#arnold’s laments

[arnold-layne]

cant sleep again

[coupleofdays]

Conan! Who is your favorite Tron character?

[see-arcane]

Before the journal opened

Before it saved his life

Before Hell staked a claim

Before he swung his knife

A storm rolled in with the spring

And hope paved his long way

Through monsters and their red wants

He takes step one today.

WARNING: Contains some grisly imagery towards the end.

PDF Version

Chapter 2 Preview is available here

Chapter 3 via Substack here

Harker

C.R. Kane

March to April

Spring rolled in more grey than green that week. It dribbled rain through morning and noon, pondering to itself whether it would save an encore for evening in the way of a proper storm. The songbirds and the street noise went on as best they could between showers. They made up the only true din in Jonathan Harker’s corner, not counting the hammering of the typewriter or an occasional rustle of sheets. The usual low cacophony of the firm had been whittled down immensely due to the cough that had been shared at the start of the week and sent the greater part of Peter Hawkins’ small legion home to hack and sniffle in private.

This left Jonathan somewhat abandoned, not counting Hawkins’ presence behind the office door. It was just as well. He’d been splitting his attention between the eternal tower of logistical and legal chores that ruled his desk and the shorthand notes made in preparation for his exam. Such had been his constant state for the past two months. There had been ribbing from all directions, some bemoaning the imminent loss of a load-bearing clerk, others saying now they could draw lots and boot someone else out the door, and still more wheedling about whether or not they could still drag him in place as a shield when clientele of a certain incendiary temperament came around. Please?

Jonathan had remained ominously mum. Groans and lamentations ensued.

This was a joke, of course. Young Mr. Harker was nothing if not dedicated to the task of transmuting Hawkins’ charity to a whipcord child fifteen years prior into a proper investment. Case in point, using a lull in his own workload to get things in order for those bedridden solicitors who had the nearest deadlines pending. Bentley idled through with his tea as he did and shook his head.

“Don’t know what it is that comes with your kind, Harker, but it’s a busier thing that any of us idle English have. We’re down two thirds of the building and here you are doing three-quarters of the work. Get the examination out of the way and you may as well tell the old man to retire.” A thoughtful sip came from behind the porcelain. “Must be something they teach you Gurkha sorts, eh? Some kind of discipline our doughy little English schoolboys never get knocked in their heads.”

Jonathan weighed the decision of whether or not to give Arnold Bentley his bimonthly reminder that he was, in fact, English by birth. His parents as well. But the reminder would likely fall into the same pit between the man’s ears where all the others had gone. Worse, it might risk a tally mark against him in whatever invisible score was kept by peers. The one that determined whether the combination of Jonathan’s physiognomy and disposition really were enough to pardon his status or not. He finished this measuring of scales in less than a blink. A smile was summoned.

“Not at all. Just helping where things can be helped.” He straightened a sheaf of forms back in order. “That, and I cannot go a day without productivity, or else I shall have to go home and carve my hand with the kukri knife in penance.”

Bentley paused halfway through his laugh when Jonathan held his gaze. He gawped over his cup.

“God. Really?”

“No, not really. My penmanship would suffer terribly.”

This spurred a louder guffaw from the man, likewise a rattling clap of his open palm to Jonathan’s shoulder. Then he was out like a breeze to carry on with whatever it was he had drifted from in his own territory of the building. Jonathan resumed his interrupted rhythm. Read. Check. Write. Type. Read. Check. Write. Type. So he went for another hour before his watch told him it was time to check the post.

He stepped out during a lull of rain. The thunder talked with itself in the slate-dark clouds, debating whether or not to turn the spigot on the moment the wad of envelopes was out in the open. Jonathan applauded himself on dodging the first drops of the deluge by seconds. Peeking through the window, he saw there were even a few fitful winks of lightning hopping through the sky. What few pedestrians were left went running for shops they had no interest in, restaurants they had no appetites for, and cabs that turned frustratingly scarce within the minute. Jonathan grimaced in premonition of the dash he and Mina would have to make under the umbrella once she was free of her students.

But that was for later. For now, he flipped through the day’s heap and dealt them out to the waiting desks, occupied or not. The last in the stack was a familiar packet and one of extraordinary make. It was patterned with the stamps of myriad countries with ornate flourishes in the writing. A thick crimson seal sporting a rearing dragon marked it as the second delivery from the same foreign estate that had written to Hawkins in February. A castle set in the backdrop of the Carpathians.

Jonathan had felt his heart twist the first time he’d handled a parcel from the address and it twisted doubly hard now. There had been time in the interim to start combing through Exeter’s libraries for any beginning details to have ready should Hawkins want some background to aid one of the solicitors, especially in the case of a potential trip. If the latter came to pass, it would mean a visit to London and a perusal of denser material. A fine enough excuse to wander the superior bookcases and the British Museum on its own. But the luster of the errand was already gone in his mind. The first glimpse of the prospective client’s territory in the first book he’d cracked open, wrought in illustrations and sparse photographs as it was, sent a spear of longing through Jonathan’s chest that still hadn’t left.

Why would anyone living there want to trade such a place for England?

Jonathan was not oblivious to the advantages of the country. He understood his good fortune in access to modern works, from amenities to entertainments; at least in theory. With cautious budgeting. But all his life had been spent in cramped rooms or congested streets. The presence of a park, a farmer’s field, a distant beach, or a picturesque cemetery were the nearest he would ever come to the broad and chainless beauty of places not yet stomped flat with bricks and smoke.

Imagine! Meadows and hills, valleys and forests, all topped with the great serrated crown of the mountains. Cities and villages worn smooth with generations going back through centuries.

Imagine being there with her. Seeing sunrise flood over the peaks, walking old roads and footpaths, tasting and seeing and playing and breathing in a place without its laces drawn like a noose around throat and purse. The trains alone would be enough for her, true, but we would find somewhere to stop. Somewhere in every swatch of the countryside. At some point, as she became lost in a view, in a meal, in a walk, she would see me on my knee and what I held in my hand, and the wedding could happen right there in an ancient chapel, and then…

But the fantasy turned to dust before it could finish.

The required funds were cudgel enough to smash the whole daydream to atoms. At most they might manage a trip someplace other than their usual heights of hedonism. That was, a brief trip to Piccadilly and back. Maybe a bit of theatre. Possibly a picnic. Perhaps even some further place in the Isles. Somewhere rich with quiet and history of its own, but likely not across the Channel. Never a locale so far and mythic as the place Hawkins’ new client seemed interested in abandoning. Jonathan pictured Hawkins writing back to the noble on his behalf, wailing at the stranger not to forsake his fairy tale castle for the doldrums of a Londoner’s garish crate of a manse, no matter how crusted in filigree.

Save yourself! Do not trade your mountains for an English molehill!  Turn back, turn back!

But that would be a poor way to run the firm, wouldn’t it? Resigned, he brought the packet to Hawkins’ office and knocked at the door.

“It’s open, Jonathan.”

Jonathan ducked in with his smile already nailed in place. It was an expression he now had to work at as recent months plodded on and Peter Hawkins’ complexion failed to improve. The man behind the broad desk was only half as rubicund as he’d been the year before. He had insisted to everyone who dared ask that he was merely suffering from a particularly ugly attack of gout and that he would be fine in a week or so. As it stood, Hawkins could still sit up straight and bellow thanks when Jonathan came by with his delivery. He even turned a shade ruddier upon seeing the dragon’s seal.

“Well now,” he said through a grin. He turned the packet over and pointed it at Jonathan. “Have you taken lunch?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Go on and fill up quick. If this is what I believe it is, I expect I’ll need your ear within the hour.”

So saying, Hawkins slit the packet open and began to read. Jonathan dismissed himself with his fingers crossed in his pocket. Perhaps the British Museum wasn’t too far off after all. That and the London libraries. It would be too brief a visit for anything more extravagant than what Lucy referred to as his and Mina’s ‘academic holidays,’ but it would make an interesting exercise just the same. Plotting the trip was a pleasant enough distraction to eat to.

He finished just as he heard the tell-tale grunt and shuffle that meant Hawkins was hefting himself up to trudge around his desk. Jonathan flew to the door first, only just recalling to swat his knuckles against the wood before opening it. Hawkins looked up with a shock before gratefully flopping himself back into his chair.

“You have a dog’s hearing and cat’s feet. Ought to have a bell on you to give an old man some warning.”

“Apologies.”

“Nothing to apologize for. Saved me dragging myself around unduly.” Hawkins thumped a hand on the desk as if patting a horse. “I suppose I need to throw this out and trade desks with you. I can make it past that little square of yours in no time.” He thought further on it. “Less than a minute, anyhow.” He made a face that couldn’t decide itself between a smile or a grimace. “My doctor, who only seems to tell me what I already know, declares that I am not fit for any arduous travel. In his terms, that includes going further than the street corner on foot. Even a train ride is apparently a gamble, being that I should be in bed resting and rotting like a good patient rather than hobbling my way to and from the cab to work. Already I press his orders and my luck. Which means this,” he held up an envelope, “is out of the question for me.”

Jonathan recognized the torn envelope and scarlet seal. What held him up was the recognition that it was the first of the two packets. The February delivery.

“That’s unfortunate. Who was the client?”

Hawkins grinned in earnest now, purposefully turning the envelope so that the address was hidden.

“You tell me.”

Jonathan offered half a smile back. It was an old game that had begun years ago when he was still just a bookish boy underfoot, helping around the office for whatever could be spared for a child’s wage. Even then his eyes had been hungry things.

“Count Dracula, from the castle of the same name, of Transylvania. The address is from a Bistritz postal service situated in the Carpathians.”

“True and true.” Hawkins set the envelope on the desk and tapped it with a thick finger. “Curious taste in property, this one. Likely has the cravings of a renovator. No trouble on our side but for the hunting. But the esteemed gentleman is so damnably far into the Continent that I couldn’t rightly offer myself up in the way he’s asking. I ought to say, the way he insists upon buying. The way our Count puts it, he would rather pay every fee of travel for his English solicitor to and from his keep in the mountains, and play host on top, rather than, he says, ‘Suffer bartering land through stationery.’ In short, he’s willing to ship a solicitor to his door rather than play at this back-and-forth for all his questions, all out of his own pocket. He wants someone who’s not just going to find and sell the manner of place he’s after, but someone who can play encyclopedia if he’s unsure of something.” 

“Hence him being prepared to rent out the owner of the firm for an in-person visit,” Jonathan finished. Hawkins gave a nod.

“And the owner might have been up for it a decade or so ago. But time marches and gout outweighs gold. So I fear that leaves me out of the picture.” Jonathan watched Hawkins fold his hands with a calculated laxness on the desk. “Your examination is coming up.”

Lightning flickered outside. More danced across Jonathan’s brain.

“Yes, sir. It is.”

“You have been my clerk since you were old enough to rent a flat,” Hawkins went on. “My apprentice and professional living plaster to this place well before that.”

“Yes,” Jonathan breathed more than spoke. He feared his vocabulary was leaking out both ears while his heart tried to climb his throat.

“And,” Hawkins half-leaned over the desk, “you have been holding onto her ring since last year. Haven’t you?”

Heat rushed up to Jonathan’s face as he got out, “…Yes. I have. Sir, are you—,”

Hawkins brandished the packet Jonathan brought through the door an hour ago. This he laid beside the February envelope so that the pair of them seemed like strange square eyes staring up at him.

“I need you to understand: This is not an offer as much as a prayer. If there’s no chance with you, that means Bentley is the next choice. He’s my longest running man here and is liable to set up his own firm before the decade’s out. But for all that, and for all that he is a trustworthy one to patter with most Englishmen, I would sooner trust a cat with a lame canary than Bentley to not choke on his own tongue with a foreigner. Clients of noble lineage included. The man can barely toe his way around an Irishman let alone anyone from across the Channel. And, since the door is shut and no one is around to cry nepotism, I can speak the unvarnished truth.

“You could do with one week what anyone else here could manage inside a month and have it done better. That is not me being rosy about the past or present, that is me having eyes that work and a basis of comparison between how things ran before you began working here and after. The after is smooth as silk compared to the pre-Harker gravel. Stable gravel, I allow, but not nearly as easy a burden as things became once you were attacking the paperwork. And the footwork.” Hawkins raised a caterpillar brow at him. “Any good finds in the local bookshelves?”

“Not as many as I hoped,” Jonathan thought he heard himself say. It was hard to tell as he seemed to have relocated to some remote island in his skull and could only register what was happening as if from across an ocean. “I wanted to stop by the options in London if I had the chance. Just to gather some background on the client’s location if it was needed.”

“I’d say it is,” Hawkins hummed. “Supposing you can tell me you have your schedule open for some traveling come May.”

Jonathan told him it was. Hawkins told him to go to the corner cabinet and move the bust of Alexander off the high shelf. Then to bring down the bottle and two tumblers. There were toasts and there was talk and there was a laughing chide from the older man as he shooed Jonathan’s pocket notebook back from whence it came. No notes today, young man. At least not right now. Actually, perhaps one for later. Did he have time open to visit a tailor? There was a travel budget that was about to go unused if the Count was to have his way. It may as well go toward a good cause. Hawkins could hardly send his best solicitor to a noble’s door without looking his best, and it was for the firm’s image, really, so it could hardly be helped, and the doctor couldn’t grudge him such paltry exercise as going to harangue a suit seller…

Jonathan’s eyes burned and his face ached with smiling. He was mortified to find himself close to a sob before turning the sound into a coughing laugh. Hawkins told him to drink, not inhale. That turned the next sound into a true chuckle. He couldn’t tell whether it was an effect of the liquor or his own imagination that made it seem as if the thunder was laughing too.

“Transylvania,” Mina said for the dozenth time.

“Transylvania,” Jonathan echoed. He turned to face her rather than cling to the charade that either of them were focused enough to continue their mutual study. His pile included the texts that had come to haunt his subconscious with its rules and rites of property law, now with the hypnotic temptation of the library books waiting just an arm’s length away. Mina, who Jonathan knew was as much or more a pillar of solid focus than himself, had not a mote of attention to spare for the papers taken from the realm of educational etiquette or her personal project of mirroring and translating his shorthand. The latter made a certain gleeful anticipation turn over in his stomach. It left him floundering between elation and anxiety with equal force until he thought he might lose his last meal on the floorboards.

Which would be a shame, as he and Mina had combined their efforts into a delightful result in Jonathan’s narrow kitchen. Jonathan had only half-jokingly implied that they were making a child’s ideal feast because he was, in fact, giddy as a boy who’d just shaken hands with Father Christmas. Mina had declared this was nonsense.

“A supper made of breakfast is an entirely sound culinary decision.”

“Yes, Miss Murray,” in his best schoolboy tone. “Did you want crêpes or toast?”

“Crêpes. Extra cream.”

They had giggled like children over their respective plates. Just as they did over the rapidly ignored chores they had planned for themselves after. It was the frightful intoxication of feeling the future unrolling into a new smiling mystery before them. One that whispered, yes, yes, this is real, this is coming true. A future that might include…

Jonathan gulped down a heavy lump of air as his gaze flicked again to the sheet of shorthand messages he had scribbled out for her to translate. She had stopped halfway through. Close, close, close. But he didn’t let his stare linger. Instead he found her face again, still glowing. Jonathan was forever surprised that he had not dreamt her up as a boy and continued dreaming her until now. It surprised him more that he had managed to earn her love and dumbfounded him entirely to think that she regarded herself in the same terms. More, that she insisted she was the luckier half of their equation. He did not follow her meaning then, nor did he think he ever would.

“Mina, anyone with a sliver of sense in their head would feel the same for you,” he had insisted more than once. Each time she had smiled and shaken her head. Her eyes forever bright with a sweet-somber knowledge he couldn’t decipher.

“There is plenty of sense to spare. Loving hearts as well. But there is a different lens that women see the world through and it shows things men shall never have to see. It shows so much to watch for. To be wary of, or to hope for, or to know not to expect because life has made it clear that so much of what’s dreamt of only exists for a few, while the rest make do with storybooks and stage plays.” Her hand had held tight in his. “You were not meant to exist outside the borders of a fairy tale, Jonathan Harker. That you cannot see as much for yourself makes me wonder if someone really did peel you off a page and if you will vanish back to a fair princess somewhere when I wake up.”

“That implies I am either a prince or some clever farmhand. I’m cut out for neither. I am a squire at best. Though I would not settle for a mere princess either way, however fair.” He had dared a grin at her. “Or have you already forgotten Mrs. Westenra’s unique stance on the matter?”

Memory had nettled Mina out of her glumness with a sputter that tried and failed not to turn into shamefaced laughter. She had improved somewhat in the years since the incident itself, back when the whole ring of persons involved had flamed with embarrassment over the misunderstanding of Jonathan’s presence when spotted with Miss Lucille Westenra and her companion Miss Mina Murray now that all of them had stretched out of childhood and into the far end of adolescence. Followed by the ensuing inquiry as to why Mr. Harker had been baffled at the very concept of seeking to gain Miss Westenra’s affection as anything more than a friend.

Jonathan remembered sitting in one of the gilded rooms of the Westenra estate, sat across from Lucy’s increasingly rose-faced mother as she came to the belated realization that Mina Murray’s young man was not trying to court anyone other than Mina Murray. Worse, it had been left on his shoulders to steer the conversation out of potential wreckage by thanking his hostess for clearly being concerned on Mina’s own behalf, as there were too many people in the world who took the notion of seeking out a secret paramour behind another’s back as a matter of course. He was heartened to know that Mrs. Westenra cared enough to be mindful should an actual cad come into the orbit of her daughter or her friends.

Still flushed, Mrs. Westenra had chased agreement in this, poured on apologies for the mistake and had thankfully never brushed the topic since. Though Lucy had words enough to spare on the matter for months afterward. She had languished at them in the garden about it, the image of woe in peach blossom tailoring.

“Jonathan, I fear we must become enemies,” she’d intoned gravely. “You must walk with a cane in hand and I must brandish my parasol so that we keep our distance and never risk breathing the same air. We cannot even deafen poor Mina’s ears with the Bard or eavesdroppers will take us knowing the lines of Hamlet and Ophelia as proof of a tryst. Perhaps we should go around with our hats pulled down over our eyes, lest we give into temptation and acknowledge each other’s existence while being the opposite sex. It is our only chance of salvation.”

“Miss Lindon again?” from Mina, her smile placid. Jonathan knew she wore the same callused shell he did when it came to the patter that trickled down from higher tiers than theirs. Those tiers were many and their squabbles almost alien in what they deemed worth sniping about behind their fans and cigars. The infamous Miss Lindon was apparently a thorn too serrated even for Lucy’s compassion to withstand.

“Very much Miss Lindon again. ‘He would just do for you, Lucy.’ As though she thought I would be doing a charity by going behind my friend’s back and she were doing a charity by her sneering compliment. At least nature was kind enough to spare me having to think of a similarly charitable rebuttal, as a beetle helpfully flew into her hair a moment later and she went running. One must take silver linings when they come. Unrelatedly, Jonathan, when you do become a solicitor in full, should Miss Lindon and her future beau ever approach you for a house..?”

“I shall do what I can to find them a lovely estate,” Jonathan assured. “In Northumberland.”

“Next door to an entomologist?” Mina asked over her cup.

“Of course.”

Jonathan blinked the recollection away, wondering whether it was the dizziness of the day or the ticking of the clock between Mina and the final line of shorthand that was making his mind slosh. Perhaps it was simply the subconscious’ effort to dodge the weight of the evening and what it might promise. His thoughts were fleeing to hide from hope and worry. But Mina knew him too well. She caught him with her eyes before pulling him back into the headiness of the present.

“You will do fantastically, Jonathan. Tell me you know it as well as I do.”

“I will not say I know it. Too much confidence risks laziness. I will only say that I shall give all of myself to the task. It must be done so it will be done. If I think any further than that simple fact, my head will burst.”

“If you do, I promise to sweep you up and put your pieces back in order.” Her smile softened an increment as her hand settled in his. “I mean it.” She squeezed. He squeezed back.

“The same goes for you. We are neither of us allowed to hold ourselves together with string and brittle smiles once the door is between us and,” Jonathan flapped his free hand at the rain-streaked window, “all of that. No acting when it’s us alone.” He flashed her a decidedly less-than-brittle smile. “I promise not to tattle to your girls.”

“You were bad enough today, Mr. Harker. Half the classes were watching.” Her voice tutted, but the grin showed in her eyes. Jonathan had arrived at the school with the umbrella in one hand and a bouquet in the other. A bundle of her beloved lilies that he’d used as a screen behind which to steal a kiss and drop the announcement of Hawkins’ assignment in her ear. Forgetting her audience, Mina had kissed him back, forgetting to mask herself behind the petals. They had absconded to the cab to the sound of a dozen girls cooing their farewells, Miss Murray, see you tomorrow, Miss Murray, has he got a brother, Miss Murray?

“Hardly a terrible thing. If you are one of their examples, mustn’t they have something to look forward to at the end of all their practice?” He assumed a pose of scheming innocence, lashes batting. “I could be especially nefarious come Valentine’s Day. Take a holiday from Hawkins and show up toting chocolates and train tickets and a florist’s worth of flowers.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“I can hire an orchestra to follow us around. Have them play waltzes the whole day.”

“Jonathan.”

“No, of course, an orchestra would be too cumbersome. A singer and a violin, perhaps. I can hire a paperboy to throw rose petals after us. Or else I could send them up to the classroom to follow you in procession out of the building…”

The typewriter hammered back to life. Its keys were struck with more force than they needed.

“Sorry,” Mina sang above the din, “no hearing you over this. You will have to be a foul minion of Eros a little louder.” Jonathan bit his tongue against a reply. Yes, she was typing again. Yes, she was reading the last of the shorthand. Tap-tap-tap, clack-clack-clack. So far it was all the lines of a love note—a common enough surprise, if one that fished more than the usual dimpled grin out of her tonight—and she had not caught on yet to the conclusion. “How long will the client need you over there?”

“Between the travel to the estate, the stay, and the return trip, the whole thing should be over within early May. I shall have time to hoard you a while before you and Lucy have your summer escape to the coast. Was it Whitby?”

“Yes, quite near the landmark Abbey. I mean to harass the townspeople with demands for any ghost stories they might spare about the place. Perhaps Marmion is but a single drop in a sea of waiting legends.”

Tap-tap-tap.

“Then I shall try to collect what I can abroad in turn,” Jonathan said from behind a fan of notes. He kept only the corner of his eye pinned on the swimming lines. “There should be spirits in abundance along the route.” 

Clack-clack-clack.

“I would think so. But don’t settle for ghosts alone! I shall happily adopt any devils or revenants or folkloric fiends the locals can share—,”

Her voice died mid-key.

Jonathan looked over the top of his pages. Mina sat frozen as a sculpture. Her hands still hovered at the typewriter, lax and immobile. But her eyes were in motion. Flicking back, forward, and back again between Jonathan’s shorthand and the five words they had translated to in plain ink.

Will you marry me, Wilhelmina?

By the time she finally turned her head back to face him, he was already on the floor, swift and silent at her hip. The box sat open in his hand. Set inside was a petite gold band whose stone gleamed like a fleck of starlight.

Mina looked from the ring to its holder with eyes that were already spilling.

“Yes,” Jonathan heard a dozen, a hundred times in the ensuing night. Yes, yes, yes, a thousand, a million times, yes. Between kisses, between tastes, between touches and takings that skirted the furthest edge of propriety between unmarried bodies. Yes.

“We are engaged. We must prepare for the wedding night as one must study ahead of an examination. Isn’t that right, Miss Murray?”

“It is, Mr. Harker.” Then, furtive despite her position over him, she grew a smile both shy and sly. A lure surrounded by the hanging curtain of her hair, “…Can you say it? For practice’s sake.” He did not have to ask her meaning.

“Mina Harker.”

Her teeth bared in a white moon.

“I didn’t quite hear you. Say again?” As she asked, her hand moved. He gasped in the trap of it.

“My pronunciation must be off. How is this?” His own hand moved. Her eyes went wide and dark. “Mina Harker. Mina Harker. Mina Harker.”

More practice unspooled. Harker, husband, wife, I do, I will. Around and around again until their tongues ran dry and they were left folded into the tangle of each other, their last fig leaf still reserved for the nuptial night itself. As midnight rolled past, the storm slipped off with it and left the moon to throw its rays through the edges of the curtains. Mina’s ring trapped its glow on her knuckle. He almost wept to look at it.

Real. This is real. I am awake and this is real. God, God. Thank you.

“Thank you,” he murmured into the top of her head. Her hair massed into a perfect curling cloud under his chin. The cloud tickled there as she lifted her gaze to him.

“For what?”

“You know.”

“If I must say, ‘You’re welcome,’ so must you.” Jonathan held his tongue. “Exactly.” Her hand cupped his cheek as she went on, “I feel much the same. Like a lottery was won and the prize is an unfair gift by dint of how precious it is compared to the recipient. By how that prize refuses to acknowledge their own value. But there is time yet to filter that all down into something better. We will have our vows to smother each other with and neither of us will be able to shush and insist, no, no, I am the luckier one. All while the pews roll their eyes. For tonight I ask that we have a truce. No deprecation, no hoisting onto pedestals. Just for now, we will pretend we each feel equal to the blessing of the other. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Good.” Mina lifted herself high enough to find his lips with hers. “I love you, Jonathan.”

“I love you, Mina.” He mouthed the words to himself long after she had fallen asleep atop his heart. I love you, Mina. I love you, Mina Murray. I love you, Mina Harker. I love you. Thank you.

Jonathan faced the covered window and the sliver of pane visible at the cloth’s edge. He spotted the moon hovering in a split among the breaking rainclouds. As sleep finally found him, he could not shake an unpleasant certainty that he was looking at a great glowing eye. And that it was staring back. 

Jonathan discovered Carfax Abbey on a clear blue day. His immediate impressions of the place ran in quick succession. First, that the location was so precise in its accommodation of Count Dracula’s specifications that it might have been commissioned. Second, that it looked like a place meant only to exist after dark on a sinister moor. This remained true despite the brilliance of spring stubbornly budding along the edge of its high stone fence.

He sent back a late thanks to himself as he’d been that morning, when he had tossed a coin on whether or not to bring the Kodak with him for the day’s hunt. Though the cab would be trusted to take him to the general area, it would be down to more literal footwork to inspect the properties he hoped to survey as far as he could without increasing the fare. Which would not bother him too much if he were going light. He did have a fondness for a run when it could be gotten away with sans pedestrians. But there would be no jogging with the camera to mind. Only a steady trudge.

Yet even that predicted march was trimmed down to a mere amble by dint of the cabman’s suggestion. He had heard out Jonathan’s description of his ideal quarry and first assumed him to be a tourist who’d gotten lost in a search for haunted houses.

“The area hasn’t much in that way, lad. Only place that comes close is old Carfax. Used to be an abbey, but looks more like a hideaway for the Dark Ages’ ghouls.”

“Do you know if it’s for sale?” This had earned him an odd look before the cabman admitted he had seen a sign staked out front that might have claimed the place was available. Supposing one cleared away the accumulated grime.

“I have to wonder if your buyer will bother with such a place. Ghosts can be dealt with, but it has more unsavory living neighbors to deal with.”

“Who are they?”

“Can’t say I know them personally, thank God, but I know for certain they’re perfectly mad.”

“Really?”

“Well, they’d not be in a private madhouse otherwise.”

The cab passed said lunatic asylum en route to the site. Jonathan was happy to note that it was at least a stately building, clearly a former domestic estate that had been expanded into suitable proportions for the inmates and staff. Better still, it was so far from Carfax as to be invisible through the facility’s wall of tended trees even when standing outside the latter’s stonework border.

Seeing the composition of said fence’s rough stones had plucked at Jonathan’s boyhood itch for play. If it were not for the cabman as a witness, he might have clambered his way up and walked along the edge as he’d done around his aunt’s home before he was declared too old for such nonsense. Still musing, Jonathan thanked the man again for the find and paid for the ride, promising another fare if he would return in an hour’s time. The cabman hesitated even after he had taken the first half of the pay.

“You’re certain you’d rather not go up the whole road first? There aren’t many houses, but they’re each of them empty and all far less a stain on the eye than that evil heap of rocks.”

“Do any of the rest have a chapel attached?”

“Don’t believe so. But if your buyer’s so keen on his prayers he ought to make do with a trip to church like the rest of us.”

“I imagine he means to refurbish it for that very purpose.” Jonathan offered a smile. “I’m certain whatever spirits might be lurking will have to clear out once he’s put the place in order.”

“Or torn the bloody thing down,” the cabman muttered not quite under his breath. He huffed and checked his watch. “An hour, you said? Just to wander around the place?”

“To wander here and across the neighboring grounds. I need to take note of the full landscape as well as the estate.” The cabman snorted at this in time with his horse.

“I hope your buyer is paying what you’re worth, lad. Any more on his list and he’d have you mapping out all of Purfleet to be sure it suits his fancy.” When the cab pulled away Jonathan began the photography. As much as he could manage from outside the fence. But then, because there were no witnesses, and because there was no way of opening the gate without ruining the rusted lock, and because it really wouldn’t be a thorough survey of the property without a glimpse of things on the inside of the towering stone walls, Jonathan shouldered his bag and scaled the rock as blithely as a spider.

He landed in the shade under one of the sundry trees that crowded the interior grounds. Jonathan marveled at how the trees’ shadows and that of the hulking abbey combined to hold a permanent dusk in place. So much so that it was a challenge to find any well-lit spots in which to take pictures without losing details. Up close the chapel was no less imposing than the abbey. It stood apart in its overgrown gothic solitude while the abbey puffed itself out with late additions to the structure. Jonathan made a note to reserve some pictures for Mina once he’d set aside an album for the Count. Sadly there was no letting himself indoors without becoming a full intruder, and so he satisfied himself with touring the rest of the land. A tour he was happy to make at a run.

The camera and his bag were set carefully aside with the chapel to manage this—for he must manage it, seeing as the grounds seemed to cover no less than twenty acres—and sent another belated thanks to his morning self for donning more active shoes than his workplace pair. While the place was no forest, it was an easy enough copse to imagine as such. A private patch of woodlands in which he had no one to be mindful of on a trail or blush over as they gawked at him, wondering what his hurry was. Here the exercise even bore fruit in the form of revealing a pond set at the estate’s southern end. A pool clear with spring water and trickling a faint stream through a grate into denser growth beyond the rear gates. Another run and a returning walk ensured this too got its photograph.

It was as he took these pictures that he saw the place even had some refreshment in the way of brambleberries snarling their way along the masonry. They were still some months away from being in season, but the desire to steal a piece of their thorny nest to plant his own shrub gnawed. At least until he reminded himself it would be hopeless with his current lodging. A mint tin of a flat slotted wall-to-wall with the rest of the street. Mina’s was worse still, he knew. When they married, they would pool their funds to find somewhere with a little girdle of a garden around it. Or else they would have window-boxes to grow things for the kitchen. Or both. Just a wedge of greenery to tame and taste for themselves.

 For now, he satisfied himself with adding it to the marital itinerary and took out his notebook to jot the impressions of Carfax Abbey as he had for half a dozen other estates, all of them falling short on one preference or another. Too new, too near to the hub of a city, too compact, too bright, and, most damning, not a single chapel to spare among them. At least, none that were not in use by the general public. He would likely run around for another couple weeks to check on other prospective options, but he held little hope for a finer match than Carfax.

Carfax, Carfax. I wonder…

The notebook was tucked away in exchange first for his watch, which showed he’d somehow burned only twenty minutes, and then a compass. A minor note from the Count had mentioned a desire to have, ‘an open sky with which to see all the night and day, the dusks and dawns, without men’s brick and smoke in their way.’ Jonathan could not fault such a wish and so had brought the compass to see if he might happen upon a house with the view clear for the east’s sunrise and the west’s sunset. The compass revealed he had done even better with the abbey.

‘Carfax.’ Quatre Face. A four-sided house with its walls facing the four cardinal directions. All clear of any rooftops and their belching chimneys. I’m sure it will please you, Count.

The thought sank his joy like a stone. Jonathan looked again at the abbey. Haunted and a relic of dead centuries, true, but a place of dignity and grand dimensions all the same. A voice rose up in him with smiling malice as he stared at it.

You will never have such space. You will never have a home so broad that Mina can have rooms all for herself and more for the daydream of children. You will live close to all the fruits of a metropolis, as near as the gutters themselves, and only ever know what it is to skim them, to borrow them, to daydream without laying your lesser hands on them except to use them for another. You will have neither the sprawling beauty of nature or the boons of modernity. Not for your entire life, Jonathan Harker.

And, because he could not stop the flow once it was running:

She should have found someone better. Someone with more than your scraps to offer.

He ground the heel of his palm against each eye until they dried.

“What would she say?”

Something kind you do not deserve.

Jonathan shook his head and marveled at the paradox that still found its way to nettle him even with the ring on her finger. Perhaps because of it. It was the miserable uncertainty of the hours preceding his examination turned up a hundredfold. Time, experience and evidence all stood in favor of him passing his tests on the professional and romantic fronts, yes, yes, he knew it…

…But what if he didn’t? What if he had somehow fooled himself and Mina and Hawkins and peers and the world itself into thinking he was more than what he was? What if?

What if you stop wallowing and get out before the cab returns?

Jonathan stopped long enough to skip a stone across the pond before following his route back to where he’d clambered over the wall. With half an hour to spare, he began walking at a healthy gait across the spread of land between the abbey and the asylum. If only to say he knew how many paces it was between the properties. One, two, three, four, five…

The pacing turned irregular once he had to cross through the border of trees that stood for a property line between Carfax and its company. Jonathan was stunned to discover there was no proper fence hidden behind the picturesque rows. Only a walled and gated section at the rear of the asylum that suggested an area for outdoor excursion or perhaps a private kitchen garden. He hoped it was the former. Even the insane needed leave to stretch their legs beyond the borders of a cell. As he mulled this, he heard a shout. It sounded like it held the weight of every expletive known to the English tongue and several more beyond it.

Following this was the same livid voice grating seemingly out of thin air, “Idiot! Fool! One damned page and you do this?” Jonathan heard a clatter of hollow things against a wall. “Imbecile!” He stepped fully beyond the wall of trees and saw the voice’s owner pacing back and forth inside a barred window set at the foot of the asylum’s wall.

“Sir? Are you alright?” Jonathan was almost as surprised as the man in the window to realize he had not only spoken, but come closer. There was an instant in which the man tensed. The picture of one who’s realized someone of influence has caught them in a bad moment. Yet upon actually seeing Jonathan and recognizing his lack of import, he relaxed enough to smile. Albeit sourly.

“Apart from this most inconvenient stint of homemaking, courtesy of concerned friend and kin, I am quite fine, young man. Ebullient, ecstatic, elated.” The polite rictus hardened. Jonathan thought queasily of wild dogs. “Apart from the fact that I have lost the last of my stationery to an overfilled glass. My cup runneth over. My cup ruins days of work and turns the remaining space to so much waste. Just look!”

The man thrust something up to the gaps in the bars, stopping just short of throwing the spoiled pinch of paper out onto the grass. For it was spoiled. Jonathan saw the stationery was really little more than a large cut of butcher paper folded and refolded until it made a sort of accordion-book. The whole thing was so waterlogged that Jonathan could barely tell tally marks from letters as the crayon bled together and the pages sagged.

“Ruined,” the man punctuated with what was either a sneer or a sulk. “At best I can try to mash and dry the thing out as a new sheet. But the stuff was already muddy enough to write on and I shall have to reduce myself to the penmanship of an infant with the bluntest marks just to make anything legible. And I had just started to make progress.” He cocked his gaze more fully at Jonathan. His look was one accustomed to giving brisk appraisal. “If you are a journalist, you are quite tardy with your pen. You’ve not even set up your camera’s tripod to record the travesty.”

“I am no journalist, unfortunately,” Jonathan admitted as he unearthed his notebook. “But at least that leaves some of this to work with, if you’re amenable.” Covering the shorthand of the last full page, he showed the man in the window the remaining blank sheets. Not a great many pages left, and certainly not of impressive size considering it was a pocketbook, but it would be a fair amount of writing space for a careful script. The man’s expression did not change, but his eyes brightened.

“I may be. Supposing I know the price at the other end of such a trade.”

“No price, sir. You would do me a kindness in taking it as I shall have to start a fresh one for another project soon. The predecessor would be left unfinished and forgotten in the meantime.”

“Ah, a worse fate than a journalist. An author. How many poor diaries have you left abandoned in their pretty bindings for the sake of a new volume?” The man clicked his tongue through a grin. “I jest, of course. You do not seem the sort to waste what he has.” The grin, still genuine, flattened an increment. Bloodshot eyes gleamed. “I fear I wasted a great deal of what I once thought mine on the other side of these delightful accommodations. Never make such a mistake as mine, young man. Do not doubt for an instant that what you trust today cannot turn on you tomorrow.”

“I won’t, sir.” Jonathan thought of adding that he had lived under that knowledge since the day he attended the funerals which ended his childhood. He swallowed it back. “May I..?” He held the notebook up, his shorthand sheets pinched between thumb and forefinger.

“I would be most grateful.”

Jonathan tore his filled pages neatly out. The remaining clean pages were barely thicker than a pamphlet, but clung sturdily to the little spine. Jonathan knelt low enough to lay it within reach on the grass. He noticed a small dusting of white powder at the window’s edge. A crowd of ants whittled away at the mound.

“Ants,” the man scoffed as he followed Jonathan’s line of sight. “Pitiful company. I had hoped the thaw would bring in something heartier. Flies, ladybugs, perhaps some early butterflies. But the real trouble is keeping them around. Ah, apologies, might you bring it a little closer?” The man raised his forearms into view. “I haven’t the best angle from where I stand.” Jonathan scooped up the notebook and brought it an inch nearer.

The man’s hands were abruptly out through the bars and clapped around Jonathan’s. Tight. Short of hurting, short of breaking, but locked as firmly as a vise. Jonathan tensed without pulling back. Again he thought of wild dogs. Of things that only seemed to be dogs until they closed in. Creatures that chased once they saw something run.

Jonathan was still. The man was still. Grasping Jonathan’s hand and the notebook in a pantomime prayer.

It’s my left hand. Smart enough for that, at least. I can still do my paperwork with the right intact and the other broken. Will the fingers heal in time for Mina to slip the band on? How mortifying to have to explain it all to her. I wonder if the asylum would make up a cast without charging for it…

“There is no need to shake upon it, sir,” Jonathan heard himself say. “The book is yours.” The man regarded him with less of a smile now. His lip still curled, but it seemed only to hold on by sheer will. It dropped entirely with the gust of a sigh.

“The book and a lack of tact, I fear. Even if I were not mad, I would still be a churl.” The hands relaxed and a set of fingers drummed once on the back of Jonathan’s wrist. “Though I suspect you are a soul used to them. I would tell you to be more wary on your way, but it is only a simpleton of a preacher who would bother teaching his flock wariness in a world where they must interact each day with wolves. Though I will advise that it is rather foolish to go around making conversation with confirmed lunatics up close. I am confirmed, you know. The facts are printed and signed all over by professionals. I saw the document myself.” The man’s look floated away from Jonathan and into a distance he couldn’t guess at. “Printed on far finer paper than what we settle for.”

One of the gripping hands came away, leaving only the one folded over the notebook and Jonathan’s palm. They shook. The notebook was collected in the same gesture.

“My thanks,” from the window.

“Quite welcome,” as Jonathan righted himself. He surprised himself with his own steadiness. The rote pitch of the office and a life’s worth of reflex steered his tongue while mind, heart, and stomach rattled where they hid. Because he had to do something with his freed hand rather than clasp it in its brother, he fished out his watch. Only now did a ripple of worry manage to rise to his face.

“Some trouble?”

“I fear I may have lost my ride.”

“You came from the by-road, yes? It hardly sees traffic. If your driver’s gone on without you, go around the front here and see if you cannot bribe our beloved head doctor into lending out the wagon. Just say you have managed to wring a whole quarter of an hour’s worth of nattering from his friend R.M.”

“R.M.?”

“Short for Mr. Rig R. Mortis.” The man chuckled at Jonathan’s look. “Pseudonym, young man. Can hardly have the family being shamed under my real title. He will know who you mean. Though I do hope you manage your ride instead.” With that, the man ducked back from the window and was gone. Jonathan had made it three strides away when the voice called behind him, “Here!” Something small struck the back of Jonathan’s heel. He turned and saw gold winking up at him. A sovereign. “It is not payment. You are merely ensuring the attendant who lost it when I had my last room search never gets it back.”

“Sir—,”

But the window was already abandoned. Jonathan picked the coin up. It was partially obliterated on one end, erasing part of Victoria’s face and the rider on the reverse. This was because the edge had been ground to a sharp edge that nicked his thumb open as he turned it over. Blood smeared Saint George, his steed, and the dragon hissing up at the sword and hooves.

Cold fingers seemed to walk up his spine as he examined it. Shaking the chill away, he tucked the coin in his pocket alongside the notebook’s harvested pages and dashed back the way he’d come. He made it to the waiting cab just as it was pulling up to the gate.

“Well, lad? Is it what your buyer’s after?”

“I believe so.” Jonathan smiled as he said it and held the expression admirably until the cabman turned his gaze back to the road. He gloved his hands despite the balmy weather, sheathing his thumb as it traced the thin impression of the cargo sitting against his breast.

“If you keep up with that you shall tear the whole cheek off,” she said at his shoulder. “You are awake, I promise.”

Jonathan stopped pinching at himself and split his attention between Mina’s face and the clock’s. The magic circle of Roman numbers seemed to shake a phantom head. No, it said, not yet. But soon.

“This is happening, then?” he asked as he turned fully to Mina. Mina, here at the last moment together until mid-May. Mina, wearing the ring he had saved a year for on her finger. Mina, who had clasped and kissed and kept him from collapsing outright in stupefied relief upon the announcement that he had passed his examination, her fiancé now a solicitor. Mina, who held his hand and kept him from floating off through the ceiling and into the sky. “This is really happening? Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.” Jonathan’s eye traveled to her neck and the glimpse of a cord peeking from her shirt collar. She caught him and spared her free hand to tuck it out of sight. “Just as I am sure you will not fly off with my treasure, you magpie.”

The treasure being Jonathan’s own plain gold band now worn as a necklace. He had been the one to slip it over her head the night before, mesmerized by the soft shine as it landed over her heart. It was done by mostly mutual agreement. Mina wished to hold a scrap of tradition close and leave his hand bare until they reached the chapel. And, though Jonathan suspected this was mere theatre, she said she wished to hold onto it as proof to herself that she was awake and that the engagement was a reality. Besides, it was practical! If he were wearing the cord on his trip, what if he should lose it in any number of countries as he traveled? It was one thing to risk forgetting it at the office or leaving it at home. Quite another to imagine losing it in a hotel in another nation. Even with all this logic at her disposal, Jonathan donned his best moue. Mina covered it with her hand.

“That is unfair.”

“I am not above unscrupulous tactics, Mrs. Harker.”

“Like trying to break me by calling me Mrs. Harker?”

“Possibly.”

“Well, you are foiled. My will is too great.” She brought her hand away to brush a strand of hair from his brow. “There is no need to scheme anyway. You shall have the thing back soon enough.”

Jonathan pretended not to hear the slight tremor at the word ‘soon.’ Yes, it was only a few weeks’ separation. A month at most if there were delays in train or coach. But even in this zenith of excitement, knowing unequivocally that this was where their future began—a future where they were taking their first steps up rather that walking the same flat circle in the dust—it felt strangely like waiting to leap into a chasm. A gorge that required endless paperwork to keep track of, plus what was required for the travel itself. Documentation, letter of credit, passport, polyglot dictionary, and, carefully packed, the first new suit he’d had in three years.

Mina had insisted on his modeling it before packing it away. After, she declared she must send a letter of gratitude to not only Mr. Hawkins, but to the tailor. They would have to see him again about the suit for the wedding. Lucy had already written back in response to Mina’s last letter with the announcement, erupting with insistence that, while she was not the sort of girl to live and die by fashion plates, she wanted to know the very instant she began hunting for a dress.

In the present, however, the only new attire was the coat Jonathan wore. A companion piece Hawkins had insisted join the suit before Jonathan could escape the tape measure. Jonathan’s hand drifted up to one of its pockets now and found it unexpectedly light. Worry spiked for a moment before his mind caught up to what it was he’d been feeling for. He almost laughed. Mina canted her head at him, searching. She never missed even the most minute shift behind his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Only I’ve realized I was so adamant about packing everything for the needs of the trip and the client that I forgot the one item I meant to bring solely for me.”

“Your books?”

“No, the law texts are there. A bit of Dumas as well. But I have forgotten my book.” He offered a bashful smile. “Ours, I mean. For your assignment.”

Her brow furrowed a moment before she recalled, “The journal?”

“Yes. I meant to grab one of the spare pocketbooks from my desk, but it’s not in its place. Maybe I bundled it in the case without thinking.” If not, he could shave out a little of his emergency budget for something en route to the castle. But Mina was beaming at him.

“An ordinary pocketbook might suffice for a clerk, but not a solicitor. Especially not when I’ve held onto this since you turned your back to peruse the dictionaries two months back.” She brought out her reticule as she spoke. From the reticule came a slim leatherbound volume with supple pages made to resist the traitorous smudges and tears of its precursor’s flimsy leaves. The whole thing was tied with a white ribbon that pinned a matching pen to its cover. “All shorthand. Promise?”

“Promise,” Jonathan nodded as he took the book gingerly from her hand. It fit so perfectly in the coat that it failed to even dent cloth. “Though I don’t believe the same applies to the recipes. Which I shall collect in abundance and inflict upon us both once I return. Is there anything specific you want me to bring back?”

“You know my tastes already.”

“Other than the cuisine, I mean.”

“Nothing comes immediately to mind. A good story or two would be nice, but,” again her hand found his face, cupped against the angle of his cheek, “as long as you come back, I will be satisfied.”

“I suppose that can be managed.”

The clock tolled and the call went out to the station. All aboard, come along. Mina’s eyes flicked with brief wonder to the train itself. Locomotives and their railways had been one of her chief interests for as long as Jonathan had known her. She regarded her copy of Bradshaw’s Guide with the same reverence as some did their Bible, to say nothing of the clipped articles she had collected concerning new routes and models being laid out within various countries. In sum, Mina loved the practicality and potential of trains. To her they were proof that their world was not limited by whether or not they could hail a hansom or how far it was willing to take them. But now her smile dimmed.

“It had better bring you back on time,” she said as they walked arm and arm up to his car. “I shall be standing in this very spot with my watch out.”

“I’ll warn the conductor.” Because they were among strangers, she had allowed him to hold her arm rather than the reverse. He gave a gentle squeeze first to her arm, then her hand. The lump of the stone stood out under her glove. “If it runs late, I will simply run ahead.” Her laugh did little to hide the dew in her eyes. It matched the mist in his. Their hands held tight.

In that moment, an absurd impulse leapt up in him. An animal-twitch of fear that went deeper than mere anxiety, deeper than love, deeper than concern of career or separation or wandering in unknown lands. It was the needling of a sense he had no name for. A thing that smelled or heard or tasted some imperceptible sign that bodily and mental awareness refused to acknowledge. It whispered:

Do not go. Do not do this. Go home. Go now. Before it’s too late.

The whisper froze him. Mina appeared to freeze with him. Her eyes reflected a feverish glimmer of his own disquiet. They stood locked in that second like a hart and doe with their ears pricked toward a huntsman’s tread in the wood.

But then they blinked. Mina’s gaze lightened and the uncanny sensation left Jonathan as quickly as it came. Only a shudder of nerves disguised as a portent. Really, he could hardly bow to it even if it had meant anything beyond a hiccough of his own fretting. Fact outweighed fear and the fact was he had a job to do. A job that began here, now, with the release of Mina’s hand so he might grab his other bag from her.

Thus unburdened, Mina abruptly trapped his face between her palms. Jonathan bent down until his mouth met hers. Here was the plush press of her lips on his, feeling so much like a reverie he thought once again that he must be asleep. He would wake any moment and the fantasy would fall away into foam. Now. Now.

“Now, I don’t mean to intrude, but there is a train waiting. I’m afraid you must save the rest of the young man for his return trip.” They both snapped up at once to see the uniformed man at Jonathan’s back. He was eyeing them with a look that spoke of a career forever encumbered with similar scenes. The man peered at Jonathan over his spectacles. “You are boarding?”

“Yes, sir. Apologies.” But an apology not even fractionally meant. He turned back to Mina who now steamed from the neck up as she avoided the gawking of an older couple taking in the show. The wife gestured at the sight of them, muttering something in a tone of mingled mirth and query in her husband’s ear, to which the husband rolled his eyes. Jonathan spared them only a mote of attention. “Mina.” She looked to him. “I love you. I’ll be back soon.”

“I love you, Jonathan. I’ll be right here.”

He found his seat at the window and did not turn his head away from the glass. Not while the train idled. Not while it pulled away in its hiss and puff of turning wheels. Not while Mina stood there waving after him, her feet tugging her forward a few unconscious steps so that she might see his window longer while he craned his head to keep her in view. Only when the station itself was a speck in the distance did he turn back around. Off to the future to lay an invisible track for them both. To collect countries as keepsakes and bring them home on paper like pressed flowers.

Jonathan tried to imagine what he might cross on his travel to and from the castle that would be a worthwhile souvenir. Images of books and baubles were conjured as he traced the edges of his journal. So he went on musing until excitement burned out to exhaustion and the first doze of his trip dragged him down into sleep.

A dream came and went.

He was still on the train, still at his window, but the seat facing his was no longer empty. A face he knew was there. One harvested from the far end of his school days and the nascent career as a clerk. So he believed.

It was a familiar countenance in the way that the sight of a stranger always seen in the same place amounted to vague acquaintance. Known enough to nod at in passing. Jonathan had nodded at this one and been given a nod back in student years. He’d thought of introducing himself once or twice, only for the young man to flush and hurry off like a frightened stray. Jonathan had never quite understood it.

Now here was his anonymous acquaintance again, finally sedate in his seat and hidden in his newspaper. While he was not Jonathan’s senior by more than a year, he looked to be in a more professional state of dress. Pressed and tailored and relaxed in that way men can be when they know they have a wardrobe full of similarly fine ensembles waiting at home. But it was his choice of accessory that gave him away as being on a similar pilgrimage to Jonathan’s. The unoccupied portion of his seat was taken up by the paperwork of a sale, carefully weighted by a discarded hat. His companion spared it no attention, having his gaze pinned on the newspaper open in his hands. It blocked the view of him from the whiskers down. Jonathan was still wondering whether to announce himself when a voice came from behind the newsprint:

“My way goes through Munich. Yours as well?”

“Yes,” Jonathan said. “Though I fear there will be no real stop there. At least, the Count did not pencil a hotel stay in the route.”

“Hm,” his companion nodded. “I suppose he would not gamble it twice. Even if he did set it right the first go around.” The newspaper rustled and the young man’s eyes finally lifted above the print to find Jonathan’s. They were bottle glass-bright. “What all have you packed?”

“Necessities, mainly. Everything for the sale, some changes for the overnight stays and—,”

“And what haven’t you packed?”

“I…” His hand traveled again to his chest. “Mina saved me at the station. I forgot a notebook, but she had one ready. I should be fine.”

“No. You are still missing something. Rather, I expect you will be missing it quite soon.” There was a sigh behind the paper. “All that practice and you go and leave the damned thing under your bed.”

Jonathan straightened in his seat. His right hand clamped reflexively, as if palm and fingers were dreaming of a hardwood handle. 

“I’m not going to the jungle.”

“There are worse things than animals to worry about. If you cannot cut them down, what will be left to you?” Another page turned. The bottle glass eyes slid to look out the window. Jonathan followed his gaze and saw that the world had gone black and white under a skull-faced moon. “But then, you might make do without the steel. You handled the worst of our schoolmates well enough back then without even raising your voice. Whatever you may lack as a full-blooded Englishman you make up for in softer stuff. Enough that one or two of the lads confessed over drinks that they wished you were a girl. I was not one of them. You gave me trouble enough as a boy. 

“All that said, you have skills that will help. Appealing attributes. Ones I could have used myself.” The unblinking eyes slid back to Jonathan. It was a greyer stare now. Almost filmy. “I had nothing to sell. Neither in English property or my personal wares, so to speak. I could not even muster charm enough to be worth an extra hour’s chat.” Jonathan watched his companion’s hands crumple the paper in two fists. He saw for the first time that those hands were red. They left dry maroon stains across the gazette. “Who is waiting for you, Jonathan Harker? Who at home? Your Mina, old Hawkins, and who else? Any names come to mind?

“Of those friends, are there any who will know to worry when it goes wrong? Anyone to ask questions? To watch the calendar and the post and wonder how you are? Because I thought I did. I even knew the difference between friends and amiable acquaintances, unlike you. Fellows in and out of my firm. Even a girl who understood my needs and was willing to play her part. They all said they expected letters from me. Said they’d be on watch if I was not back within half a month. That was a year ago. And still they do not know where I am. Nor have they cared enough to look.

“But you would have, I think. If I had ever gotten over my cowardice. If I hadn’t wasted boyhood cringing, so afraid I would give myself away. If I had not made a ghost of myself rather than a friend. I was so proud of myself for not daring at the time—I fear I would have made a wretched scene when I first realized you and the pretty schoolmistress were serious. Instead I took my wine and my pain in silence. Told myself how wise I had been not to try. Ha.” Jonathan watched pallid lips peel open on a smile glazed pink with bleeding. Red rivulets trailed out between the young man’s teeth and into the trimmed beard. “Not that it would have mattered in the end. If we had been friends, if we had been more, if we had been anything at all, there wouldn’t have been much for you to find.”

Jonathan leaned forward. It took an effort. A growing stench was starting to waft from the opposite seat. The stink of copper and rot.

“Please, just tell me what this is. Tell me how to help. What’s happened?”

His companion’s grisly smile wilted. The bottle glass eyes ran like his mouth.

“What’s happened is you have climbed onto the same train I took. You will ride on plenty more. The same coaches too. Perhaps that will help. They never caught on to the truth of things when it was me. After all, he does have work to do, being what he is. People must have made it to and from that place before in official capacity. They must have thought it would be the same for imported goods. Hopefully they will know better now. But then, so will he. Soon all you will have to rely on is yourself. Use what you have. All that you have. Play the game as best you can. As long as you can.” Red tears and dribble flowed in a thickening cascade. “I could not last a week and so lost everything. Or nearly so. I am restless, true, but it could have been worse. Much worse.”

“I don’t understand,” Jonathan almost rasped. Fear choked him like a noose.

“I know. And I am very, very sorry to say that you will.” His companion sighed, releasing a crimson haze of spittle into the air. “Well. This is all I can manage as I am. I suppose I shall not need this anymore. Here.” The newspaper was shut and held out for Jonathan to take. “Somewhat out of date, but well worth the read.”

 Jonathan spared barely a mote of attention for it. There was no headline or story that he could make out. Only a flash of what looked like the stanzas of a poem, though he couldn’t say for certain. He was too gripped by the sight of the young man below the neck. Seeing the fullness of it hooked something in Jonathan’s stomach and drew it up to the very edge of his teeth. He wasn’t sure if it was his breakfast or a scream.

That was when the hand fell on his shoulder.

Cold. Just as cold as the lips now pressed at the side of his neck.

Whatever sound he might have made was cut off as something sharp drove into his throat and the train went as dark as the world beyond it.

“Sir?” Jonathan fell against his seat as if thrown. The uniformed man started back himself, taking his hand away from Jonathan’s shoulder as he did. “We’re coming to the station soon. Can’t have you sleeping through your stop.”

“No. No, of course. Thank you. Sorry.” The man glanced at Jonathan’s lap with a look possessed by every father who has ever known better than his progeny.

“You could pick lighter reading to nod off on. You’re only setting yourself up for sour dreaming if that’s what you skim beforehand.” He didn’t loiter long enough to explain what he meant. Jonathan looked down.

He had picked a gazette to stuff into his things before he and Mina reached the platform. He’d had an idea that he was reserving his books for the far end of his travel and so would make do with some final updates from his native soil. At some point he had turned all the way to the obituaries. His hand rested on one describing the tragic loss of a young man at sea. A sailor fallen overboard in a storm, presumed dead.

They could be wrong, Jonathan thought with sudden desperation. Perhaps he lived. He made it safely to an island or some distant beach. They could find him alive and well. Couldn’t they?

The newspaper was shut, folded over twice, and tucked back in his luggage. Jonathan did not touch it again until he left the final station that spat him out by the shore, feeding it to the first wastebin he saw. He almost laughed to himself when it came time to board the ship. It would be May by the time he cracked open the journal and wrote anything of interest.

“I shall do better on the return trip,” he promised the naked pages. “I’ll record a view of the sunrise on the water, I swear.” And he meant it. But for this first voyage across the water, Jonathan stayed shut in his room. If he dreamt of a black tide coming up to swallow him, he was happy to wake without recalling it. 

[reddwarfpoll]

The End: On the mining ship Red Dwarf, slobbish slacker Dave Lister dreams of a life in Fiji away from his annoying bunkmate Arnold Rimmer. When he's placed in suspended animation, he wakes up 3 million years later to find the entire crew are dead.

Thanks for the Memory: After a long night of drinking and partying to celebrate the anniversary of Rimmer's death, Rimmer laments that nobody loved him in life. Feeling sorry for Rimmer, Lister decides to implant memories of his ex-girlfriend in Rimmer's mind.

Photo IDs by @what--the-helliot

[sarasanddollar]

"No offense buddy, but have you forgotten how weird things get when your cousin's around? It's like a nightmare!"

ARNIE WALKED SO FELIX COULD RUN 🙌🏼 if Miraculous Ladybug didn't have all the superhero stuff going on, it'd basically have the same kind of classroom relationship drama as in Hey Arnold... 🏈🐈‍⬛

1. Felix and Arnie are both based on "off-model" designs of their respective cousins: a concept version of Adrien and an animation error of Arnold 2. In the episode Felix is introduced in, Adrien's friends try to cheer him up on the day his mother "went away forever." This is the same plot as the opening of the Hey Arnold episode, "The Journal," where Arnold sits and laments the day his parents disappeared 3. Felix and Arnie are both cousins on the boys' moms' side. 4. Lila Rossi is constantly scheming to have Adrien as her boyfriend. Lila Sawyer distinctly doesn't do this, but her dream counterpart "Lulu" does when Arnold visits Arnie. 5. Helga and Marinette both have "unrequited" crushes on the respective male protagonists, and things get confusing when their identical cousin becomes involved

[fagsex]

rating deliciousity of dinosaurs kills in jurassic park

construction worker (in intro) by velociraptor - a solid 7/10. a little much for a velociraptor to enjoy on its own, and likely didnt finish, but seemed to be a hefty, solid get of a man. an unfortunate death, but a good meal. loses points for waste, preventablity and ergo lack of creative kill for the raptor.

gennaro (annoying lawyer) by t rex [rexy] - honestly i believe he would taste nice. his stress was sweating the meat, working him out, a lean meal. however, as this is for a tyrannosaurus rex, this is not as much a meal as much as it is a snack, a peckish nibble. for another dinosaur he'd get up there but for this being for rexy its only a 6/10. extra points for hilarious kill on the terlit.

nedry (traitor hacker, newman) by dilophosaurus - i mentioned this in a comment but this is not a good bite to eat. there is simply too much of any grown man for this JUVENILE dilophosaurus, even if he were leaner meaner green fighting machiner. but he is... to be frank too much for a hearty get. the first many bites are just going to be fatty tissue, and by the time the good stuff is there, poor thing will be full. she didnt have any other friends with her, so it was unshared, left behind, not to mention covered in venom on the good parts! sad. 2/10.

arnold (smoker, samuel l jackson) by velociraptor - faces again the problem of too much a man for a single woman. now hypothetically, he may have been shared amongst some of the raptors, but by the fact a whole arm is left behind, he was unable to be properly finished. he is tall, and somewhat muscley, simply too much for a single raptor. i dont know what smoking does to the meat in this way, i cant imagine much for it to matter. i have to imagine however he was a rather satisfying meal, being cornered so well, but it feels like he was more of a sport kill than for nourishment. 5/10 at highest.

muldon (game hunter) by velociraptor - 10/10. satisfying kill as he fell into their trap, a muscley yet not too muscley meaty figure. a little tanned and calloused for a good texture. the only one to not pitifully lament at his coming death. faced death with grace and acceptance in a beautiful way, and very lasting final words (the celebrated 'clever girl'). the death was also split in between three velociraptors, and even if one was full from arnold, the other two could have made a clean, good meal out of him, and gotten a very satisfying bout of energy in order to chase those kids around that kitchen. without this, who knows how interesting that cat and mouse would have been. the character is likable, and yet, his death is not mournful or something to cry over. all around, perfect death and meal.

[forabeatofadrum]

Hello! I may have missed Wet Rat Wednesday, but I have returned for another Out of Touch Thrusday. Thank you @blackberrysummerblog for the tag!

I published the 3rd chapter of Just Some Guy and my Class fic All of me loves all you this week, so YEET, writing. Have something more of Just Some Guy. Matt's friend Sam has feelings and others have opinions on those feelings:

One person who’s also glad to see Baz is Sam of all people. “What?” Sam says, “I have eyes. Baz Pitch might be an elitist arsehole, but man, he’s fine.” “Really, Sam?” Ryan asks, surprised. I scoff. I’m not gay or anything (or so I think), but I don’t think Baz Pitch is that attractive. “You could so much better,” Arnold also says, “Baz Pitch has this weird dead looking grey skin.” “And eyes that stare into your soul,” Scott adds. “And the slicked back hair makes him look like a posh git,” Luis also says, although Baz Pitch is already a push git. “Jeez, alright, guys, I get it. Baz Pitch isn’t hot,” Sam laments. “Whatever. I hear he’s into Agatha Wellbelove, like every straight guy,” Leslie says.

Here's the thing, dear readers. We know Baz is hot, but what if he isn't? I am very much on team "Baz isn't that hot, Simon is just in love and thinks everyone swoons over him, but no, it's just him" and Sam! Now, of course, Simon and Matt won't really interact, so Matt isn't aware of Simon's extreme interest in Baz, but imagine if they did and Matt would be so confused, because "Really, Simon Snow, really?"

(Johnson: For the record, I also think Baz is hot, but it isn't relevant to the plot so my friends will never know!)

And now, the weather: @quizasvivamos @coffeegleek @caramelcoffeeaddict @raenestee @tectonicduck @nightimedreamersworld @urban-sith @thnxforknowingme @captain-aralias @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @cerriddwenluna @bookish-bogwitch @confused-bi-queer @that-disabled-princess @special-bc-ur-part-of-it @larkral @cutestkilla ​ @wellbelesbian ​ @artsyunderstudy ​ @martsonmars ​ @facewithoutheart ​ @shrekgogurt @rockitmans @bitbybitwrites @whatevertheweather @theotherhufflepuff @shame-is-a-wasted-emotion @esilher @kurtsascot @nightimedreamersghost

[arnold-layne]

oh the siren call of starting a new story….

[achillesreborn]

artist archive ; Arnold Böcklin (1827 - 1901)

Böcklin was born in Switzerland & during his life produced many beautiful paintings of religious events such as Jesus' crucifixion & the birth of Aphrodite, alongside country landscapes & portraits. his painting "self-portrait with death playing the fiddle (1872)" is undeniably his most popular work, but the rest of his collections are just as worthy of attention!

the shepherd's lament // idyll // self-portrait with death playing the fiddle // venus anadyomene // mourning under the cross // the elysian fields // will-o'-the-wisp // the sanctuary of hercules // odysseus and polyphemus

credit ;

[the-outer-topic]

Are you a fan of the Conan movies with Arnold?

Hello Anon, thanks for the question! I like to talk (or write) about the things I love. The fist film is a good movie in its own right, but it's Millius story and vision of the character and, not Howard's. I dislike the infatuation with Asian things of the 70s-80s, you know when Conan is taught swordmanship by some Asian and he strikes poses with the sword to show off his muscles, but the more I know about Western swordmanship and see videos of reenactors reliving ancient swordplay, the more I dislike all that stuff that was cool in the 80s, ninjas , samurais, kung fu, and all that, and the more I lament that in Hollywood we don't get proper and realistic sword fights. It's either effete fencing with foils or exaggerated coreography with somersaults. The film is good but not great, the best part is the soundtrack is so good I recalled it and now playing it . Comics are much more faithful to the original movies. I don't really like Arnold, now that I think of it perhaps Dolph Lundgren with dark hair would have been a better Conan. I don't like Arnold much, I don't care about the German accent, as I watch movies dubbed into Spanish, I hardly can understand spoken English as it is. Arnold physique is magnificent, but he's an awful actor, even Stallone with his facial paralysis is better, and has improved with age.

I think the movie was a bad influence on artists like Royo. All his girls have the same face, all his guys look like Arnold. I also dislike the stereotype of Conan as a hulking brute who talks in grunts. Too much muscle, I think. Conan as depicted in the novels would have the body of a olympic gymnast and feline grace. Also I dislike the stereotype of mountain of muscles and no brain. Conan is no intellectual but he's very smart, cunning and articulate. Above all things, Conan is a leader of men, and in a world before the printing press, culture was oral. Story telling, verses , songs. Conan perhaps does not talk much, after all, his stories are action adventures, but Conan does not become king on the strength of his sword arm alone, he does know to talk. After all, the stories of Conan are supposed to be reminiscences in his old age, as he tells his drinking buddies his adventures as he recalls them as the mood suits him., Conan is not only a warlord that knows how to harangue his men, but he also knows how to haggle, cajole and persuade.

There's something of Howard the writer in the character of Conan.

Due to the constraints of media, both in comics and film Conan is always scowling, a tight lipped stoical, which is sad because it deprives him of his humanity. Conan is a sensualist, glutton, drunkard, lascivious, and emotional to both extremes of mirth and melancholy. What sets it apart from a mere hedonist is his ambition and thirst for power. It's not just that he wants power to have riches and enjoy the nice things in life, he resembles the Nietzschean superman in the "will for power". Conan wants to rule, to be obeyed, to conquer. In the end quite by chance he achieves his lifelong dream when he picks the crown of Aquilonia from the gutter, and finally settles down to have a wife and children, but then gets a whole new set of challenges and troubles. One wonders if Conan was a good ruler at all, considering his track record, of being ousted, overthrown, or giving up and leaving in all his positions of power he attains, course being a pirate captain or a bandit chief is more unstable than being king, but Conan t having taken the throne at spear point finds you can't sit on it.

But I digress, as I am wont to do, but hey, you asked!

As for the sequel, "Conan the destroyer" just a B grade adventure movie, without the epic and symbolism of the first one. Best that can be said about the movie was how hot Olivia d'Abo was.

No, I am not a fan of the Conan movie. It's good, but it's not Conan. I suspect that for most of those that hail from the 20th century before the internet, the only Conan was that of the Savage Sword comic. Of course the stories became derivative and repetitive after a dozen tomes, and it depends of the quality of the artist.

As for the original source, the novels.. I think I prefer the comic. Howard was a good storyteller, but the stories are pulp, and the Hyborian age as a fantasy universe is quite lacking and sketchy. They are readable, enjoyable, but not memorable. I think Howard was more suitable for historical novels , but the pulps demanded sword and sorcery so he had to shoehorn in supernatural elements and magic to make them enough of a "weird tale". Like Lovecraft, Howard lived at the wrong time. Decades later, instead of Conan, he would have been a best selling author of a series of novels of a Pictish warrior adventures in the Roman empire.

Probably you are sorry you asked. I wonder if anybody will read this...

[taraross-1787]

This Week in History: "Arnold has betrayed us!"

At about this time in 1780, George Washington discovers Benedict Arnold’s treachery. “Arnold has betrayed us!” he reportedly lamented. “Whom can we trust now?”

What a shock! Arnold was one of Washington’s most trusted generals, but now Washington knew that he’d been plotting to turn over West Point to the British.

What gave Arnold away? Mere days before, Arnold had met with British Major John André. Unfortunately for the conspirators, André was caught with incriminating papers on his way back to British lines. Couriers were dispatched to both Washington and Arnold, informing them of the capture. The story continues here: http://www.taraross.com/post/tdih-benedict-arnold-discovered

[lizisshortforlizard]

Living Dangerously - Chapter 24

Jurassic Park’s animal handlers: none of them ever mentioned by name in Michael Crichton’s original novel. Who were they? What were their lives like on Isla Nublar? Did any of them survive the disaster?

A year in the life of those responsible for the care of the dinosaurs. Many people would kill to have their jobs.

But would they die for it?

Jurassic Park novel/Jurassic Park film (1993)

Viewpoint: 3rd person female oc

Wordcount: I’m not keeping track anymore, its a novel at this point and I’m only 1/3 of the way there

Warnings: the usual swears and men being misogynistic aholes

Tagging: @heresthefanfiction @ocappreciation @arrthurpendragon @howlingmadlady @wordspin-shares @starryeyes2000 @themaradaniels (lmk if you would enjoy my sporadic updates, any and all welcome)

Read on Ao3 (ha. Hahaha. Good luck)

Chapter 23 | Chapter 25

Bad Reputation - Joan Jett

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Dennis Nedry was getting pretty goddamn desperate.

The habitually ignored stack of envelopes by his apartment door, no doubt overdue bills, was mounting higher by the day. He could just barely cover his rent, and was working nearly every waking second, taking on extra contracts at Integrated to scrape by.

He wouldn’t make the mistake of bidding low ever again, that was for damn sure.

Nedry cursed John Hammond and InGen as he tapped away at his keyboard in the darkness. Lamenting how only a year ago, his clothes had fitted him much better. He’d enjoyed getting some fresh air, a welcome break from his computer screens. He’d go jogging around Harvard Square on Sundays and play tennis with his friends. He'd had a life. He’d had a girlfriend.

Had. She was long gone.

Sure, maybe he'd been a bit frivolous with his spending, placed a couple of hefty bets on ball games he probably shouldn't have. These days, he was paranoid about leaving his apartment at all, just in case the debt collectors would show up and start liberating his furniture. He was worried they’d even take Unix away from him, an orange goldfish that was now his constant and only companion.

Nedry glanced up and noticed with shame that the glass of Unix’s tank was starting to get a little too green.

“Sorry, buddy. Clean you tomorrow. I promise.” He muttered.

His recent anxiety was made worse by the looming threat he’d actually have to venture out to Costa Rica to take a look at InGen’s system in person. The Arnold guy he'd been talking to was getting more and more pissed-off and sarcastic with each long-distance phone call. Hell, he'd probably have to pay out for his own flights. Hammond was cheap.

Humidity. Heat. Socialising. Urgh.

Things were bad. Real bad. He was in need of a miracle.

Nedry was considering calling it a night to step away from his console and microwave some leftover noodles when there was a quiet tap-tap on his door.

Strange. He hadn’t heard anyone ring the buzzer. How had they gotten in the building? A chill ran through him.

Please not the landlord.

As a rule, Nedry didn’t answer his door unless he was expecting someone, which was almost never. He didn't have guests over anymore. The apartment was too messy.

A creak of the floorboards outside, then he watched, holding his breath, as a single sheet of paper was pushed under his door. He waited for a long time as footsteps retreated down the hall, and he fought the urge to peer through the permanently drawn curtains to the street outside.

Nedry eventually heaved himself up from his desk chair with an effort, sending a stack of floppy discs tumbling like a Jenga tower. Grunting, he bent to pick up the slip.

Scrawled on it was the address of an all-night diner on the corner of his apartment block, and a single question:

Are you ready to get what you’re owed, Dennis?

***

“Uh, hi?” Armstrong’s smiling face swam into view, trying to make Muldoon acknowledge the cup of coffee she had pushed in his direction. “Welcome back. You were miles away.”

Baker glanced over, buttered toast halfway to her mouth.

Muldoon hesitated for a long moment, struggling for something, anything to reply with, before she had the chance to pry further.

”You’ve no idea.”

Oh, the usual. Just re-living Hell.

”Hey Lizzy, don’t let Ed see you bringing people drinks or you’ll never hear the end of it.” Kathy warned loudly.

Across the canteen, the red-haired Regis ducked his head, hiding his face under his baseball cap.

Lizzy shot Muldoon a worried look while everyone else turned to stare at the PR manager.

Are you okay?

He shrugged in return.

Been much worse.

The worst had nearly happened, for the second time in his life.

Before Armstrong had brought him back to the present day, he'd been dredging up old memories of the first time. He'd done his best to forget, drown it out, but it still got the better of him. Kenya, eight years ago, nearly to the day. The day he'd found a lioness crouched, snarling, over the motionless body of his wife.

The unthinkable had almost repeated again more recently when the ethologist had found herself at the business end of Triceratops horns, that day in the paddock. That had been his fault too, for dragging her into something so dangerous.

Muldoon was struggling to stop over-thinking the last few moments before the crash, when time had stood still. It hadn’t been the impact of the dinosaur smashing into the side of the Jeep that had propelled Armstrong into the drivers seat, practically on top of him.

No, that had happened before the collision.

In the milliseconds before the trike swung her head, Muldoon had wrenched the wheel away with one hand and virtually scruffed Armstrong by her shirt collar with the other, pulling her across the vehicle, likely saving her legs from being crushed in a jagged mess of metal and dinosaur horn.

She obviously didn’t remember any of that. Which was fine, he didn't want her gratitude. It had been a reflex, he’d have done it for any one of his staff. At least, the animal handlers. Even Kennedy, contrary to what Richardson seemed to believe. Who, by the way, was becoming unbearable in his accusations that Armstrong was spending a lot of time down on her knees, doing her utmost to get a promotion.

Not long ago, Muldoon had been taken aside by him for a “chat” that began with a warning.

“Careful.”

“Always careful.” Muldoon grumbled.

”Not what I meant. You and her…you two are up to something, and I don’t like it, not one bit. You’re far too involved. You know what’ll happen if you get caught messing around with someone…” Richardson sniffed in disdain. “-beneath you.”

“I’m fully aware. Are you?”

It was incredibly obvious Richardson had a thing for Hammond’s Haitian girl, which wasn’t mutual no matter how imaginative you were. Not to mention ironic, given the way he spoke about Baker. Or, in fact, any of the young women on the island.

Richardson bristled, refusing to let him have the last word. ”I hope I’m the one to catch you at it. She doesn’t belong here. Neither does the black one. Mucking around in the dirt is no place for a woman. Not even one as feral as Elizabeth.”

Muldoon had only shook his head and walked away before he did something he regretted. There was just no getting through to some people. He’d like to see how Richardson would cope if he were suddenly air-dropped into the middle of the Kenyan wilderness after darkness had fallen, ghostly eyes reflecting back at him in the torchlight and ungodly noises echoing from all around.

He’d even bet money on indoor-dwelling Arnold lasting far longer than the so-called Animal Supervisor, who seemed to be doing less and less of his job now the new recruits were trained up to standard. He barely went out in the park anymore.

Sooner or later, something important was bound to be missed.

Which would no doubt be my fault too.

***

Lizzy and Rico were on their way to the next task of the morning, Rico trying to teach her a few more words of Spanish en route when the voice she dreaded hearing the most on the island rang out from behind her. And, horror of horrors, it was trying to get her attention.

“Ah, Elizabeth!”

She already had been practicing mierda, idiota and carajo, all of which would have served her well at that moment.

“Adios amiga!” Rico nodded at her and zipped off, leaving her all alone.

”Shit, Rico! Get back here!” Lizzy hissed and picked up her pace, no intention of being left alone with the man she couldn't stand at the best of times.

She snuck a quick look behind and shit, he was following her. Fasterfasterfaster.

Richardson, puffing hard, gave up the chase and reached for his radio.

”Elizabeth, I can see you. Turn around.”

Lizzy. It’s Lizzy. LIZZY.

She stopped but refused to walk back to him, no, he could come to her. “What do you want?”

”A helper. For a special task.”

His choice of words made her skin crawl.

“Go on.” She was highly suspicious.

“Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat, and well-“ he stopped to make room for a booming laugh. “-we can’t leave the island entirely unstaffed, now can we?”

”Can’t we? I thought that was the whole idea? Hammond’s vision? Full automation? Minimal workers?”

Richardson continued brazenly, still out of breath from catching up to her. “Not really possible, in case of any emergencies with the livestock. Welfare issue, or some jargon like that. And I thought you would be an ideal candidate, in spite of your, eh, unfortunate luck. Recently single, no children, no commitments at all. No problem agreeing to it.”

The matter wasn’t up for discussion. He was just framing it so it would seem like a privilege. An honour to be alone. Not at all a punishment.

And it stung like a bitch.

He wasn’t done. “If you can agree to anything Robert says, you can do as I ask just this once. Don’t be difficult.”

Double ouch.

Lizzy swallowed her instinctive colourful answer and tried to keep her blood pressure down, though she was brimming with rage. “Any reason you can’t stay here?”

”Of course not, I have a life.”

“I’m sure.”

“You needn’t worry. The park can function by itself for a full two days. But I have to ensure at least one animal handler will be around. To push a few buttons to keep things ticking over. Feeding routines and suchlike. Pull the meat out of the freezer. You have a doctorate, I’m sure you can figure it out. Do it for the dinosaurs."

”Great.” Lizzy replied flatly. “I guess.”

Just downright insulting at this point.

“Wonderful. Then consider yourself marooned.” Richardson laughed again, swanning off, while Lizzy was left stony-faced and trying to figure out which deity she may have caused offence to recently.

She heard a faint mechanical buzzing and looked up to locate the surveillance camera mounted in the palm trees, slowly zooming in on her.

Ray.

Well, at least one other person saw what happened.

”Can you believe this shit?” She spoke to the lens.

The faint red light on the camera blinked sympathetically in response.

***

Dr. Ruso's infamous infant raptor was finally making the journey to Isla Nublar after a small paddock had been hastily built. It was only temporary, as soon as more raptors were hatched and grown, the whole cohort could move into a bigger enclosure, which was still currently under construction.

Word had gotten around by the time the raptor was due to arrive on the transport, and the entire animal handler team had turned up to watch her being offloaded, curious to catch a glimpse of the fearsome beast who had relieved an embryologist of her digits.

Most were underwhelmed when they saw the size of the kennel she had travelled in.

"That's it?" Tom was incredulous. "That's the aggressive animal they can't handle on Sorna? It's not much bigger than a damn chicken!"

”Pretty cute.” Ed Regis muttered, not put off at all by the high-pitched snarling coming from the infant as she feinted charges towards the fence, tapping her curved claws on the soil between attacks. “Especially if it stays this small. Kids’ll love it.”

“The genomics programme estimates an adult height of ten feet tall.” Kathy deadpanned, quickly bringing him back to down from his PR buzz.

“Ten…feet…” Regis faltered.

”Roughly Ostrich size." Muldoon nodded. "I’ll be interested to see how fast it is full-grown. If it makes it that far.”

”I'm always blown away by your positive outlook.” Lizzy muttered.

“What do you mean by ‘makes it that far’?” Regis was naïve as ever.

"It's on thin ice. Any trouble and I wouldn't hesitate to retire it."

"You mean...?" Regis was horrified.

”Steady, Robert. We already talked about this. You can’t be so graphic when we’re open to the public-“ Richardson warned. "Someone will hear."

"I'm clearly joking. Isn't it obvious?" Muldoon's tone was so dry Lizzy had to turn away to hide her smirk.

The group turned to stroll back to the Jeeps, though Regis lingered behind, wishing he had brought his camera.

"Don't put your hand through, Ed." Kathy called over her shoulder as an afterthought. "I need to get some Danger, I bite signs made up to hang on the fence."

"Make extra. To stick on Elizabeth.” Richardson suggested.

"Oh no. My sides. They have split." Lizzy answered in monotone. Her superior had been strangely benevolent the past few days, trying his utmost to be her best friend since he'd asked her to stay on the island over Christmas, and she didn't like it at all. She found it far creepier than when he was trying to undermine and put her down constantly. "Please. Send help."

Lizzy reached one hand out to Muldoon dramatically, the other closing around her neck as she made an admirable act of pretending to choke. ”Get…Gerry…tell him…I love him…”

He just muttered something like I’ll get you a boot up the arse which turned Lizzy's appeasing smile into a genuine one.

She was about to answer back with a rude remark when there was a sharp yell from the fence behind them and she spun around to see Regis trying to wrestle something out of the raptor’s jaws.

"Seriously?!” Kathy was the first to start racing back to help him.

Regis gave a final tug and fell backwards into the dirt, scrambling away from the fence. He was white as a sheet, but seemingly unhurt.

“Jesus, Ed!” Kathy exploded, tucking the sawn-off wooden shovel handle she had taken to carrying around with her as an improvised breakstick back into her belt loop. “What are you playing at? I literally just told you! Don’t put your goddamn hand through!”

”I d-didn’t!” He denied, stammering.

”Then have some common sense and don't turn your back either!” Kathy added angrily. “The budget didn’t stretch to double fencing! Are you hurt?”

“No, no, sorry, I guess-aw, man!” Regis had looked down to assess the damage. A chunk was missing from his Trenton Thunder polo, now inside the pen and being toyed with by the baby raptor, who was stalking and pouncing on the scrap of grey fabric. “My lucky shirt!”

“Lucky?” Tom asked in disbelief. "Man, Trenton suck."

Regis went very red. "Take that back."

"Guys, please." Kathy tried, then put her head in her hands as the two men continued flinging sports-related jabs at each other. All Hell erupted when Regis brought Tom’s mother into the argument, and the other handlers had to pile on to hold him back, even diminutive Lizzy was hanging off his arm, digging her heels into the ground.

Muldoon found himself wishing that cleaning cupboards occurred naturally in the Costa Rican rainforest, to give him the means to knock all their heads together. This was ridiculous. He noticed with disgust Richardson was just standing there watching with amusement at the group turning on each other, like he was enjoying it.

"Help me." Baker turned to him. "Please. You gotta."

"You're more than capable."

"I can't, they won't listen."

"Then make them listen. You've got to make a noise."

"I..." She pointed then let her hand fall limply to her side.

"Prove him wrong about you, at the very least." Muldoon nodded towards Richardson.

That did the trick. Her face hardened and she nodded, planting her feet wide apart.

"Just...just s-shut up, all of you, or you'll be cleaning the toilets for the next month!" She nearly screamed the last part. Baker looked the most shocked of all of them at the volume she'd just produced.

Silence instantly fell.

"Woah." Tom whispered. "Go Kathy."

Well done, Baker.

She hesitated, amazed, then continued, voice trembling. “Nobody goes near this enclosure except myself and Muldoon. Us two alone will deal with the damn thing. No exceptions." She sounded braver now, looking each of them dead in the eye in turn. "Understood?"

A chorus of yes Kathy resounded from the handlers gathered nearby.

She was exhausted, but pleased. She'd done it.

Lizzy slyly peered into the enclosure, trying to see how the raptor had reacted to Kathy's yelling, before Muldoon caught her eye and gave a sharp look.

That includes you. Be patient.

She rolled her eyes in answer.

"I did it!" Baker murmured to him happily. "It was good, right?"

"Much better."

"Okay, coming from you, that's high praise. I'll take it!" She flashed her Hollywood smile and started back to the Jeeps with a definite spring in her step, most of the handlers following her lead.

Except for Armstrong. She remained near him, just the two of them lingering by the fence, still watching the raptor savaging the “lucky” shirt.

It was certainly a bit of a leap, but Muldoon liked to think the raptor had picked up on his instant dislike of city-slicker Regis, and given him a good scare on his behalf. It clearly didn’t like the way the PR manager smelled overpoweringly of cologne, judging from how it was growling and snapping at the shirt scrap. Armstrong’s legs were avenged, until the next time.

At least that was one small point in the animal’s favour. Maybe it wasn't entirely a waste of time, keeping it alive.

“Oh my God.” Armstrong muttered, in the middle of an epiphany.

“What?”

She glanced side to side, looking out for over-curious eavesdroppers before leaning in towards him, whispering knowledgeably. “You like her.”

”I don’t like it. It’s a damn animal.”

“Of course you do! She’s smart, fiesty, and she has a bite history! What’s not to like?” The ethologist was smirking up at him.

Well, she wasn’t exactly wrong.

“Hm. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do.” Lizzy guessed it would pain Muldoon more than anyone to have to put the raptor down if she was involved in any more gory accidents. Vicious or not, it was still a waste of life. The dinosaur had no purpose except entertainment. “She’s dangerous.”

“You’re talking rubbish, woman.”

“Mm-hm. Careful, kid. He has good aim.” Lizzy turned back to the fence and spoke directly to the raptor, who cocked her head at the sound of her voice. “Better run.”

Her smile quickly faded when the young dinosaur chirped and turned tail, scuttling off into the undergrowth.

The game warden and the ethologist stared at the empty space where the raptor had been seconds before, then exchanged glances, having exactly the same thought.

How dangerous?

Lizzy spoke first, slowly shaking her head. “I’m very much hoping that was a coincidence.”

***

Kathy quietly took Lizzy to one side as everyone filed out of the canteen after dinner that night.

"Can we talk?"

Oh no.

That sentence never means good things.

"Sure." Lizzy replied hoarsely as she hopped up to sit on one of the tables, Kathy pulling up a vacant chair to sit in front of her. She tried to keep her expression calmly neutral, when all she could think was oh my God, she knows about the raptor behavioural plan, she’s mad I kept it from her for this long, shit-

"Nothing's decided yet, so don't panic, but I wanted you to be the first to know..." Kathy shifted nervously, then sighed deeply and dropped the bombshell. "I'm thinking about leaving InGen.”

Oh.

Well.

Lizzy gawped back at her dumbly before her system rebooted and she could speak again. "Don't you dare! Why? What happened? Tell me, who did it? I'll make them wish they were never born!”

Kathy chuckled and took her hand. "It's not just one person, or even one thing, hun. It's kinda…all of it. It's too difficult, not being taken seriously, like, ever. You can deal with it. But me, I can't. And besides, I don't want to anymore."

"You did it today!"

"Yeah, and now I'm exhausted!"

"It'll get easier-"

"I miss my mama." Kathy rubbed Lizzy's fingers as she spoke. "My buddy at the Smithsonian called. The Mammal Curator is retiring next year and I'm thinking about applying.”

A position like that came up about once a decade if you were incredibly lucky.

“The Thanksgiving announcement kind of sealed the deal.” Kathy shrugged. "I mean, we don't exactly work nine to five, but they’re taking advantage of us.”

Because of rising pressure to meet deadlines, time off requests for Thanksgiving had been denied. A management decision which was met with all five stages of grief from the American animal handlers. Kathy in particular had been very upset that she wasn't allowed to go home to see her folks, and morale was dropping lower by the day.

"Kathy, I don't think I can hold the fort without you. The gender ratio is downright appalling as it is!"

"Get real, Lizzy! How many times have we, well...you in particular, for some reason, gotten seriously hurt since we arrived here? Zoological institutions are supposed to take accidents involving the animals pretty damn seriously! We don’t even have any guests yet and it already feels like Gennaro gets paid commission!"

"I see your point, but this is the first time anyone's ever tried containing a dinosaur-"

”Lizzy, I’m scared.” Kathy's eyes were huge and pleading. “We’re just numbers. We're replaceable. It’s only a matter of time before something really bad happens.”

The Team Leader’s gaze dropped down to one side. She couldn’t shake the ominous feelings, and her bad dreams continued to plague her. She ran through contingency plans and emergency procedures over and over in her head, still worrying they weren't good enough. Her worst fear was the next time there was an accident, help would arrive too late.

Lizzy tried to lift the mood. "You can't leave me here with Marìa, she doesn’t ever bloody speak! Shit, imagine if they brought in Sarah Harding to replace you?"

"Then come with me?" Kathy offered. "For the low, low price of a flight to Washington DC, you too could be taken seriously by your peers!"

"Washington's a bit cold for my liking..." Lizzy fooled.

"They have elephants at the Smithsonian?" Kathy dangled motivation in front of her. "Pretty sure they'd leap at the chance to score you, Dr Armstrong."

"Hm. Same shit. Different day. Different part of the world."

"Yeah, but at least the piles of shit would be smaller!" Kathy scoffed. "You have a PhD, what the Hell are you even doing here, working as a glorified cleaner?"

Lizzy played the last card in her hand, changing the subject. "You realise if you walk, then Ray isn't hanging around either? You’re pretty much responsible for the last ounce of his sanity.”

Hell, she'd could probably wave goodbye to Isaac too. He adored Kathy nearly as much as the engineer did.

Her friend smiled sadly. "Good for him. It’s just a job.”

"Huh.” Lizzy didn’t agree. It was more than a job. She ate, slept and breathed the island. It was her life, and she’d already given up a career in Africa and a long-term relationship to get this far. But she didn’t like the sound of sacrificing her friends either, or getting attached to people if they weren’t going to be sticking around.

"Relax, the old curator hasn’t officially announced his retirement yet.” Kathy reassured her. “I’m just super prepared. I wouldn't be leaving until next summer, June or July at the earliest, if I got the job.”

"Of course you'll get the job. You're bloody brilliant." Lizzy moped.

”I can stick it out for the full year.”

”Work for InGen for a year, and you can work anywhere you want.” Both women said at the same time.

“I’d make history, I’d be the first female Mammal Curator at the Smithsonian, ever. Think Muldoon will give me a glowing reference?” Kathy quirked an eyebrow.

“Eh…I wouldn’t ask until after you’ve got an interview secured.” Lizzy replied warily. “And more like a mildly positive reference, if you catch him on a good day.”

“When does that man ever have a good day? Maybe I should ask Richardson instead?” Kathy asked solemnly.

Lizzy must have looked doubtful, because Kathy burst out laughing. “I’m kidding, jeez! But at least I wouldn’t have to sleep with Muldoon.”

Kathy rolled her eyes and Lizzy could almost see the animated lightbulb appear over her head when she realised the deep freezers were left unattended. “C’mon, let’s get some ice cream while nobody’s around.”

***

Thanks for reading!

One of the rare glimpses into Muldoon’s past provided by Michael Crichton in the novel, forgive me (or not) for h/c-ing one of the animal attack scenes he witnessed was the demise of someone close to him. I will be writing this in more detail later on, even though it physically pains me to hurt him this way. This fictional character who my life revolves around.

Also: Oh God. Now I’m consumed with guilt at the thought that Nedry never came back for Unix :( (spoiler alert?)

[abuddyforeveryseason]

This isn't the Buddy for April 1st. April Fools, yes it is!

Seems like Buddy himself's been the victim of a prank today. He was so mad about it, he murdered the prankster.

The good thing about April Fool's day is that you can say anything you honestly believe no matter how unpopular an opinion it is, and just pretend it was a prank the following day.

Even if you admit beforehand that's what you're doing, you can just say admitting it was part of the joke.

Or, you can use that preface to make it look like what follows, a piece of comedy, is what you actually believe.

So, let's see what's a hot take…

I've been reading about the action boom of the eighties and nineties lately, back when Arnold Shwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone would rack up hundreds of kills under two hours. I've seen some of those movies. Some were good, some not so much. Remember when Rambo befriended those afghani freedom fighters? The Mujahideen? Yeah, that ended well.

But for a lot of cultural critics back then, they represented the end of the world. Even though some of the greatest movies of all time came out during that era, there were some reviewers lamenting the death of movies as an artform. And the one thing they would latch on was, the movies were so underwritten, the starts couldn't even speak english.

They were talking, of course, of Schwarzenegger, Jean-Claude van Damme and Dolph Lundgren. Stallone himself was lumped in with those foreigners, but he had some laurels under his belt in the form of a few Oscar nominations, so most of the focus fell on the foreigners.

And that's the thing, really - it's not that those actors were stupid, exactly. They just had heavy accents. And, you know, a different cultural background that was dismissed as a lack of acting talent. So from the get-go, a lot of those movies were being dismissed thanks to xenophobia.

Sure, they were european, instead of coming from the "darker" continents of Africa, Asia and South America. But it's not like any big stars from those continents were offered as a contrast for the hammy musclemen of the eighties. The best you could find is the martial arts stars from Taiwan, and those movies weren't exactly high art either.

If you ignore the accent issue (and the difficulty that comes from acting in a different country), that trio wasn't exactly stupid. Schwarzenegger might not be a pleasant person, but he was pretty smart as a businessman and politician. He managed to build a good acting career and avoid a lot of acting pitfalls through business savy. He knew how to make money in Hollywood, even if it meant sacrificing his own dignity and suffering bad reviews. He was even aware of his shortcomings as an actor, which is he he kept choosing the action and comedy fare that paid the bills.

Van Damme, meanwhile, wasn't as clever, but had a lot more emotional intelligence. His french films, which aren't burdened by the abismal accent and acting, are more enjoyable and mature, and even show some introspection you'd never imagine from a martial artist.

Lundgren, meanwhile, wasn't as big a star as the others, but is a better fit for the clichè of genius strongman - Good grades, scholarship, a masters in chemical engineering… It's funny that if Lundgren had played a scientist in a movie back then, it'd be dismissed as a ridiculous thing (unless the critic was aware of his story) - a monosyllabic musclehead like that a scientist? Nonsense.

Of course, nowadays, these celebrities are all decadent half-forgotten gloryhogs. And those action movies of the eighties are just a piece of nostalgia, now. They only survive as inspiration for videogames (where the violence is more interesting because the player's the one in control, and there's actually a difficulty curve to consider), or as aspects of more nuanced stories.

The idea that movies were "dying" back in the eighties sounds like nonsense now. The indie boom that followed paved way to some amazing movies. And to this day, a lot of the best stuff coming out is informed by the movie culture of the eighties. Meanwhile, all the cultural critics who spelled doom for the movies have been forgotten, mixed up with the ones who worried about satanic cults and the gay revolution.

I'm not a huge cinema buff, and I won't pretend to know a lot about cinema, but I still get annoyed when people complain about the death of the movies. Maybe the issue is, you're the one getting old, Buddy.

[classicalcanvas]

Title: The Lamentations of Mary Magdalene on the body of Christ

Artist: Arnold Böcklin

Date: 1868

Style: Symbolism

Genre: Religious Painting

[forabeatofadrum]

Just Some Guy (6/9)

Notes: Chapter 6 of 9? Brah, 69? NICE lol - J.J.

AO3

–

Year 6

MATT

From 6th year on, Watford students can have student jobs. They aren’t a lot of work and you get paid minimum wage, but it’s something to do to pass the time. This is definitely needed now that the Mage banned mobile phones for some reason. He claims it’s for our protection.

Rumour has it that it has something to do with Simon Snow, as usual.

Goddamnit, Simon Snow.

Although John wonders if it’s a political move. The Mage uses it to prevent the Old Families from contacting their kids. Look, I don’t care for the Old Families either. I don’t even care for politics, but making it harder for parents to reach their kids is a dick move.

This whole civil war shit is getting eerily close. Man, I really wish I was living in uninteresting times.

Anyway I get a job in miss Possibelf’s office, which consists of cleaning and ordering. John decides to work out on the grounds. Leslie and Luis decide to work as kit managers for the football team. Ryan cares for the plants. Arnold helps in the kitchens. Scott also gets an office job, but at the Minotaur’s office. Sam is from a rich family (not an Old one, mind you!) and doesn’t see the need to work.

(I mean, my mum’s family also has money, but she still thinks I should have a job.)

“Do you know if Simon Snow got a job?” Arnold wonders one day. He’s staring at something and when I follow his gaze, I see the usual trio: Simon Snow, Penelope Bunce, and to my dismay, Agatha Wellbelove. (Yes, I am still not over Agatha.)

“Dunno, don’t care,” Sam says.

“He’s too busy trailing some bunnies, or something,” Luis says.

“Hares,” John corrects him, “The Six White Hares.”

“John, how do you always know so much about the Chosen One’s whereabouts?” Leslie asks and I have to admit, I have questioned the same thing several times.

John just shrugs.

“I know everything,” he says, cryptic as usual. We know John, so we’re not too bothered by it and Leslie lets it slide.

“So, does he have a job?” I ask.

John shakes his head.

“Makes sense,” Arnold says, “He’s so caught up in the Chosen One shit, I bet he and his friends don’t even know that Watford has jobs!”

“Must be nice not to have a job,” Ryan sighs, “Or not to be bored these days.”

“Simon Snow is always up and running,” Scott nods as well.

Just when Scott says that, I hear a small explosion coming from the Wavering Woods and on a cue, Simon Snow and Penelope Bunce run towards it. Agatha Wellbelove watches them leave. So do we. This is a normal occurrence. Even the smoke coming from the Woods doesn’t faze me anymore. I do feel back for John, who now also manages the Woods for his side job.

Can Simon Snow please let anything outside of Watford explode for once?

--

Leslie asks if I want to go to a football game with her.

Sure, why not?

Ever since Leslie and Luis have joined the team as kit managers, (“That’s what the ‘man’ in kit man stands for,” Leslie had explained, “Although I still like to say I am a kit woman.”) they’ve gotten more interested in football.

John and I show up at the game.

Leslie frowns when she sees us.

“What’s up?” I ask.

Leslie casts a quick glance at John, but then says it’s nothing. She walks us to the stands and gives us a basic explanation of football, since we’re woefully unfamiliar with the sport.

“It’s not hockey,” John laments.

“… Right,” Leslie says and continues her explanation.

Once we’re seated, she bids us farewell and goes down to the field with another word. I wonder what is up with her.

The team is already on, including Luis, who waves from below. After a few minutes, the game starts. The Watford football team is split into two and both sides are playing against each other. Baz Pitch is on the team, which I never knew, but I also don’t keep track of his whereabouts.

Unlike Simon Snow.

Since last year, everyone’s noticed that he’s been trailing Baz Pitch and today is no exception. I didn’t even notice him at first, but after ten minutes into the match I can feel his magic leaking over the stands in waves. It’s fucking annoying, honestly. It distracts me from the game.

I gloat at him, but he doesn’t seem the notice the visible discomfort of everyone. He had his head resting on his hands. He’s leaning forward and he’s staring intensely at Baz Pitch. Penelope Bunce, his trusty sidekick, is sat next to him, but she’s reading a book.

I am so annoyed by him, that I keep looking and therefore completely miss the first goal.

Fucking hell, Simon Snow.

--

My year goes on as usual. I go home for Christmas and when I go back to school, two things are discussed. First off, the Mage apparently got kidnapped over Christmas, and he had to be saved by Simon Snow.

That’s cool or whatever, but the second thing is more prominent. When you’re in 6th year, Watford also starts preparing you for your future.

We all need to attend a mandatory class in our first week after the vacation. Miss Bellamy is talking about all our options in the World of Mages. Most of us will attend Normal uni, if we even attend uni in the first place, but we can then use that knowledge for our world.

Honestly, I hadn’t given my future a lot of thought. I am just a 16 year old guy. What do I know? Adulthood seems scary, if I may say so.

“It’s fine,” John reassures me during our break.

“How would you know?” Scott bemoans.

“I’ve been an adult before,” John says cryptically, “Even went to college.”

All of us share a look before we collectively decide to let it go.

John’s words weren’t as reassuring as he’d hoped, because when we return to class, we’re reminded of the reality that in one or two years or so, we’ll be gone.

Miss Bellamy has decided to make this an interactive class, which is every student’s worse nightmare. She’s started singling people out to ask them a question. I try to keep my head low.

“You,” Miss Bellamy points in my direction, but then I realise she’s pointing towards the person behind me, “Mr. Snow, what are your plans for the future?”

Everyone turns around to face Simon Snow. This is another reason why interactive lessons suck. The focus is on one poor person, and it happens to be the Chosen One.

Simon Snow shrugs.

“Dunno,” he says. He’s as eloquent as ever.

“Mr. Snow, I know it might seem like you still have time, and yes, you do, but 16 is the perfect age to start thinking about your options,” Miss Bellamy says cheerfully, as if that would magickally motivate anyone to start thinking about their future.

“No, Miss, it’s just…” Simon looks around and sees everyone staring.

“Yes?” Miss Bellamy beckons him to go on.

Simon shrugs. I think he shrugs a lot.

“Use your words, Snow,” Baz Pitch sneers from behind us and some kids snicker. I roll my eyes. Of course that Pitch brat sees this as a moment to mess with him.

Miss Bellamy also tells him to be quiet.

Simon shrugs again. Is he addicted to shrugging, or something? What a weirdo.

“It’s just that I don’t expect to live past 18, that’s all,” he says casually, as if he didn’t just drop a fucking verbal bomb on us, “Don’t see the point of thinking. About my future. Or just, thinking.”

He shrugs yet again and I am not even bothered by it, because I am too shocked by what he just said.

The silence continues. Penelope Bunce looks upset and she opens her mouth as if she wants to say something, but then stops herself. Agatha Wellbelove has an empty look in her eyes as she stares out of the window. Even Baz Pitch isn’t cheering about the Chosen One’s inevitable demise, or something. The only one who doesn’t seem bothered is Simon himself.

This must be an everyday occurrence for him. The worst part is that he might be right.

Miss Bellamy awkwardly interrupts the even more awkward silence by asking Niall Kelly what he wants to do next.

--

The future.

It is a thing.

And unlike Simon Snow, I do expect to live.

Oh Merlin.

It hangs over me during the remainer of the year.

And then the academic year ends. I am hugging my friends goodbye. We’re all hanging out in the summer, but the realisation that another year at Watford is over, hits me. Two more years left, since I am planning on doing the optional 8th year. But what will I do next? I am just some guy, I don’t have a destiny. I don’t even have a girlfriend! That’s another Watford milestone. My parents met here.

Which… in hindsight doesn’t mean anything, but still. Even Simon Snow has a girlfriend and he spends more time saving the world than being with her. Not only that, but rumour has it that Agatha Wellbelove has been kidnapped several times since she started dating him. Yikes.

If I were her boyfriend, she’d never be on the bottom of a well.

Although, I must admit, ever since Agatha became unavailable, I’ve gotten less interested in her. It sounds bad, I know, but why dream for the unattainable. The other day, during Magickal History, I was paired up with her for a debate assignment, and it went alright. I wasn’t a mess.

Damn, does that mean I am not into her anymore?

“Shit, I need to reassess my plans,” I say out loud, like an idiot.

“What plans?” Leslie asks.

I try to bullshit my way out of it. I already knows how it will sound. But I give up, since Leslie’s icy stare is killing.

“My future with Agatha,” I confess.

“I swear to Merlin,” Leslie sighs and walks off.

I frown. I expected a longer rant from her.

But maybe I should count my blessings.

“Plenty of fishes in the sea, Matty,” John slings his arm around me. He then slightly turns me towards Leslie’s direction.

I look at Leslie, who has her back turned to me and she’s talking to Sam.

“What are you implying, John?” I ask.

“Have you ever wondered why Leslie is so bothered by your crush on Agatha?”

“Because I tend to use language that presents Agatha as an object I want to possess or a prize I deserve?” I say automatically. Those were her exact words once and they’re fried into my brain.

“That as well,” John says.

“Huh?” I look at John for an explanation, but he smiles. He lets go of me, but does give me a pat on the back.

“Happy summer, Matty Chris D.,” he says before saying goodbye to Arnold.

[danbenzvi]

On The Jukebox: “Asteroid City (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)”

Time to head back to the 50′s.  Track listing as follows:

Alexandre Desplat - “WXYZ-TV Channel 8″

Johnny Duncan & The Bluegrass Boys - “Last Train To San Fernando”

Slim Whitman - “Indian Love Call”

Les Baxter - “April In Portugal”

Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys - “Ida Red”

Henk Bouman, Musica Antiqua Koln & Reinhard Goebel - “Canon and Gigue in D Major: I. Canon”

Alexandre Desplat - “Opening Ceremony With Awards Presentation (Keynote Speaker: General Grif Gibson)”

Tex Ritter - “Jingle Jangle Jingle (2000 Remastered Version)”

Bill Monroe & The Bluegrass Boys - “Orange Blossom Special”

Tex Ritter - “High Noon (Do Not Forsake Me) (1991 Remastered Version)”

Burl Ives - “Cowboy’s Lament”

Alexandre Desplat - “Viewing of the Astronomical Ellipses (Opening Comments: Dr. Hickenlooper)”

Slim Whitman - “Rose Marie”

Slim Whitman - “Indian Love Call (1944 Version)”

Tennessee Ernie Ford - “Sixteen Tons (2000 Remastered Version)”

Eddy Arnold - “The Cattle Call”

Alexandre Desplat - “Special Seminar at the Playwright’s Request (Saltzburg Keitel’s Classroom)”

Asteroid City Cast - “Dear Alien (Who Art In Heaven)”

Johnny Duncan & The Bluegrass Boys - “Kaw-Liga”

Alexandre Desplat - “Emergency Assembly”

Alexandre Desplat - “A Bewildering and Bedazzling Celestial Mystery”

Les Paul & Mary Ford - “How High The Moon”

Bing Crosby - “The Streets Of Laredo”

The Chas McDevitt Skiffle Group & Nancy Whiskey - “Freight Train”

Jarvis Cocker - “You Can’t Wake Up If You Don’t Fall Asleep”