desk that size, but somehow it had gotten in here anyway. Behind the desk was a tall man with brown hair and tribal tattoos. She recognized him quickly, because Henry was a dramatic little fanboy who was constantly going on about his sports teams. This was David Wymack of the Palmetto Foxes, and he was here to recruit her.

"You must be Blue."

"And you must have made a mistake, because you only recruit rejects, but I come from a perfectly functional home, thank you very much." Blue started to turn around and leave.

Maura stopped her, because she was standing behind Blue in the doorway. "What happened to your manners?"

The corner of Wymack's mouth twitched upwards. "No, she has a point. My recruiting standards are pretty well-known, and you're correct that you don't seem to fit the bill. But I've talked to Moore, and to your mother. You've had quite the year, haven't you, Blue?

Blue grimaced as she took her seat. No doubt Moore had told him all about the news headlines she had been in this year. If she was to be perfectly honest, it had been rough, and it had affected her and her playing. She nodded a bit. "Alright then. I'll sign if you offer me a scholarship."

"Blue!" her mother exclaimed, as Wymack raised his eyebrows.

"I'm not being rude, Mom. We both know I can't afford college without some help."

Maura sighed. "Yes, you've always been the sensible one."

Wymack had a calculating look on his face, as if he was mentally rewriting her backstory. It was a little too reminiscent of Calla, which made Blue very uncomfortable. What were the odds that she get recruited by yet another psychic? The expression passed and he slid a file across the desk toward Blue, who stared at it. It was a hideous shade of orange and it had her name scrawled across the front in some of the messiest handwriting she'd ever seen, and she'd tried to interpret Ronan's notes once or twice. "Well, then, here's the deal, short stuff. I've seen your stats. I've talked to your coach. And tonight I got to see you play in the biggest game of your year. Aglionby is Henrietta's biggest rival, right?" Blue snorted. With how much the everyday folk of Henrietta resented the wealth of Aglionby, a dramatic rivalry was inevitable. "You were in fine form tonight, and I know some college players that you could run circles around," Wymack huffed. "My striker handpicked you, and I think he made an excellent choice. If a full-ride is what you need to be able to come to Palmetto, I'm willing to pay it to get you there."

Blue turned to her mother to get her input. Maura had the far-away look that came during a reading when she was working extra hard to see the truth. She snapped back to attention and gave a small shrug, which told Blue that the earlier read still stood. This was just a choice. Not necessarily a good one, not necessarily a bad one, just an option that could be taken or left. Blue turned back toward the coach and stuck out her hand. "Deal." They shook, and he handed over some papers. "Thank you, Blue. Sign these and we will be in touch. Do you have any more questions? I'm hoping to catch some of those Aglionby boys before I go."

Blue froze while flipping through the papers, unsure if she had heard him right. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Run that by me again?"

Wymack snorted. "I'm just interested in a few of them. Aglionby is not the type of school I generally would recruit from," he said with a grimace, "but I'm between a rock and a hard place right now. The truth is, I have some seniors graduating next year, so I'm in desperate need of two dealers and a goalie. I've been to several other schools this week, but I haven't managed to sign anyone." He sighed. "Apparently they were already committed to another school or unwilling to deal with the reputation of the Foxes, and now I'm out of time. Spring break ends tomorrow and I need to go back to Palmetto, so I've got to take my opportunities here."

Blue considered that and looked at her watch, which had bands made of several colors of yarn braided together. "The game ended 30 minutes ago, so Gansey, Parrish, and Lynch are probably changed out and waiting by the front door. You can catch them while I go shower."

Wymack raised his eyebrows at that. "I was under the impression that you didn't have your mother's gifts."

"I don't," Blue replied, wondering just how much Wymack knew about her mother's reputation as a psychic. "It's just that Aglionby has a very small Exy team, since apparently upper society frowns upon violent sports." She rolled her eyes. "Those three are graduating seniors and play the positions you need." 

Wymack looked unconvinced. "Then how do you know they are at the front door?"

Blue shrugged. "I won today. They owe me pizza." She picked up her racket and walked to the door. "Good luck. I'm going to go shower." She slammed the door shut behind her.

Maura smiled softly at the noisy retreat and looked back at the coach. "It's nice to see you again, David."

"Likewise, Maura." David Wymack leaned back in his chair and smiled faintly. "I don't think I've seen you in a good twenty years, at least."

Maura snorted. "At least. I can't believe you swept your psychic abilities aside to play sports." Her expression softened. "I will admit, now, that you made the right choice."

"I would have been a terrible psychic," David stated. "Trying to impress people? Doing readings for entitled nonbelievers? Useless. Using my abilities to give my kids second chances?" His eyes lit up, and Maura didn't need her second sight to see his passion. "I make a real difference here."

Maura nodded. "You certainly do. So what exactly drew you to Blue?"

He scowled. "I didn't know she was yours, if that's what you're asking, nor did I know she was an amplifier. She's tied to something dark, something that happened recently. A death? Two?" He glanced at her, and she nodded confirmation. "I'm a bit foggy on the details, and I'm not sure that I can provide what she needs to heal, but I can at least open up some doors for her."

Maura laughed. "There's my Knight card." Wymack gave her a blank stare. "Do you have a place to go for dinner? Old friends are always welcome at 300 Fox Way."

"Fox way, you say?" He smirked. "I'm in." They stood, then, and looked at each other for a moment, passing unspoken secrets through the air between them. Satisfied with what they saw in each other, they left: David with a sense that his situation was resolved, and Maura with a promise that her Blue would be safe.

[loveactualharry]

The Shamrock of the Sea [A Niall Horan short fiction.]

Good evening lovely people. I haven't been able to post anything decent on here for a while, and I know many of you are still waiting for part 3 of "December, 1997" - I'll be quick on that : it's coming next week.

Meanwhile, you might or might not be interested in a little Niall thing!

I originally wrote it for a friend, but I thought It'd be nice to share. So, here it's Part 1 of The Shamrock and The Sea.

Overview: Niall is the only son of a wealthy Irish family in 1897. He sails to New York to negotiate a business on behalf of his father. But The Shamrock has a different fate for him in mind.

Facts: Harry has a part in it as well!

--------——-------------------------------

24th July 1897

“Lily. For you, again.”

Her colleague had panted, throwing the umpteenth letter on her bed. She swiftly lifted up, sitting on the slender, uncomfortable mattress. Her fingers unfolded that paper, slightly wrinkly and rough. The words gathered in the middle of the page, written in a neat, clean handwriting. She noticed how the letters slightly leaned towards the right angle: the author of those verses had to have been lefthanded, she figured.

“One more? Jesus, it’s the sixth in five days.” Sarah remarked, absentmindedly tying the back of her apron.

“I know! Lily, are you sure you don’t know who sent them?” Selene asked with hands on her hips, squinting her eyes. Sarah darted at her, then turned around rolling her eyes. She did not like the questioning tone she always put out. And anyway, she was the last person in the position of questioning her colleagues, especially after Sarah had caught her sneaking out of his cabin. She twitched nervously at the mere thought.

Lily, however, failed to catch the jealousy displayed in the eyes of her best friend, still too caught up in her own thoughts to even care.

“I told you both, and a million times: I have no idea. I don’t know who sent them. Maybe…maybe it’s just a mistake.” She tried to convince herself, getting up and rubbing her palms on the wrinkly surface of her work uniform.

“Or maybe it’s a secret admirer.” Sarah winked at her with a silly face, “A secret admirer who is also a poet. Wait, maybe he is rich! Maybe it’s Lord Styles!” she battled her eyelashes, looking up with a dreamy face, before curling her lips and darting her eyes towards her friend, tapping her foot. “Are you fucking Lord Styles? You’d better not, or I’ll-”

Lily let out a puffed laugh, placing her hands on Sarah’s shoulders. She adjusted her long, silky hair, shaking her head. “I am not doing anything with Lord Styles. First off, he is way too out of our league, and second, I could never do this to you.”

They both tried to look serious but burst out in a loud laugh.

Selena looked at them from afar, hands still on her hips.

“Shut up, you are going to get us all in trouble. We’d better get to work.”

Sarah rolled her eyes again, sneaking out of her friend’s hug to follow the other girl outside.

“Yes, miss. But seriously, Lily, try to find out who this secret admirer is. Maybe one of the musicians?” she hinted.

“I think we are setting out hopes too high. For what we knew, it could be some kind of joke.”

She lowered her eyes, looking at the words inked on the paper one last time.

“You, that's what I've been missing,

Was tangled up and twisted

Now all the clouds been lifted

Lately, my heart's been so empty.”

Her heart still beat in the hope that it would be no joke.

--------------------------------------------------

Dublin, 14th July 1897

HORAN, NIALL JAMES.

The name was inked on that yellowish piece of paper. He read it one last time, then raised his blue, wide eyes. Niall was still amazed at that monumental, imponent structure in front of him. His gaze run on the long, majestic right broadside of the ship. Not far away from him, the long cue on the third-class passenger’s footbridge disgorged in a chaotic mass of unhealthy-looking and dirty men, women and children, gathering upon each other, pushing and shouting phrases in Gaelic.

“Come on, son, let’s move forward.”

His father grabbed his arm, dragging him around, in the that multitude of souls, looking for some sort of salvation on that ship. “The Shamrock of The Sea”, they had called it, in the hope that it would cast the light of good luck upon those travelling on it to the new world. Niall had heard many times his father ramble about how he knew the lord who had funded the construction of the Shamrock, but he had never paid much attention to that. He had never been fond of business and funding, and he had a relative interest in the world of major buyers and sellers. He knew, though, that the trip to America would be a lifechanging path for him, and he was grateful that his father had put enough expectations on him to give him the opportunity to go and negotiate a business on his behalf. New York was waiting for him, and he was excited. Yet, much as he loved his hometown and his country, he wished he didn’t have to come back to Ireland.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this, my baby? You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

His mother stopped to wipe a few tears away from her cheeks. She hadn’t stopped crying ever since they had left Mullingar a few days before. Niall found it sweet and heart-breaking at the same time. Mr. Horan senior asked two of their servants to load his son’s trunk and all his belonging up on board. The boy cupped his mother’s cheeks, looking at Maura with a half-smile.

“I’m alright, ma. I’ll do what I have to do and…I’ll be right back to you sooner that you think. Stop crying for me, will ya, ma?”

The lady smiled through her whimpers and nodded. He held her close in one last, long hug.

----------------------------------------------

18th July 1897

Niall had spent the first few days wandering around, exploring all the salons, hallways and decks he had access to. Of course, travelling as a first-class passenger had its advantages. Nobody would pay much attention to him wandering around every part of the ship. He liked to look at the other people around him though. He fancied reading and collecting the multitude of emotions displayed on everyone’s face. Most of the passengers were rich, wealthy people, happy to be there, excited about their new adventure and all the comforts that would accompany them to the new world. He could recognize them. Not only by the clear expensiveness of their clothing and shiny jewels, but also because they wore proud smiles on their lips. The men often gathered around the counter of the bar for a sip of whiskey, or they would play cards, setting their bets higher and higher each time. Niall liked to play bets with himself, too. For example, he enjoyed betting on who would have lost at least half of their fortune before even getting to America. One of his favourites to bet on was Lord Styles. He was rich, extremely rich, apparently. And he would walk around the salons with a proud smile on his lips and, very often, more than one woman behind him. He had heard stories about him: he was, apparently, the most coveted bachelor of the whole Cheshire county. And nobody knew why. Niall liked to take the piss out of him, and he didn’t like him very much.

Sometimes, he liked to wander along the lower decks of the ship, and once he had even reached the stern, where the third-class passengers where hoarded. In was different, down there. Hidden in their cheap cabins, mother would try to soften the cry of their many children, shrieking out of fear and hunger. Some young men would whimper, facing the parapet running along the back deck, looking back and thinking about the mother and lovers they had left behind. Niall wondered which storied they carried along. He wanted to ask, sometimes. But he knew the wound of leaving their motherland behind was still too fresh, and scars were still wide open and too delicate.

His trip from Mullingar to Dublin had been long and exhausting, and over the past few nights he still hadn’t been able to adjust to his new bed, losing more sleep than he should have. His sunken eyes and his slightly unshaved face made him look older than he actually was, and he knew he needed some rest. After all, it would be a long trip to New York, and most of the times he preferred staying up at night to write or play his beloved fiddle. So, after lunch he found his way through the decks and staircases, to the cabin 402. He let his gaze travel up to the golden number on the black wooden door, then opened it, still holding the case of his fiddle in one hand. He rarely left it behind and found some kind of comfort in carrying it around with him.

The girl in the room flinched, then turned around as the key clicked in the lock. Niall stepped in, and there she was. She had dark, brown hair, which were thin and shiny. He couldn’t see her eyes, though. He put his fiddle on the freshly made bed, furrowing his thick, ash-blond eyebrows as he slowly walked towards her.

“Good afternoon, Sir. My apologies, I was just bringing fresh towels for you.”

She performed a quick, small bow in front of him. Then, she left with a fleeting glance. Niall noticed how her big brown eyes had rested upon his face for a little longer, before she stormed out of the cabin. He felt his throat go dry for a couple seconds, standing like frozen on the spot. He was normally not an impulsive man, usually very calm and thoughtful. But there was no hesitation in his steps, which led him out of that cabin, after grabbing the pile of white towels she had just left inside. His deep, blue irises squinted, looking around the corridor till he spotted her.

“Excuse me?” he called.

The brown-eyed girl turned around in his direction, still holding one hand on the handle of the wooden trolley she was pushing around on the mahogany wooden floor.

Niall straightened his back as he walked towards her in long strides. There they were face to face again. Now he could see. She looked younger than him, a couple years maybe, he guessed. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and she carried no ring on her left hand.

“Yes, sir?” she patiently said, bringing Niall back to reality. She was staring at him, now. He had wide, deep, baby-blue eyes. His hair, she thought, resembled a dense honeypot, fluffy and perfectly combed. His cheeks were slightly puffy, making him look younger than he actually was, in contrast with the shallow shade of beard. He had thin lips, and a lovely dimple rested beneath his chin.

“Aye, I…I need to have my towels changed.” He demanded. Then mentally cursed himself.

She furrowed her brows in confusion, taking one step back.

“My apologies, Sir, but I brought laundry-fresh ones no more than one minute ago.”

Niall tapped his foot on the floor, following an irregular rhythm.

“I know, I saw you. I just don’t think they are clean and fresh enough.” He stated, handing her the pile of cloths.

She slightly parted her lips, but bit her tongue right after, taking a new pile from the trolley.

“As you command, sir.” She answered, handing the fresher towels to the man, never breaking eye contact, till she once again bowed before him and went back her own way.

“Many thanks, miss…”

His eyes were quick enough to shoot a glance at the silver name badge on her chest. He stood there, watching her walk away, holding the new towels in his right hand, before heading back to cabin number 402. He locked the door, frantically opening his large, black trunk, searching for ink and paper. Niall sat on the floor, writing her name on that page. Lily.

[niall-is-my-dream]

You & Me - Part Four

2360 words

Niall's POV

Olympia Theatre, Dublin 29th August 2017

Arriving at The Olympia Theatre had been crazy. Loads of fans all waiting outside for you, and it was still early. Making your way around the backstage area you caught up with everyone who would be working with you for the whole tour. You said Hi to Martin, Phil, James and Adam who were part of the sound team but you hadn't yet spotted the one person you were dying to see.

It had only been two days since you'd seen her. Two days since you'd spent the whole afternoon lying on her bed, kissing her, holding her, talking about anything and everything together. You'd text a few times, but you'd been busy catching up with family so hadn't spoken to her on the phone. You'd missed her smile, her voice, her smell, everything.

It had been almost four months since you realised you saw her as much more than a friend and work colleague and you'd managed fine with being apart. Now you'd crossed over that friendship line, you couldn't get enough of her. It had taken every ounce of control to hold back when you'd been kissing her. You definitely didn't want to rush into anything. You'd only felt like this once before and that had all ended badly. There was no way you were going to make that same mistake again, you didn't want to fall too far too soon and scare her away.

When you rounded the corner, down and to the right of the stage, you saw her. She had her back to you, headphones on, and her eyes on the paperwork in front of her. Callie loved her paperwork, she always had lists of everything she had checked before every gig. There was no way anything was going to go wrong with any of your guitars. It was one of the reasons you hired her, she was thorough, and picky about every little thing. Martin, the head of all the stage layout and equipment said she was quite feisty, professional, hard-working and kept them all in check.

You paused at the entrance of the little corner she was in, watching her hum what sounded like Take my Hand and tap her foot along with the music. She was wearing just simple dark jeans and black t-shirt, hair pulled up in one of those messy buns she always has.

Everyone was getting on with stuff, but you checked around you before you made your way to her, your hands landing on her waist. She jumped and turned her head to face you, slipping her head phones off as she did. 

 "Fucking hell Niall!" She whispered, a hand clutching her chest over her heart. 

 "Sorry." You whispered back, burying your face into her neck and wrapping your arms around her waist.

"Ni, someone might see."

You could hear the smile on her lips.

"Its only a quick cuddle."

 "We agreed you wouldn't distract me when I'm working."

 "Am I distracting you then?!" You mumbled as you kissed her neck, a massive smile on your lips to.

 "Mmmmmm you are." She sighed blissfully.

 "Just wanted a kiss and then I'll leave you to it."

 "Just one then." And she turned around giving you a quick kiss on the lips.

When she went to pull away you made a pathetic whine and she giggled.

You heard Martin call her name and you released her from your hold, moving a few steps back in time for him coming around the corner. If he hadn't have called out wondering where she could have been, he would be seen you with your hands all over her. Callie had been right, you had to keep your hands off each other when you were working.

"Hey guys, sorry to interrupt."

"Not interrupting anything important, just me telling Callie how nervous I am about tonight!" You smiled nervously.

"Well first night of solo tour mate with all your family here!" He replied, patting your back.

"That's not helping Mart, not at all!"

You were all laughing now.

"You'll be fine mate. Anyway just wanted to give you the final plan for today." He said, handing Callie a A4 piece of paper. Timings for stuff, meet and greet, soundcheck, breaks etc."

 "Ahh thanks Martin."

 "No worries, catch you both later."

 And with a quick wave he was off. You looked at her out the corner of your eye. "Ok, I'll keep my hands and my lips to myself when we are at work from now on."

 She nodded and smiled, before leaning in and whispering. "Maybe sneak a good luck kiss in later, but that's it!"

She turned around to place the schedule on her little desk she had set up and you took the opportunity to give her bum a quick smack before you darted away before she could react.

*********

With sound check and meet and greet due soon, you made your way down the hall and to the food area to grab an early dinner. The room was full of people, your family being some of them. They looked up and smiled, cheering as you walked in. You felt yourself blush from embarrassment and even more so when your Mum came over and hugged you. You could see Callie smirking in the background.

You introduced your family to everyone in the room, all the crew as well as the band. When it came to meet Callie, you couldn't hide the smile from your face.

"Mum, this is Callie, my um ...... guitar tech." You said, suddenly feeling nervous about your Mum meeting her. Although you weren't sure what exactly you and Callie were, you'd not discussed it with anyone, so she was just a guitar tech to everyone around you. Were you dating? You'd not discussed it when you'd been at hers the other day. Far too busy kissing her, making up for lost time.

"Nice to finally meet you Callie, Niall has told me a lot about you." She said with a smile.

"Oh he has?!" Callie replied with a quirk of her brow. "Good things I hope?!"

"Said you're amazing at your job and at keeping everyone in line."

"Did he now?! Well I tell you, these lads need it." Callie smiled.

You felt the blush creep up your cheeks and you turned away from her gaze, only to be met with your Mums, a smirk upon her lips.

"Well Maura it was nice to meet you, but I have to go set up for soundcheck."

"Don't let me keep you sweetheart, I'm sure we will meet again soon."

"I'll see you in a bit Ni." 

"Yeah, about half hour to go I think." You replied, looking at your watch.

She nodded and gave you both a wave before leaving the room. You watched her walk away before turning to face your Mum again.

"So ....... Callie seems sweet." She said raising her eyebrows, a massive smile on her face.

"She is.......what's with the look?"

"How long have you been seeing one another?" She whispered, as she leaned closer.

"What?!" You whispered back.

"Oh come on Niall James, your face lit up when you saw her. You're telling me there's nothing going on?"

"Jesus Mum, how did you guess that?"

"Mothers intuition. Plus you both couldn't keep your eyes off one another. I take it we are still whispering because no one knows?"

You could see a couple of people looking over so you gestured to your Mum to walk out the room with you.

"No, they dont. Callie is worried she will look unprofessional. And to be honest Mum I'm not really sure what we are. We've not really discussed it."

"Too busy doing something else!" She smirked.

"Mum, Christ no nothing like that."

"Its perfectly natural Son!" She laughed. 

You shook your head at the awkwardness of the conversation, taking a second to look up and down the corridor.

"We've kissed that's all, I really like her and I don't want to mess it up. Is it that obvious that there's something going on between us? Because she really doesn't want anyone to know."

"Niall, you're my Son and I can read you like a book. The smitten look all over your face was obvious to me. It may come across different to other's, but I'm a mother and I know when my boys in love."

"That's a strong word there Mum!" You replied. "Not quite at that point."

"It won't be long. The connection between you both is strong."

"Mothers intuition?"

"Yes, Mother intuition."

Your Mothers words stayed on your mind as you sat and ate with your family and friends. Callie had popped back into the food area a couple of times and you'd instantly looked up, you could just sense it was her entering the room. This sudden realisation that you'd never been so aware of someone presence before shocked you. 

When you'd first met Callie you'd been instantly attracted to her. She was stunning, in a completely natural way. She hardly ever wore make up and because of her job she wore simple jeans and t-shirts with her battered white converse. She was the complete opposite to who you normally found yourself gravitating towards.

She completely owned the room, she was strong willed and although she was just hired to be a general guitar technician, you'd not let her help anyone else out but you. She made sure everyone in the crew took their breaks so they were not overworked, she bossed Martin around even though he was actually the boss.

It had frightened you that day when you'd hugged each other for the first time. Your skin had never touched before and something ignited in you that day, blaming it on the excitement of Slow Hands being number one for the racing heart and clammy palms you'd gotten.

You'd wasted months dating Saskia, who clearly was only with you for your name and the publicity. Towards the end, you couldn't even hold back the annoyance you got when she kept hinting about you two on social media or to the press. It just wasn't you. Callie was the opposite, she didn't want anyone to know. However keeping it from your inner circle and security team would be difficult as they knew you too well. Tara had already been asking questions and you knew Basil, could tell something was up. He's been working with you for years, even in your 1D days.

You were pacing around your dressing room when Tara came and told you that it was almost time for sound check and then meet and greet. You headed towards the stage, when you stopped in your tracks. Conor was leaning in to Callie, a smile on his face and you could hear her laughing. You had specifically told him she was off limits and yet here he was flirting with her.

You called out her name as you approached them.

"Can I have a quick word with you about something for tonight?" You asked her.

"Yeah of course love, nice chatting with you Conor but I have worked to do!" She smiled as she followed you down the corridor.

Once you were back inside your dressing room with the door closed, you turned to her.

"Need that good luck kiss now Ni?" She asked you, a smirk on her face.

"Yeah I do actually, but I should probably also warn you about Conor."

"Warn me?!" 

"Yeah, he asked me if you were single that first time you met at the pub."

"And what did you say?"

"Said that you were but you off limits." You admitted.

"Bit jealous are we?" She smirked.

"No!" You scoffed.

"Listen Ni, I'm not sure what we are and now isn't the time to discuss it since you're about to go to sound check, but know that I'm not interested in anyone but you."

A smiled appeared on your lips at her words, you reached out and your hands grazed her hips. Tugging her closer to you, her arms wrapped around your neck.

"I'm sorry." You whispered.

"Why are you sorry?"

"Because I told him to stay away from you, when I hadn't even told you how I felt about you."

"Doesn't matter. Now let's sort out this good luck kiss before they send out a search party for us."

The first show of the tour, had gone amazing. Standing up in front of everyone, singing songs that no-one knew had been scary. You'd had a wobble half way through, you'd set your guitar down to find Callie at your side handing you the one you needed for the next song. When she mouthed the words 'you're fucking amazing' you grinned and found a much needed energy boost.

Your family had headed home but yourself, the band and some of the others had headed into Dublin to a bar to celebrate. Callie had been packing up when you'd left and you hadn't wanted to leave her.

"Ni, go and celebrate with everyone."

"I want you to be there with me."

"I know, but I have work to do. I'll text you when I'm done, ok?" She'd smiled at your neediness.

You hadn't even been able to kiss her goodbye, as there were too many people around. The feeling of needing to be with her at that moment started to overwhelm you.

Standing in the bar, a beer in your hand, the last person you expected to see was Saskia and her friend.

"Oh Niall, you did so amazing tonight!" She said as she flung her arms around you.

"Thanks, hadn't realised you'd be at the show." You replied politely, hugging her back. She didn't release you though and carried on clinging onto you.

"I couldn't miss your first show!"

You were gently trying to pry her off you, not wanting to have her touch you anymore than necessary. Unbeknownst to you that a certain guitar tech had arrived at the bar and swiftly left.

Part Five

https://niall-is-my-dream.tumblr.com/post/182753620638/you-me-part-five

[badacts]

whither shall i follow

this is the complete piece i wrote for @thezinezone ‘s STRANGE CONSTELLATIONS, a trc zine all about the gangsey. i loved writing for it - keeping under the max word count was the hardest part! the final zine is beautiful so consider getting a copy and supporting a great cause

It’s Gansey’s yearning for ostensibly normal post-graduation rites of passage that’s to blame. Well, that, and Henry’s need to encourage every bad idea any of them have ever had.

“You’re already going on a road trip,” Ronan bitches, slinging an oddly malformed duffle bag into the trunk of his car. “This is a waste of time.”

“Your oh-so-valuable time,” Blue says, with slightly less bite than she might have used a year previous. So, no actual hate, but a decent seeming of it. She is wearing knee-length khaki shorts, like a spectacularly unsexy version of Indiana Jones, and an oversized ACDC t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off.

Gansey is currently unloading a bargain box of twelve white candles into the Pig. Watching this, Adam says, “Isn’t the point of camping having a campfire?”

“The point of camping is pissing in the woods,” Henry chirps from the front seat of the BMW. He claimed it upon arrival, with a grand cry of ‘shotgun!’ despite that none of them cared to compete with him for it, and has been doing something with his phone ever since. Selfies, Adam suspects.

“These aren’t intended to replace a campfire,” Gansey explains. “They’re for the seance.”

There’s a brief moment of silence. Even Henry looks up, expression shifting from ‘smize’.

“You lived with a dead guy once,” Ronan says eventually. He doesn’t continue, but he doesn’t really need to.

Gansey looks perturbed by their reactions, almost affronted. “It’s a thing.”

“Ineloquent,” Henry comments. Whether it’s a criticism is debatable, considering the growing delight on his face.

“Camping in the woods, marshmallows, figuring out which tent Henry is going to sleep in, amateurish communication with spirits - they’re all part of the experience.”

“Obviously, I’ll be sleeping in your tent,” Henry says. He’s not wrong - it is obvious. “Blue requires my body heat, and Ronan might dream a murderer or attempt to hold my hand in his sleep.”

“In your dreams,” Ronan replies from where he’s retreated to the driver’s seat of the BMW. There’s the distinct sound of someone being hit, and a squawk.

“Yes, it is a thing. From Cabin in the Woods,” Blue tells Gansey.

“Wrong Turn,” Ronan contributes.

“Blair Witch Project.”

“Cabin Fever.”

“Do all those movies contain seances?” Adam interjects.

“Don’t ask me,” Ronan replies. Adam can’t hear the shrug, but he knows it happens anyway. “I haven’t seen any of them.”

“My point is that you should not base your ideas of typical teenage experiences on films where most of the teenagers involved end up brutally murdered,” Blue continues. “Plus, you know. Our lives thus far.”

“This is not like that,” Gansey says. “That was magic. This is teenage incompetence, and the worst that will come of it is irresponsible fire management involving the candles.”

Even Adam makes a disgusted sound at that. There’s rustling from the front of the BMW, and then Gansey is at once attacked with a still-laced sneaker and a hat last seen perched on Henry’s hair. The hat falls short, but the shoe bounces off Gansey’s left thigh when he moves into its path trying to evade it.

“When we get murdered in the woods, it’s your fault,” Blue intones, for a moment sounding just like Maura.

The fact of the matter is that most of the area within a few hours drive of Henrietta has felt the imprint of, at the very least, Gansey’s feet in his previous explorations. Instead of putting him off of his idea of camping, this has just imbued him with the impression that he knows of all the best camping areas, even if he has never personally stayed at one.

Adam sleeps most of the drive once he’s tuned out the sound of Henry and Ronan’s bickering, stretched awkwardly across the back seat of the BMW, and only wakes when the engine turns off.

“C’mon Parrish,” Ronan chides, twisted around so that he can shake Adam’s ankle. Like most things about him, it’s a study in contrasts - brisk voice, soft expression. “Wakey wakey.”

“I am awake,” Adam replies, which is at least seventy percent true. “We here?”

“No, we’re on the side of the road, I just had to make a quick stop to bury Cheng’s body. Yeah, we’re here.”

“You can’t kill him. Can you imagine how much Blue and Gansey would bitch about it?” Adam peels his face off of the interior of the car. He might have drooled on it, but if so it’s not the first time.

“It truly hurts me that that is your only concern,” Henry says from somewhere outside the car.

“Yeah, I bet your heart is breaking, you annoying fucker,” Ronan replies, which means that his irritation has crossed over from his normal levels to whichever Henry seems capable of inciting. Adam deals with this by pushing himself out of the car and into the great outdoors, ignoring it entirely.

Blue is allowing Gansey to help her into her backpack over by the Pig. The gracious nature of it is new, but when he watches it Adam can just about imagine Blue in her thirties acting just the same way. Occasionally, anyway. He doubts she’ll ever change that much.

“Cute,” Ronan commentates, seemingly oblivious to the fact he is putting Adam’s pack over one of his shoulders even as he says it. “We walking, or what?”

“It’s an hour hike,” Gansey says, shouldering his own pack, as though he hasn’t already told them it’s an hour hike multiple times. They’ve walked far further without half as much organisation, which Adam assumes is ‘part of the experience’ also. Gansey is, as ever, a gleaming example to hikers everywhere, down to his well-broken-in boots and his precise understanding of hike planning. “Is everyone ready?”

“Yes mother,” Blue replies, elbowing him in the ribs and ignoring that Henry is still fighting with his own pack over by the BMW. “Lead the way.”

The area Gansey has selected for them to camp in is, admittedly, quite lovely. It’s not Cabeswater - nothing else is - but the grass is long and rich-smelling, and there’s a tiny stream curving around the edge of the clearing on three sides, murmuring sweetly to itself.

The tents are quickly raised side-by-side and then abandoned in favour of establishing a fire pit. By the time they’ve collectively gathered stones, wood and Ronan’s obviously-dreamed lighter, the shadows are stretching long. Blue is allowed the honour of lighting the fire, though Adam is the one who nurses it into something other than a pathetic smoke trail.

“Dinner,” Gansey announces with obvious relish once they’re seated, and produces five packages of freeze-dried meals. “Would you like beef stroganoff or beef stroganoff?”

“Were they having a sale?” Henry asks, accepting his gingerly.

“I thought it would be the one least likely to look edible,” Gansey replies. “I was curious.”

“Not curious enough to investigate the multitude of other options, I suppose.”

“Mostly I thought it would be easier to prepare them together,” Gansey admits. “Blue?”

Blue was apparently in charge of carrying the cooker, and Henry the metal pot. True to Gansey’s prediction, the resultant brown sludge they cook looks utterly disgusting, though the smell is surprisingly inviting. It’s only when they go to serve it that they find that, while Adam brought the tin bowls, Ronan didn’t bring the cutlery. They eat with their fingers instead, Adam’s turning pink with the heat of it and his mouth.

Gansey also has all the necessary ingredients for s’mores, which they blacken in the fire a few times before Adam gives up and uses the cooker instead. Gansey eschews that in favour of sugar-charcoal, even when Henry Googles and recites statistics of charcoal as a carcinogen. Blue puts him in a chocolate-smeared headlock to stop him, and his phone nearly falls into the fire.

It’s full dark when Gansey, his contacts exchanged for glasses glinting in the light, starts to drift a bit. There’s a quietude in him now that isn’t emptiness, but instead something bigger. Like Cabeswater is living inside of him, a complicated and immense kind of peace, and even as that calls to the like in each of them, the rest of them have to act as the anchors to hold Gansey here.

It’s not so bad, really. All it takes is Henry elbowing him and passing him a candle to bring him back.

“It’s time,” he says, all delight, as Henry gives the rest of them candles too. “Should I refer to the WikiHow page for seances, do you think?”

“Please do,” Henry replies, passing Adam his candle. It’s a chunky, inelegant thing with a crooked wick, and it smells like a caricature of vanilla.

Blue squints at Adam for a moment, and then snatches the candle from his hands. “Not you.”

“Excuse me?”

“She’s right,” Gansey mutters after a moment, brow furrowing. “We don’t any of your actual magic involved in our pseudo-magical ritual. Scram.”

“By that logic, Ronan shouldn’t be involved either,” Adam points out, though he does scram.

“He’s awake, it’s fine,” Henry replies. “Lynch, no magic for the next ten minutes.”

“No problem,” Ronan says lazily, still lying beside the fire. “I’m not holding any candles.”

“They go at the cardinal points,” Gansey says, and then produces a compass so he can place them correctly. Then he extracts a large bag of salt from his bag, holding it aloft. “Henry, pour this in a circle around us, if you will. Be careful not to leave any gaps.”

“This is beginning to sound suspiciously like one of movies you mentioned earlier,” Henry says to Ronan, though he does as bid anyway.

Once the salt is poured in a vague oval shape, the candles are placed and lit, and the others sit in their Gansey-assigned places, the ceremony can apparently begin. Adam settles in the mouth of one of the tents, watching them thrown into relief by the campfire in the centre of the circle, Blue’s face painted gold and the line of Ronan’s spine a silhouette.

“Oh! We need an offering,” Gansey says. “I hope you all brought something suitable?”

Thus begins a ten minute debate on what can be classified as suitable. In the end, they have a handful of wildflowers (Gansey), a collection of pennies (Henry), a tin cup of water from the stream (Blue), and a stick of gum as well as an empty wrapper (Ronan, obviously). His assertion that Noah would have loved it is the only thing that stops Gansey from sending him out of the circle to hunt for something ghosts would like better.

They deposits the offerings in the stream-washed pot, and then resettle, reaching out to join hands. Gansey prompts, “Henry?”

Henry takes over without pause, all ringmaster-grandeur. “Welcome, kind spirits, inside our circle. We’ve gathered here to commune with you in the hope that you’ll show us a sign of your presence. Please, speak with us.”

In the following silence, there’s an unmistakable sense of actual expectancy from the four of them in their flesh-and-salt circle. Even when you’re performing a WikiHow seance, it’s hard to remove the idea that it really might work when you’ve seen real magic.

There’s nothing. Adam listens, hears nothing, and then looks into the fire to the things he can always see if he looks long enough.

“Is anyone with us?” Blue asks. The shapes in the flames brighten in response to her voice, but Adam blinks them away.

“That was boring,” Ronan says after approximately two minutes of absolutely nothing happening.

“That was perfect,” Gansey crows.

“We really should have brought an Ouija board,” Henry muses. “For maximum effect.”

“The maximum effect of nothing fucking happening?”

“Let’s end the ritual,” Blue says sternly. “In case.”

“Thank you for your presence,” Gansey says. “Go in peace.”

It’s probably Adam’s imagination that the fire ripples just a little bit with Gansey’s words, like someone has just moved past it. No one else notices it, anyway.

Adam jerks awake because Ronan does, because it’s impossible not to pressed this close and because by now it’s habit.

“It’s okay,” Adam is already mumbling, and then jerks again when Ronan, sounding much more alert than he does, demands, “Did you hear that?”

Adam listens. There’s a rustling outside of the suddenly-very-flimsy tent walls, and for a moment he enters the pleasant fantasy that it might just be the wind before he realises that there is no wind. Instead, it’s the sound of something moving nearby - something large.

“It’s probably just a bear,” he says, though quietly.

There’s not much light in the tent, but he can see that Ronan’s eyes are wide as he hisses, “I can’t believe you can say ‘just a bear’.”

Instead of continuing that...potential argument, Adam pushes himself up, rustling free of the sleeping back and groping for the flashlight by the tent door.

“Adam.”

It’s said in his ear, breathless and half-whispered. Literally breathless - there’s no warmth of exhaled air.

Also, it’s his deaf ear.

The strangeness of it is compounded when Gansey says from outside the tent, the kind of calm that just barely covers for alarm, “Ronan, Adam. Get up. Slowly.”

Adam unzips the tent door and slides free, feeling the intensity of Ronan’s movement behind him as he follows. It’s black outside besides the very faint glow of a few embers and the stars overhead, and Adam can only tell where Gansey is because of the sound of his quickened breath.

“Look,” Gansey whispers, and Adam nearly says at what when he sees what Gansey means.

It’s dark. There’s no explanation behind the two matching pinpricks of red-orange light at a edge of the clearing just beyond the edge of the trees. Eyes, set higher that they would be on any normal-height human.

Ronan mutters a curse, clearly seeing it too. Henry, despite having seen Cabeswater bleed to death, says, “Mothman?” in a voice that trembles but still has a tracery of humour in it, because that’s just who he is.

“What do we do?” Blue asks. Adam can’t tell where she is in the dark.

“Running water,” the voice in his ear whispers again. There’s a echo of command there, and also sudden and welcome familiarity.

“Across the stream,” Adam tells the others. “Backwards. No sudden movements.”

It’s only the star-shine that means they can find the stream at all, nevermind backwards and too frightened to look away from the eyes. There’s no doubting that’s what they are, despite the fact they don’t blink - behind them, there’s intent, alien and only barely readable as that at all. Adam’s bare feet slip in carefully, the water surprisingly deep but the bottom firm enough to hold his weight. The other four do the same, hissing at the cold of it.

“Now what?” Ronan asks, his hand finding Adam’s.

“Cross it. Get to the other side,” Adam says, with sudden surety. “I don’t think it can follow-”

It happens very quickly. Blue, off to Adam’s left, draws in a quick breath and stumbles over something on the streambed, falling backwards in the stream with a splash and a sharp, “Fuck!” There’s a soundless moment where nothing happens, and then there’s a long lowing noise like a big animal dying.

“Fuck,” Ronan echoes, and jerks in Blue’s direction to pull her free of the water even as he shoves Gansey up onto the bank.

Adam, torch in hand, flips the switch. The beam of it falls directly on the - thing as it bounds across the clearing, strides too long and shambling, like the body can’t quite keep up with the intent of whatever is inside of it. It’s all fur and stench, the awful smell of death. Henry makes a low, sick sound, dragging Adam back over the stones along with him. They fall back onto the bank together, scrabbling up onto the grass.

For a moment, Adam doubts. The thing is so tall it looks like it could simply step across the water. There’s no explanation for the way it halts at the far edge of the stream and looks down at the water, close enough they can see every falling-apart inch of its hide. It looks like it crawled from a grave. Maybe it did.

It makes that noise again, a gentle and carrying threat. Adam’s heart is beating so hard he thinks he could drop dead, half-tangled in Henry and aware there’s no outrunning the thing if the voice is wrong.

His flashlight goes out. Blue shrieks, and there’s a flash of bright white like lightning from their side of the stream to the other, illuminating the thing for a split second before it makes impact. There’s a rush of noise and movement, retreating, and then the flashlight comes back to life. There’s nothing there.

“...is it gone?” Henry hisses, pushing himself up from his elbows. “What did you do, Parrish?”

“Nothing,” Adam replies, distracted by covering each inch of darkness with the beam of his flashlight looking for movement. There’s nothing, besides what looks like a few gobbets of meat on the ground and impressions of distorted footprints. “It wasn’t me.”

“Christ fucking alive,” Ronan says. “Was that…?”

“Noah?” Blue whispers.

There’s no wind, no voice murmuring in either of Adam’s ears. But on the other side of the stream, the fire, just embers, flickers back to life.

[reyhospacebitch]

Maura Canonverse Prompt: Qi’ra spars with Maul for the first time during hand-to-hand combat training, and things go... Awry.

@mrsviolentfrights For you, Mina, I will write anything it seems. I’m forever a maura bitch now! Also, this was going to be a 1k word prompt but it turned into 3k and it could honestly have a part 2...

Qi’ra took a deep breath through her nose as she reached Maul’s office, steeling herself to be in the presence of a force user. Looking down at her travel attire - a pair of well worn pants, a tan leather jacket with a high cut black short sleeved top underneath it and lace up combat boots - she frowned. Rarely did she allow herself to be seen in such informal clothing; only a short step up from the garbage she wore on Corellia. If the man Maul sent for her hadn’t been so insistent on her immediate attendance the second she docked the ship she would have changed into a dress; something far more sexy and less comfortable. To some, especially within the syndicate, her insistence in wearing form fitting dresses and makeup made her a tease, a flirt, a whore even. She knew the truth though. Her wardrobe was her armor.

Maul wasn’t known for his patience. She wouldn’t dare make him wait.

She respected the man, his intellect and strength. His thirst for blood and his determination to be top dog. Ever since the first time they met over a year ago, she knew she could learn more from him than she ever gained from Vos. While he barely ever paid attention to her during their short trips to Dathomir with Dryden, she knew he was her way to power - to some semblance of freedom - even if she knew a slave with debts, like her, would never truly be free. First and foremost, she was here to protect herself. Failure would result in her own death.

And Han’s.

She couldn’t forget Han. The last thing the naive man needed was Maul out for revenge. A part of her still loved him. She always would, but he was too good, hopeful and still surprisingly innocent. He would never last in her world. She refused to let him get hurt because of her actions or as a result of stomach churning, despicable Vos’s. Qi’ra protected Han all those years ago and she’d do so again; he was the only one she could protect and, anyway, he deserved it.

Pursing her lips, she tightened her ponytail, fixed her bangs, squared her shoulders and knocked.

“Come in,” he rasped through the door. The sound of Maul’s voice simultaneously enticed and terrified her.

Qi’ra opened the door and walked in, her boots thumping against the cold metal floor while holding her head held high. “You called,” she asked, forcing her voice to exhibit a calm and collected demeanor.

She found him sitting at his desk, glowing yellow eyes ringed with ruby red, staring at a holo in his hands. Frowning, he didn’t move. His form was lost in a loose fitted tunic. For a moment she allowed her eyes to roam his body with a curiosity she refused to analyze. Placing the holo on his desk, he looked up, fixing her with a stare so intense she forced her body not to flee.

“Good. You’re back,” he said, his voice gruffer than usual.

Refusing to blink or budge, she nodded and waited, raising her eyebrows slightly.

The corner of his lip flickered into what she could only assume was a hint of a smirk. It was gone instantly. He stood up, the metal joints of his knees squealed gratingly as he walked toward her.

“Today, we train.”

“Oh,” she said, startled. He hadn’t asked her to train since that first time she first joined him on Dathomir when they had sparred with swords. She had assumed he wasn’t impressed enough to follow through with another session.

“This time,” he explained, bowing his head in a polite gesture, “No weapons. Hand to hand combat only.”

“Yes, Sir,” she said, swallowing her fear.

“Good.” He eyed her attire. “What you’re wearing will do. Meet me at the training facility in twenty. Do not be late.”

Grinding her teeth at the flippant way he commanded people she nodded and turned.

“And Qi’ra,” he added, making her freeze on the spot. “Do try to prove to me that Vos made an intelligent choice in making you his top lieutenant. He fought for you to be next in line, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have others who could replace you at the drop of a hat.”

Biting the inside of her lip, she smiled coyly. “I will do my best,” she cooed with just a hint of bite, before turning around and walking out of the room, speeding up the farther away she got. If she needed to prove her worth, then he was in for a rude awakening.

Qi’ra entered the deserted facility with minutes to spare, determined and eerily calm. She had spent the past 15 minutes on the floor of her suite meditating. Knowing Maul would attempt to throw her off with an insult again, she knew she needed the preparation if she were to endure it without snapping and giving him an opening.

Until recently she hadn’t spent much time one on one with him, but she knew of the man, the sith, Darth Maul, quite well. Ever since she’d first met him, she’d been compiling data from holos, stories told by drunk patrons of First Light and during every opportunity she got off world.

She knew of his obsession with the jedi called Kenobi, of how he lost his legs and his title because of the man. She knew of the time when people say he lost his mind in the midst of the Clone Wars, of when he first started the Shadow Collective and then pieced together the remnants to create Crimson Dawn. She’d studied his movements in the short time they’d spent together, both lithe and nimble, yet battle worn and ever so slightly frail. Scars marred his skin and the subtlest hint of a limp was noticeable after a long day of meetings or training. Yet, even without the force, she knew he was a formidable foe. With it, she had no idea what he was truly capable of. It was unsettling. From spending years at Vos’s side, she’d heard stories upon stories of how he handled the syndicate, gaining invaluable insight into the psyche of the man. The monster, as some would call him. Those stories, however, also instilled in her a fear unlike anything she’d ever felt.

As she wrapped her hands, he walked in. Even without hearing him speak or the harsh metal screech of his legs, his presence was unlike any she had ever known. He was unmistakable.

“Let’s begin,” he said, forgoing a traditional greeting.

****

She didn’t last long.

It took a minute at most before she was overwhelmed by his maneuvers, stuck in a frenzy cycle of defense and retreat as he advanced, attacking and swinging his fists.  She got in one blow to his side, but it did nothing. In the confusion she found an opening and missed the signs. She lifted her leg to land a bruising kick to his ribs and he evaded her in a whirlwind move. Bending down, arms outstretched he flung his body with precision into a butterfly kick, landing to her side with a heavy clunk of metal hitting ground. Before she could respond, he swung his leg out, hitting the backs of her knees. She fell to the floor, hands and knees hitting the cushioned mat.

“Get up,” he ordered with ease, not even sounding out of breath.

She wondered how helpful the mechanical legs were… Did they make him stronger? Where did they end?

Looking up at him with a mixture of indifference, defiance and a hint of masked terror, she rose on her feet and lifted her arms in the proper position, keeping her elbows close to her body.

“Vary your movements. You’re insufferably predictable,” he spat with gruff ease, turning his back on her. He swiftly pulled his shirt from his torso and threw it on the ground nearby.

She froze, frowning. Why would he place his back to her? Did he trust her? No, that couldn’t be it. Was he so confident in his ability that he viewed her as no threat? Was he showing off? The gesture would set her off normally if it wasn’t for the way his back muscles rippled with every move of his arms. The surprisingly smooth maze of ruby and obsidian skin mesmerizing her entirely. In shock, she shook her head and refocused on why she was here. It certainly wasn’t to fuck the infamous Darth Maul, even if she thought about about it occasionally.

A slight creep of heat spread across her cheeks when he fixed his harsh gaze on her. Not seeming to notice, he said, “One of the many things I learned as a Sith was Juyo, the art and philosophy of manipulating, using and controlling one’s emotions before, during and after battle. It is a state of mind.” Taking a step forward, he crossed his arms. “Channeling your emotions into the fight. Feeling it until your attack is vicious, gracefully malignant, with the ultimate goal of absolute victory. Nothing else matters. Winning comes with the unpredictableness and roar of a manka cat while calculating your enemy’s every move, every breath and keeping them off balance with your own. Chaos is an illusion and it is your greatest weapon.”

Scoffing she glared at him while focusing on steadying her breathing, listening to the shallow air going in and out of her nose as she watched for any sudden movements on his part. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked, careful to keep her emotions in check. Surely this was a test.

“I’m helping. You have potential unlike any other student I’ve had.”

Qi’ra’s eyebrows rose in disbelief.

Smirking, he took another step forward. “For one, you are far superior in your ability to spot flagrant flattery for what it is, a manipulation.”

She stayed in place, muscles relaxed and ready; he could easily attack any second. One didn’t have to be a genius to decipher that Maul loved his tricks.

“You use it often, Qi’ra. Don’t you?” he asked, smoothly. “On the men who work for me? On Vos? On Beckett?”

Her eyes flickered to his lips, the baritone of his voice setting her skin aflame in a way it shouldn’t. If she wasn’t afraid he’d use the distraction to land a hit, she’d respond and keep staring.

“Or on Han Solo, perhaps?”

Panic flooded into her thoughts, clenching her throat in horror as her eyes widened. How did he know? Vos never told him about Beckett’s team. He viewed them as inconsequential, unimportant. Unworthy of his master’s time. Taking a steadying breath, she took two steps backwards and stayed silent.

“Wise choice… You aren’t easily baited, unlike my last second-in-command. But perhaps that’s a mistake; it made him easy to control. Do people think you are easy to control, Qi’ra?”

When he didn’t advance, she licked her lips and said, “Depends on who you ask.” Good. Her voice sounded even, unaffected.

He tossed his head back, appearing utterly relaxed, and laughed; a loud crackle of enthusiasm shattering the quiet in the facility. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

She almost blinked. She swore he sounded proud, even impressed.

This was without a doubt a test. A test of what, she didn’t know. Her ability to control her emotions or manipulate others? Her endurance? Her intellect? It could’ve been any of the above or something else entirely. All she knew was that so far she was passing. That much was clear for he was thrilled. And not like a nexu about to pounce on his prey, but a man on the verge of winning a war who was already celebrating.

“I thought you didn’t think I was worthy of training,” she said cooly, unsure of how much she should give away.

The corner of his lips twisted, his eyes wide in amusement. “Why did you think that?”

And in this moment she understood what he wanted. He wanted to be challenged.

She could do that.

Closing her fists, her nails bit into the cloth on her palms. The sharp pain helped her focus. Swallowing, she said bitterly, “Because it’s been over a month and we’ve sparred once - if you could even call it that - and half the time you refuse to see me when I call on you about something to do with the syndicate. I studied Teräs Käsi with Vos for over two years. I’ve taken out dozens of your enemies. Alone... I deserve to be heard.”

Nostrils flaring he eyed her like a caged animal trying to escape, but for once she didn’t feel like one. “Remember who you are speaking with, Qi’ra. You do not want to test me,” he hissed, jaw clenched.

Letting her arms fall to her sides, she took one step forward and tilted her head so she could glance up at him. Feeling brave she refused to let her fear show.

“Maul,” she said, drawing out the word with a sneer, “You may be my boss, but you do not own me. My chains were cut, my debt paid, the moment Dryden Vos died. I am not a slave or a puppet. Nor am I a whore, regardless of what others think or want of me.” She stepped further into his space, unruly wrath exploding within her like the warm blood flowing through her veins. “I may be young, but I have opinions and thoughts and as your second-in-command I will share them with you. And you will listen to me, Sir.”

His golden irises locked with hers, only inches apart and for a moment she felt something. Something she never felt in her short life: understood.

Sure, she’d felt heard and loved by Han, but they were teenagers. A lot had changed since then. He had always put her on a pedestal, seeing only the good in her; he still did. But she was different now.

Maul nodded curtly, just once, and unclenched his jaw, licking his lips. “See, that, right there? The rage that’s coiled deep within ready to burst if only you’d let it out, that’s what you need for victory,” he said, his voice deeper than she recalled ever hearing. “If you can harness it, let it seep into your very bones and not let it control you, then it will feed your violence, your attack. It will give you endurance, speed, strength. It will bring terror into the hearts of men you slaughter. Fear, like seduction, is as valuable a tool as any… Use it.”

Qi’ra let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and took a step backwards, her cheeks turning red.

“And young one, control is nothing without knowledge. Vos’s on such topics was underdeveloped at best, insignificant and pitiable at worst. You may have trained with the man for a time, but the fool should never have been your teacher… I will, however, listen,” he agreed slowly, eyeing her with a slight frown. “And teach you, if you wish.”

“You won’t pawn me off on one of your underlings?” she huffed, only partly teasing. She didn’t know how she felt about the offer and needed to lighten the mood, even if Maul wasn’t one for light.

“I am here, am I not?”

“You are.”

“Good. Then let us truly begin,” he said, his mechanical legs creaking as he bent them, staring her dead on. “My first lesson is this; Do not calm yourself, Qi’ra. Use your anger, your righteous indignation with any who have treated you as less than, a Corellian rat. Even me. Use it and let it fuel your actions. It will help you.”

Qi’ra let out a shaky breath. She had been holding on to so much for so long. Control has been her only salvation.

“How?” she asked, her throat dry.

“You let go.”

****

She did as he asked. She let go. And with it came a fury of welled up anxiety and tension she didn’t know existed. Grunting and screaming she attacked him, only letting him gain an advance every two or three hits. But he was still considerably more trained, more experienced. It was a lost cause, which only made her more angry.

Keeping her attacks as random as she could manage, she struck, kicked, pushed and pulled with abandon. He sometimes trapped her with an aggressive strike. Sometimes sidestepping her all together with a practiced ease. But rarely was he full on attacking. He was tiring her out, she realized mid block after minutes of fighting.

Changing tactics, she used a move she hadn’t done in over a month, hoping to gain the upper hand. Propelling herself into a jump, she grabbed Maul’s arm and flipped over. She landed on her feet and he stumbled. But he didn’t fall like other opponents.

In a second of confused panic on her part, he bent his knees, one leg out straight, and twirled in a dizzying movement. Her legs flew forward while her back slammed against the mat with a loud jolt. Standing up, he jumped, his legs flying through the air in an aerial kick meant only for show. Landing right in front of her he leaned forward and grasped her throat, keeping her on the ground. His long slender fingers, gloved in ebony bantha leather, wrapping tightly around her neck. Back pressed against the mat, he crouched over her form, caging one of her legs under him.

Trying to keep her head, she desperately felt around the ground for an object, anything to use against him. His warm palm pressing against her windpipe, she could barely breathe, but she couldn’t lose. She refused to.

“Tap out,” Maul hissed.

While desperately trying to breathe, she glared into his warm golden red eyes, ground her teeth and shook her head. Never, she thought.

A growl escaped from his lips.

Her vision started to blur on the edges. Anger and panic overwhelming her suddenly that maybe he wouldn’t stop, she dug her nails into his hand, piercing the fabric, and pushed on his chest with her other. He hissed but stayed put. He was too strong and he wasn’t going to stop.

Instincts kicking in Qi’ra lifted her leg to wrap around his legs. His hand relaxed slightly, his eyes sliding to stare at her gasping lips as her foot met her target. With a skip of her heart she slammed the heel of her foot against the back of his thigh right above his durasteel leg.

He grunted. She did it again, but this time using all her strength.

He screamed in agony, the leather clad hand sliding down her neck releasing his tight grip. Quickly recovering he grasped her thigh before she could kick again and pulled it up against his leg. Nostrils flaring, eyes wild, his hands gripped the base of her neck and thigh with savage mallace.

A moment of pure panic ran through her as she tried to recover her breath. Suddenly, before Qi’ra could do anything about it she felt the familiar prickle of someone entering her mind, poking and prodding for something specific.

Standing over a man, who laid on the ground of a deserted and dust covered cold bar, she held a long sword. “My dear old master, just relax,” Qi’ra snarled, bending over so she was only inches away from his face, the blade’s edge pressed against the man’s stomach. “It’ll be over soon.”

She plunged the sword into his flesh and twisted it in his gut. He went lax, his head falling to the dirt covered ground with a dull thump. But he was still alive, staring at her as blood coated his mouth.

“You whore,” he coughed as crimson dripped down his lips. “Don’t lie, you enjoyed every second.”

Blind fury overwhelmed her as she withdrew the knife’s edge and stabbed him again, letting the blade go in as far as it could before hitting bone. The old man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he breathed no more.

Her chest heaved shakily as she stared at Sarkin Enneb’s dead body. The man who bought her from Lady Proxima after Han disappeared. The man who made her his slave in more ways than one.

A man laughed and clapped behind her. “Well done, Qi’ra!” Dryden Vos said.

Turning around she steeled herself once more, refusing to let him see how emotional the kill was to her, nor why she wanted to do it.

“Thank you, Vos, I will forever be in your debt for this.”

Qi’ra gasped as she came back to herself after relieving one of the worst days of her life. Maul’s eyes widened with something she didn’t recognize for it wasn’t cold and calculating, but soft, understanding and perhaps a bit pitying.

She shrugged out of his hold, coughing for air, and he let her crawl out from under him. He stood, as did she. Now feet away from each other, he looked almost haunted and confused.

“What was that for?” she gasped, clenching her jaw.

“I didn’t -”

“What?” she snapped, a wave of conflicting emotions pounding against her mind, threatening to drown her.

“I - I apologize,” he whispered.

Her jaw dropped. Did he just -

“Go rest,” he interrupted. “Place ice on your neck or it will bruise.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He turned to grab his tunic. “And Qi’ra, meet me back here tomorrow at the same time.”

[unkindness313]

Stuff The Turkey

The Irish Times Tue, Dec 24, 1996, 00:00 By Dylan Moran

AS a small boy Christmas was an important chance for me to reflect upon and appreciate the Christian values of sharing with and caring for others. From a very early age I had perfected this meditation, so it occupied no more than .0000000001 per cent of my time, leaving the rest free for me to stroke, rattle, smell and talk to unwrapped presents. As an only child I was utterly spoiled. At least that's what my relatives tried to tell me.

Aunty Sally: Sure look at all these presents, isn't it spoiled you are entirely?

Me: Yes, yes. Spoiled, blah, blah. Very good, other children would be happy with a rusty fork and a piece of string, blah blah. You may make your deposit now.

A.S.: Don't I get a kiss?

Me: Do you have any blank cheques, stocks or bonds lodged in your eye-teeth?

A.S.: No.

Me: And so Cupid finds the quiver empty. Send in Uncle Joe on your way out! Next!

But I was not entirely selfish. The scrawly drawings offered to my parents as gifts took up many seconds of business time.

Ma: So this is baby Jesus and all the angels and donkeys and things ... and these in the front, these are hills, right?

Me: No, these are mounds of cripplingly expensive presents.

Ma: Gold, incense, myrrh.

Me: The bible is an allegorical text. Research shows that Jesus, whose birth we are celebrating in a few short hours the shops close, received the following: Scaletrix, cash donations and chocolate. In buckets.

They were happy times, before my parents matured. Later, in adolescence, the main concern for me and my kind was deciding which hour of St Stephen's morning would be most opportune to disappear to the pubs. Food was irrelevant at this age. I was in the middle of my vegetarian phase, which did not entirely succeed due to my giving up meat on moral grounds while hating vegetables on an almost personal level.

I still loathe broccoli. People pick up broccoli and say "this one is fresh". But how do you know? All of it looks as if it's been around and done bad things. It is, after all, the only vegetable that would not look out of place in a nightclub, chain-smoking and writing IOUs at a blackjack table.

Bad Sam: You better be good for this, Lenny.

Lenny the Broccoli: Good, schmud. Button it and deal, if I want a lecture in morality I'll go talk to a lettuce. You give me a pain in my heads.

That year I sat sullenly over a plate of beans. I was sullen all that year. The beans depressed me because my acne was very bad. It was like eating my own reflection.

More recently my mother, who is a brilliant cook, decided quite brilliantly to abandon the dinner half-way through the preparations. Traditionally in our house the ceremony of this feast takes place quite late, three in the morning, say, the afternoon and evening being given over to wine-sampling.

On this occasion we had all been extremely rigorous in our sampling and the business of dinner was somewhat sidelined by our obsessive sommeliering. At a wee small hour I therefore assumed the role of chef turkey-meister.

First I had to stuff the bird. My parents thought this hysterical. I didn't. I don't know if you have ever held an uncooked turkey to your bosom with your hand way up its personal self, but if you have you'll agree that it's one of those times when you don't want your mother to take photographs.

Me: What the hell are you doing? Think I want evidence lying around?

Ma: (Click) We never see you. (Click).

Me: Stoppit! You'll get us all arrested.

Ma: It (click)... It looks (click) good. Very rugged.

Me: Yeah? You're gonna look pretty rugged in a minute. I'm gonna murder you with whatever I find in here. What am I gonna find in here anyway?

Ma: Giblets.

Me: Get me out of this bird right now, and call the social services. You're going down, sister.

I did find them eventually and they are not nearly as attractive as they sound. Giblet finding does not score well on life's scale of emotional highs. The Mafia probably uses them when there are no horse heads available.

THE other thing about this point on the calendar is that past and present become riven, your mind lolls at avenues of memory, you have a lot of conversations with people whose names you have forgotten.

Them: Hi!

You: Oh hi! How's everything in the, uh....

Them: Great! And you...

You: Couldn't be better.

Them: Good, it's certainly been good to see you again.

You: Oh God, yeah ... Well, Ha!

Them: Ha! Ha!

You: See you soon! Keep in touch!

Them: Youtooseeyabye!

But it can be instructive to meet old associates to get a perspective on what you've done with your life.

Maura: So that's how I ended up getting my whole face pierced, and the other thing about the religion was that you had to carry a piece of tree with you all the time, and we had to omit the letter "p" from everything we said. I was only in it for about eight years ... now I'm teaching mime to a group of convicted serial killers. And I do a little animal therapy on the side just for money.

You: I always knew you'd do well, you were very good on the recorder.

Here in London the festive spirit is all around, Oxford Street is all full of smiling faces, people all heading towards you, quite happy to trample you to the consistency of spit if you get in their way. Dublin's no better of course. V. and I spent all last week being pin-balled up and down Grafton Street. There's nothing like consumerism to make you feel like a doomed piece of cosmic crud.

Neither of us is talented. shoppers, the idea was to pick up a few books and shirts for siblings and parents. We returned to the room for a snooze. When we awoke we found we had acquired the following: one shortwave radio in the shape of a leopard in mid-leap, a pair of solar-powered whistling sunglasses, a holster for false teeth, hedge-trimmers engraved with Polish drinking songs, a triple album set of "typical noises emanating from Cavan", totem cleaning equipment, crotchless shoes and an angle-grinder.

Sure it's stressful, but I still like this crazy, necessary celebration. It's high emotion, it's family, it's people you haven't seen in ages, it's all those things you meant to say but never did. But crucially, for me, its my girlfriend and I going away by ourselves to leave you to get on with it. Merry Christmas and best of luck with the ..... ah.

(source)

[colormetheworld]

Conversation Prompt 2 - Christmas Magic

Maura: You’re being overdramatic

Jane: This coming from the woman who, minutes ago, called our four year old son a sociopath!

Maura: Sociopathic tendencies, Jane. Don’t be cruel. And I wasn’t talking about Aiden specifically. I was mentioning some of the problems that arise from-

Jane: I’m not going to let you go in there and break his heart!

Maura: And I am not going to let you continue to lie to our son!

Jane: It’s not a lie, Maura, it’s Santa.

Maura: A lie agreed upon by the majority of western society is still a lie.

Jane: You let Ma take him to church when we have to work on Sundays. That place is full of lies, and some of them are way more harmful than a fat man who stocks up your house with gifts while you’re sleeping!

Maura: The study of Theology is an important part of-

Jane: Oh. My. God.

Maura: We've never discussed this.

Jane: Insane right?

Maura: I was going to say that it is remarkable. We’ve spent the majority of ten years together, and this has never come up.

Jane: To be fair, the first three years were me just trying to keep my eyes in my head every time you wore a dress that stopped higher than your knee.

Maura: Don’t try to make nice now. We’re not raising our child on lies.

Jane: Liezzzz? Plural? I thought we were just talking about Santa Clause.

Maura: Oh please. I know that this will inevitably lead to a discussion about the Easter Rabbit, That fairy who steals children’s teeth, and so on. It’s not real, Jane. It’s fake, and it’s materialism, and it teaches children to rely on magic. Magic isn’t real.

Jane:…Wow.

Maura: What?

Jane: I just. I hate Constance Isles so much in this moment that it actually feels like a stomach ache.

Maura: Excuse me??

Jane: That stuff you just said. That wasn't Maura talking. That was all Constance.

Maura: You’re wrong. My mother…wasn’t always the warmest, true. But she at least had the decency to tell me the truth.

Jane: Yeah. How convenient.

Maura: What exactly is that supposed to mean?

Jane: It means…nothing.

Maura: Oh no! you started this, Rizzoli, don’t you dare back out now. What do you mean?

Jane: I just mean that, well, being Santa Clause is hard. You’ve got to be stealthy. You’ve got to pay attention. You’ve got to read the letters your kid writes, and get up in the middle of the night after not sleeping anyway, and then, and this is what I consider the worst part…you have to drink milk that has been sitting on the table for hours.

Maura:…What are you talking about?

Jane: Kids leave cookies and milk for Santa.

Maura: I know that, but why would you or I have to drink it.

Jane: For the record, you’re going to drink it, but you have to drink it so that some of it’s gone in the morning.

Maura: Why not just dump it out?

Jane: Authenticity.

Maura: That is ridiculous. For a plethora of reasons, that is ridiculous, Jane.

Jane: Can we not get sidetracked? I’m just saying that it takes a lot of work to be Santa, and I…can see your mother weighing the reward, and deciding that it wasn’t worth it.

Maura:…

Jane:…Maura.

Maura: I see.

Jane: C’mon, Maura, I didn’t mean that you weren’t-

Maura: No. I…understand. Well. I am glad that that’s decision she made. No matter what her reasoning was. And I am also glad that this is one thing that she gave me, that I can give to our son.

Jane: Maura. Don’t…

Jane: …

Jane: Nice job, Jane. Perfectly done.

……

……

Aiden: Mommy, I been thinkin’

Maura: Well that’s something I love to hear, dearheart. Why don’t you come up here and tell me what you’ve been thinking about.

Aiden: Santa.

Maura: You’ve been thinking about Santa Clause?

Aiden: Yep. And I’ve got a wonder.

Maura: And what do you wonder about Santa, my love?

Aiden: Is his magic same as mama’s magic?

Maura:…What?

Aiden: Santa’s magic. is that one the same as Mama’s kind?

Maura: I’m…not sure what you mean. What kind of magic does Mama have?

well to blow on hurt spots so it’s better. Also to boom! make the floor all lava when before it was really only carpet. She is magic with the new baby when she holds him. And she does sometimes magic on you.

Maura:…On me?

Aiden: Yep. So is Santa’s magic like Mama’s?

Maura: I’m not sure. Can I ask you a question, Aiden?

Aiden: Sure can.

Maura: What is mama’s magic with me?

Aiden: Ice skatin’.

Maura: Ice skating?

Aiden: Yep. Remember when we went? Mama made you glow.

Maura: Mama…made me…glow?

Aiden: Yep. When you’s scared. Mama makes you glow. And your sacredness goes away.

Maura:…Ah.

Aiden: You cryin’?

Maura: No…I’m…I think that what you said was a very nice thing to say.

Aiden: That’s weird. S’just the truth.

Maura: You’re right. It’s just the truth. I love you very much, Aiden.

Aiden: I love you, too. So is he?

Maura: Is…oh! Is Santa magic like Mama?

Aiden:…

Maura: You know. I think he just might be.

….

….

Jane: Maura. We have to tell Aiden there’s a Santa Clause.

Maura: Jane

Jane: No. We do. It’s…Santa isn’t about presents and lying to your kids and bribing them to be well behaved. It’s…It’s like…Okay. Look, when I was a little kid, and my dad left, I was really worried about Christmas. I was old enough to know that Santa wasn’t real anymore, but Frankie and Tommy still believed, and I was scared that, you know, with not as much money coming in, they would think Santa left them like Pop.

So, Christmas Eve, they finally fall asleep, right? And I hear ma creeping by the door to go lay out the Santa presents. We had this whole…ritual, I guess, where we’d all run around the corner, and Ma and Pop would be there with hot chocolate. And the first present from Santa was always left unwrapped, and was always a board game. And we always ended up playing that game for the rest of the day. All of us.

So in the morning, we all get up, and Frankie and Tommy run around the corner, and Ma is there with the hot chocolate and everything. And under the tree, there’s the couple of presents from her, and then just one unwrapped deluxe Monopoly game. It was the only extra she could afford.

And for a moment, everyone’s just dead quiet. And we’re all looking at Tommy, because he always liked to count his presents from Santa.

But he just runs up to the game and holds it to his chest, and he goes…he goes… ‘Oh, Ma! We’re still a family. Santa didn’t forget. He didn’t forget.’

Maura: Jane.

Jane: Sorry. Ugh. It shouldn’t still make me cry.

Maura: It’s a sweet story.

Jane: It’s what I want for us.

Maura: Okay.

Jane: And I really think…wait, what?

Maura: I said okay. We can tell Aiden there’s a Santa Clause. And a Tooth Rabbit.

Jane: Fairy.

Maura: Yes. On Easter.

Jane: No, on Easter it’s the…never mind. Thank you.

Maura: And thank you. For loving and believing in me so much that I glow.

Jane:…You’re welcome?

Jane:…

Jane: Hey Maura?

Maura: Mmm?

Jane: I didn’t win this fight with my story, did I?

Maura: No. although I enjoyed the sentiment behind it.

Jane: Are you going to tell me what changed your mind?

Maura: It was magic.

Jane:….

Maura:….

Jane: So no?

[whispers-of-ink]

2186, Chapter IX: King check

Almost without a second thought, Harper attended many other meetings after that one, and shortly after, would also start to answer many of the questions the candidates had. At last, it felt as if everything fit into place in this twisted new world full of tincans and antennas looking at the sky. Day went by almost without notice, all of them wrapped in rewarding uncertainty.

The flow of the Organists was quite simple and free, never asking from their warriors something they couldn’t give. The organic society lived in constant problematic dynamics where agressions, discrimanition, poverty and hunger was the day to day of many. ‘Warrior’ was the name given to every activist in the organization, regardless of gender. Harper, fresh flesh among them, took care of solving those dynamics most within reach, often supported by fellow warriors in which Harper was still learning to trust. The reality lived there was crude and heartless, something that often provided the strength to keep fighting. Harper had taken a job as a voluntary teacher in the refuge of the Old Town. There teenagers didn’t have money to attend higher education than secondary, since school was costless only until that age. Harper could help there, having had experience with the newest materials.

Maybe that was the greatest appeal of the Organists. The problems came, solutions were talked through, and those available jumped into action. They had solved many problems since that first visit to the Old Theater.

Now Harper also lived in the Old Town. In a small apartment, much older and more uncomfortable than the last, and no heating, but everything there was analogic. Many nights were spent in the open, and thieves entering for lack of alarms were to be preferred rather than tincans analyzing every in and out of the house movement. That was the security warranty. Besides, there was nothing of value there and all the money always travelled in one pocket.

After checking that, in fact, all the money was in that one pocket, Harper closed the door with a dry slam —the only way to make the hinges and lock fit at the same time—, hid the face with the scarf, went outside, crossed the street and entered the theater through a side door. A narrow hall, a few cabins now used for storage and, finally, the operations room. Before it had serve as the theater lobby, so it wasn’t exactly hidden nor was it a showy room. It could have been a cleaning room for all one cared. The important thing was that there stuff got talked through, it was the center of the Organist life. It was also where the newbies to the cause would come to solve their doubts. Everything was very transparent. ‘Nothing to find, nothing to look for’, was one of the mottos they had. There were no big secrets at the theater, no large conspiracies kept under seven locks. As a precaution, the only thing they had done was to cover the inner windows with black clothes to hide the lobby to the outside.

Leaving everything on a chair near the entrance, Harper approached the metallic table that presided the room center. There, lit by an abducted stage light and the only source of light in the room, Maura, a versed warrior full of tattoes for the cause, was fiercely looking at a city map. Around her were four warrior, their faces covered in a mix of anxiousness and anticipation; there were very few people compared to other meetings, and if Maura had that face, something must have been very wrong.

“We need to counterattack.” She claimed which a brave voice that it seemed straight out of a medieval movie, something that still surprised Harper. “If we let them get away with this, our people will die when winter comes.”

There were some reproachful stares among the warriors, as if they had already discussed it wasn’t possible. Maura was usually one of the most aggressives.

Harper dared to ask; “What’s wrong?”

Upon nearing the table, it became apparent that the city map was the newspaper’s cover. The highlight was a photo of a few politicians shaking hands and an uppercase title that Harper couldn’t read upside down.

“I guess you haven’t heard. They have approved, or rather, imposed,” she puffed, “a law to remove conventional electricity. They want to remove the cables and use the Tesla method with skyscrapper’s roof antennas.”

Harper frowned, knowing how absurd that was after having become acquainted with the humbler ways of life. “But... that would mean... Those of us living in organic neighbourhoods wouldn’t have power.”

“Exactly.”

Another warrior added, “No light... or heating...”

“But we can’t just charge forward and attack.”

The voice came from behind Maura, startling Harper. Ne was Zuri, one of the leaders of the Organists. They had never talked because ne usually wasn’t present in any of the meetings Harper attended; Zuri had way more important things to do and always left before the question time. Ne was a legend among the warriors. The respect Harper felt for ner was mouth drying.

“It isn’t a smart move,” Zuri insisted. “We can only win this battle politically.”

“You take care of politics! I will smash their antennas!”

“Think in the consequences, Maura! We are but a step away from oficially being labeled as terrorists. If you do this and it doesn’t work, and it won’t, you’ll have wasted all our work and achievements until now.”

“Oh, come on! Don’t act as if it was you who started this fight!”

Harper listened absentmindedly, eyes darting from one to the other as if it were a tennis match. The situation was getting heavier. Zuri was right, partly ne always was, and it was said that it was ner who had gathered and organized the organic activism. Ner words flied mouth to mouth as mantras, but not even in this situation ne seemed convinced that the political path would be enough. None of the two solutions could be, together or apart. They risked getting a target in their backs or simply dilating the inevitable. And who was Harper to talk perspectives with two higher-ranked warriors, one of them very leader of the Organists?

Incapable of replying to yet another reasoning of Zuri, Maura growled, "If we turn off their power on a third day those bastards my die, they can’t be awake for longer than seventy-two hours, can they?”

“You know that’s not happening. Optimized bodies have two emergency power generators. They may stay in stand-by up to an opteek. Comatose, yes, but in stand-by. And anyway, the workers of the power plant would take an optay to fix it, at most. Aside that it’s dangerous, Maura. For the fifth time: it’s dangerous.”

“And I imagine that going back to break it even more every two days isn’t a feasible option, is it?”

Zuri shacked ner head. Maura had good intentions, but she was too stubborn to give up an idea.

“We would need more people than we have, and even if we had them, even if they were enough to cover the whole globe, how many do you think would volunteer for such a dangerous task?”

“But what would happen if...” Harper swallowed, incapable of keeping quiet, “... if we fucked ourselves over too? We can just cut the power for everyone. It will be a small ‘price’ to pay, but, politically, it should give you a strong enough position to argue that taking away our power goes against our human rights. And it doesn’t need to happen all around the globe; so far this is only happening in our country. And that would set a precedent, right?”

Silence fell. Ner eyes nailed to Harper’s face. Maura just smiled, maybe out of her mind. Zuri seemed to be way off reality, seeing the void.

“I don’t like the idea of shooting our own feet,” said Zuri.

“Wasn’t it you who said that we would sacrifice anything to stop them?” Maura charged again. 

Zuri ignored her. Instead, ne put ned hand under tha table and extracted a box full of chess pieces that ne then distributed over the map. “We are pawns in a war that can’t be won, Harper.”

All the other warrios suddenly stood very still and upright, all at the same time, almost with militar precision, startling Harper.

“We can only aspire to match them,” Zuri continued, “since it is as much our right to a fair, decent life, as it is theirs to do with their bodies what they please.”

Maura had been ready to reply, but she had opted not to. She shut her mouth, imitated the other warrios, and lowered her eyes. Her face turned serious and, in a low voice, she repeated as if it were a mantra: “Victory is a draw. Their King shall stop before nothing. Blocking him is our goal, stopping him is our victory.”

Zuri put ner hand inside the box and draw another pawn, this one covered in grease, and put it at front.

“Your strategy benefits this cause, we call it a king check.”

Harper felt the chest swollen with pride, capable of strangling the air out of the lungs inside. Knowing what they were trying to express, the incredible honor it was, realization growing from the gut. Harper wanted to say something, yet couldn’t find the words. Having waited so long for this, many nights imagining where and when to show the commitment, how to take the responsibility with a grandiloquent explanation for the motivation behind it.

"I just thought about what would be best.” Was all that came out. Humble, almost scared words.

Ne nodded. "This is a complicated operation, but tradition dictates that the check is to be leaded by the warrior that came up with it.”

Ne put the pawn such that, in fact, it was checking the white king.

“That is, you,” Maura smiled.

Zuri got underway. Ne kneeled to revolve in the thousand drawers of the metallic table.

“We need to plan this right, but I can’t come up with a better middle-ground solution, and we have less than an octay to do it,” ne said. “We’ll have to count with the people over at the right bank and every dormant warrior we may have, specially if they are tattooed. When you come back, come what may, your rank will have changed, Harper. You’ll get your first tattoo, if you want it.” 

Zuri’s head appeared behind the table edge, cautious. “You already know that each tattoo formalizes your commitment to the Organists. If anything goes wrong...”

Harper, that had lost the smile as responsibilities started to weight in, becoming real, breathed deeply and nodded. 

“I’ll do whatever it takes. It’s not about me, this is about everyone.”

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[greateacheropke]

Welcome (Me) Back (?)

So things have been a bit... negative in the last two posts here.  Just like last year, I had a rough 2/3 of the school year (in that I felt inundated with work and didn’t have time to write) but the topics of the last two posts didn’t really help motivate me to say anything positive here.  So let’s write about some positive things.

First of all, what a school year it has been.  Yes, there has been a lot of work - I am writing something about that, for later - but it’s also been a lot of fun!  Just like in Egypt, where I only really found a social circle that worked for me in year two, things really clicked this fall.  No offense intended to all of the other beloved members of La Sagrada Familia - Caitlin and Jacob, friends who still live in Madrid; Carolin from Hamburg, who learned how to share and hug; Virginia aka Maria aka Grace from Athens, applied mathematics student; Thør from Copenhagen, whose name was never Thør but no one could pronounce it, conspiracy theorist like no other that has ever lived; Karina from Toronto, with us for only a few short weeks; Rollie, Martin, the Turks, travelling Irish guitar guy, and all the other couch surfers who have stayed with us for only a few nights - but the apartment eventually became the home it was intended to be, with Caroline and Maura joining forces with Jonny and myself, as we planned to do over a year ago now.  We’ve done just about everything but bathe together, but it’s come close.  This is the home I have been missing since leaving Egypt.

There have been many adventures this year!  Here are just a few from 2016.

In August, following the events previously commented upon, I traveled to Portugal to see Lagos on the southern coast.  Many people travel to Lagos to party, I guess, but I went to scuba dive and see the southwest corner of continental Europe.

There are lots of places to stay, but João from Lagos4U runs a very friendly and open place, as long as you don’t mind crowded rooms.  I think I was in a 10 bed dorm and the bathroom was inside the room, so there was a lot of noise between people coming in and out at night and using the restroom and showers. Since I was diving, I was asleep pretty early every night, but I dealt with the noise fairly well (Egypt training still paying off).  The town itself has got a nice marina and long stretches of beach, and lots of fresh, cheap, delicious seafood (go to A Barrigada) and a seriously great burger (”Toucan Burger” from Nahnahbah).

It’s just a pain to get to, as I took a bus and had to transfer in the middle of nowhere, with no easy way to communicate with the drivers other than me saying “Lagos” and them pointing at an empty street corner where, thankfully, another bus showed up in a few minutes to take me the rest of the way.

After Lagos, I took a bus to Portimão and did a few hours tour of the area through the company Bike My Side - a fun dude drove me around in a sidecar of his motorcycle and took me up through Monchique to the top of Fóia, the highest peak in the Algarve region.  It was a fun time, something different to do, but was a little pricey.

From there I went back to Lisbon to see Scott and Jen, two friends from Egypt who were staying in an airbnb for most of the summer.  I had visited Lisbon briefly in May and had some sense of the city, but they had experienced much more and shared with me some of its wonders: Bifana, a pork steak sandwich that we topped with mustard and hot sauce, would be #1.  I love these things (on a more recent trip back to Lisbon I had 5 of these in 48 hours).  I can personally recommend O Trevo, Ginginha Popular, and Zé Dos Cornos.  All are dirty, cheap, and cater to locals.  With vinho verde on tap, you can get an awesome meal for under €4.

Lisbon is somewhat famous for the pastry known as pastel de nata, said to have originated just outside of the city, in Belem.  There is no need to travel to Belem and wait 20 minutes in line for these (although Belem has its own sites to take in), just go to Manteigaria Fábrica de Pastéis de Nata in the city, below Bairro Alto.  Lines are not that long, although there is no seating.  €1.70 for a pastel de nata and an espresso.

If you’re thirsty, obviously Lisbon has plenty of wine options, and is famous for the green wine (which, while refreshing and is what I always order with my cheap meals, I could honestly take or leave).  The beer scene in Portugal is still emerging, and Duqye Brewpub and Beer Station both have plenty on offer.  The local liqueur should be sampled at A Ginjinha, apparently a pretty famous, well established shop (sells one type of drink, served two different ways, and is about the size of my bathroom). It was recommended to me even down in the Algarve region as a place the man speaking to me had never been to but had always heard about.

The church known as Igreja De São Domingos is one of my favorites on earth due to its unique looks - there are still many signs of a 1959 fire.

Finally, the LX Factory is a little out of town but is hope to some nice hipster stores and restaurants, and some good graffiti.

Really, I love Lisbon. One of my favorite cities to visit, hands down.  Cheap, great food and drink, on the water...what isn’t to love?

In late September, Jonny and I went to Hamburg to visit the aforementioned Carolin (we took no pictures! sad face).  Hamburg was a nice little German city to take in with our expert local guide and host.  The red light district, while famous, pales in comparison to what can be found in Amsterdam, although the forbidding gates (stupidly male only) are a nice visual touch.  Good company and of course good food and beer, the trip was not without its surprises and bad memories - suffice to say, Cohen’s “Hallelujah” has been ruined for me. But overall a trip that we are all glad happened. And the Germans have great parks! Look at how happy this guy is.

In November, the four of us went to Rome, ostensibly for a work trip, but really used it as an excuse to see a bit of the city and stay in a hotel room for free.  We didn’t really get to see or do too much, but we had a lot of fun sharing a room together.

For Thanksgiving, we all went to Budapest. Here we were joined by Ryan (Caroline’s friend) and Emma, the American that I met in Spain who, at this time, was living in England... I am dating Emma.  Here is a terrible photo of us together.

Budapest is a rad place, ripe for making bad puns on its name, mixing beautiful old history with soviet grunge. The food was good; I don’t remember specifics, just a lot of fried dough and meat stews. Really hardy stuff, for hardy people (you’ve got to be strong to drink the local pálinka). They have these neat “ruin bars” which have very artsy hipster feels to them. The biggest that I saw was called Szimpla Kert, and it was a shit show, so I did not get to explore much. Definitely seemed like a cool place to go back to during the day to try to take it all in. But if you like salvaged furniture, what you really need to do before your Budapest trip is look up the official schedule for "lomtalanítás" - “gypsy christmas” is my favorite translation - and walk through any districts that are having them. We found one by accident, and it seemed as though the refuse spread out before us like an endless sea of scraps. Teams of people went through it with backpacks, headlamps, I think I saw one person taking notes in a book of what they had taken or left behind for a second pass. Must see.

In early December, I had an opportunity to go to Athens to visit Virginia, and as an added bonus see Bob from Egypt, along with a group of former students he was leading on an AP Art trip. It was great to catch up with some of my favorite people from around the world! It was a quick weekend, so again I didn’t get to eat or do too much. Obvious items were checked, like the Acropolis. Extra thrilling points were getting to vote on where to get beers (imagine my exuberance: practicing democracy in its birthplace; now imagine the despondency of the Greeks I was with: “see how far democracy has gotten us!”), checking out  Exarcheia (the anarchist neighborhood), and The Neon Exhibition: Flying Over the Abyss (seriously the best art exhibit I’ve ever been to; I felt feelings and want to go back very badly - http://neon.org.gr/en/exhibition/flying-abyss-athens/).

See, it was an art trip! And the teacher even drew me!

So anyway, yeah... it’s been over a year since most of this happened. But it happened. So I wrote some things. I might write again sometime.