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squidproquoclarice · 4 years ago

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For the @rdr-secret-santa exchange this year, I got to write for @tiredcowpoke. The request I wrote was “Molly/Mary-Beth, possibly a post-game au thing related to their writing?” Happy Holidays, Cowpoke, and I hope you enjoy!

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December 1919

St. Denis, Lemoyne

It had been a solemn few years for a poetess, for the world looked upon things with a grim eye, and who could blame them? Between the war and the Spanish flu, that was bad enough. Even a bloody flood of molasses of all things taking lives in a strange and even absurd way. She needed a change from Boston, feeling that urge come over her.

Just as she’d needed a change so long ago and left Dublin for Cousin Brian’s horse farm in California. Back in another life, back when she’d then left Cousin Brian’s horse farm after a few months based on the dark good looks and smooth charms of Mister Aiden O’Malley, or so he’d called himself. Back when she’d been such a fool and become an outlaw’s woman--outlaw’s whore--, something within her liked to hiss still. That part was the one that had been raised to love and fear her father, God the Father, and Father O’Connell alike, a paternal trinity that seemed to have no room for any woman once she wasn’t a virgin.

Some parts of Molly O’Shea clung beneath the skin of Margaret McCarthy nonetheless, and she’d long since had to accept that. Though she listened to them less and less as the years rolled on in their relentless pace. Early on had been difficult. She couldn’t go back to Cousin Brian, couldn’t go back to her father by any means, couldn’t bear to face their condemnation of her shame. So she had gone to Boston, after leaving Dutch and his band of grubby fools behind, a place she had never belonged with a man who used and discarded women. For a woman raised to be an ornament to a man, a true lady, it had been a struggle. But she found eventually that her pen was enough to keep her, rather than the need of a man for it. Forged on into a strange new world where she alone was mistress of her fate, and found it to her liking.

Now here she was in St. Denis for the first time in twenty years, and certainly she was older and wiser and a trifle stouter than the lass of twenty-six who’d never genuinely seen these streets, drinking as much as she had for the heartbreak of it all. It pleased her in some ways to truly experience the city for the first time, finding the old, cultured, European feel of it much to her liking, as opposed to the brashness of Boston that had never quite fit her, no matter how many Irish lived there.

No sooner had she arrived, not even fully unpacking her trunks at the opulent Castille House hotel, built seven years before, than an invitation came from the Krewe of Minerva, whom she was given to understand, had something to do with the Carnival season of Mardi Gras here in St. Denis, and the misspelling of “crew” was quite deliberate, but mostly that it consisted of some of the most prominent women in St. Denis, the wives and daughters and sisters of the powerful, and a handful of independent women as well.

The invitation, printed on heavy card stock, gilt decoration and with neat, flowing copperplate script, asked her to attend an evening celebrating St. Denis’ most prominent female literary luminaries. Oh, the glory of it, to be among people who appreciated such little social niceties as a proper invitation. She thought she understood what they were about--another woman writer had arrived in their midst, and they wished to draw her into their circle. Something in her was giddy about it, even at her age, so delighted to be included, welcomed, in such a way. It hadn’t always been the case.

It was no hardship to attend either given that the reception was in the ballroom of the Castille. So here she was, dressed in a flattering green gown that highlighted her eyes, here to meet the best and brightest lights of St. Denis’ women. Hearing snippets of their chatter as she passed, introducing herself or being introduced one by one, recognizing a few of them from their prominence in the papers.

Henrietta Wicklow, the journalist and ardent suffragette who’d marched for the vote right alongside her deceased mother Dorothy, “Next year we ladies shall all be voting for president--”

A loud voice from a group of ladies clearly enjoying their champagne, a young woman declaring with a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other, “Enjoy it now, gals, we’ve only a month until this government foolishness of abolishing liquor begins--”

Philomena Castille, wife of Claude Castille, owner of the very hotel they were now in, “--think that the Mardi Gras ball should reflect the theme of a new dawn for a new decade after the frightful few years we’ve had”, and Mrs. Castille then took charge of her to make further introductions with the brisk efficiency of a talented hostess.

Mary Barrett, wife of one of the men involved in St. Denis’ most prominent bookstore, and apparently also the local literary critic Martin Gillis, hiding behind a man’s name. Something about the woman, small, dark, and neat, with a striking small beauty spot on her right cheek, looked oddly familiar. But Margaret couldn’t quite place her. Perhaps they’d met at some literary event before? “Very pleased to meet you, Miss McCarthy, your book of poems is quite memorable.” From her, it somehow didn’t sound like a platitude.

Now another person approached, and Mrs. Castile said, “Oh, and here’s another of our ladies with a talented pen. We call her by her real name in the bosom of friends here, so here’s Miss Mary-Beth Landry. Though,” she winked one sapphire-blue eye, “you would know her better by her nom de plume, Leslie Dupont. Miss Landry, this is Margaret McCarthy, the poetess. She’s moving down from Boston to grace our city.”

She’d heard of Leslie Dupont, a semi-scandalous writer of semi-scandalous books. She had read several and rather enjoyed them, though some part of her blushed to admit it. But there was the part of her that would always adore romance and adventure. Though she hadn’t touched a great deal of Leslie Dupont’s books, including her most popular novel, “Sunset Over The Red Sage”, because those ones were about outlaws, highwaymen, bandits, and pirates. If there was one thing she had no wish to read in this life, it was a romance involving that sort of man. She’d been hurt enough by her own fantasies of that life without needing to read another woman’s ignorant rose-tinted version of it.

Oh, but she wasn’t so ignorant at all, because as Mary-Beth Landry turned, it had been twenty years, but Margaret still recognized her. Not Landry at all, oh no, but Gaskill. Those tumbledown golden brown curls, the soft blue-grey eyes, the liberal sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose that all still gave her something of an appealing girlishness even though she must have passed forty herself, and the lines beside her eyes and mouth said it as much as the ones Margaret saw in the mirror.

Her first instinct was the desire to turn and run before Mary-Beth could say her name, her old name, and expose Margaret in front of all these people as every bit as much an imposter as her. The second was a flare of anger because even all these years later, she could remember being forced to endure watching Dutch sniffing around her, flirting with her shamelessly, and thinking to herself with raging despairing humiliation, That cheap little tramp, what does she have that I don’t, aside from a few more years of youth? The third was to calm herself, because that was all old history and Dutch Van Der Linde wasn’t worth her concern, and frankly, she had drunk a glass of very fine whiskey eight years ago in pleasure at hearing the government’s Bureau of Investigation had finally caught up with him. Bastard. I hope the Devil himself has you as you deserve.

Mary-Beth’s eyes went wide and startled, and she blurted, “Molly!”

Margaret might have slapped her, but she held herself together. “My, it’s been so long since anybody called me that.”

“You two know each other?” Mrs. Castille said, looking at the two of them with surprise, but at least no suspicion.

“Oh, it was so very long ago,” Mary-Beth said, recovering rapidly. “I’m ashamed to say that I...I broke her cousin’s heart.”

“You’ve broken quite a few hearts, my dear,” Mrs. Castille said cheerfully. Yes, Margaret had heard about Leslie Dupont’s fast ways and string of romances never quite come to fruition. Was there such a thing as a rakess?

Mary-Beth’s gaze stayed on hers, and she gave Margaret a shy, apologetic smile. Surprisingly, she felt her pulse suddenly jump at the gesture, and it didn’t feel like alarm or anger. “I do hope you can forgive me, M--Margaret.”

“Oh, long since forgotten,” Margaret assured her, glad she’d jumped quickly to cover her gaffe, and happy to follow her lead with that story. “The fellow wasn’t worth the bother in the end, now was he? We both said good riddance to him.”

“I’ll let you two catch up,” Mrs. Castille said, gesturing towards the balcony. “The night air is quite fine.”

Given two weeks before she’d been in a miserable Boston winter, the weather here made for a pleasant change, she had to admit. Knowing there was no escaping it, she followed Mary-Beth onto the balcony, some part of her very reluctant to have this conversation, but another part strangely intrigued by what the woman had become. Curse her eternal romantic streak, but of course moving from dreamy guttersnipe and pickpocket to a successful authoress made for quite the tale.

Mary-Beth spoke first, keeping her voice low. “We all wondered what had happened to you. You just--vanished.”

“There was nothing to stay for,” she said, managing to keep the bitterness from her tone. “I was never quite one of you, now was I?” So she had simply not followed them when they cleared out from Shady Belle in an almighty hurry, saying the bank robbery had gone terribly wrong. She’d gone to St. Denis and drunk herself silly for nearly a month, and then she’d sobered enough to tell herself she would take the first train in the station, wherever it was bound, which brought her back to Valentine. Of course she would never stay there. The first train into the Valentine station was bound for Omaha. And she kept doing that until chance brought her to Boston.

“Oh, Molly--”

“Margaret,” she corrected with all the fierce, frosty bite of those Boston winters she’d left behind her. “Molly” was only for her intimate friends, and Mary-Beth Landry née Gaskill was and had been nothing of the sort. She relented somewhat, and asked, “What happened to them, if you know?” She might not have belonged to them, they had made that quite clear, but that didn’t mean she wished them ill, let alone shot to pieces by Pinkertons. She’d read about the big gunslingers of the gang dying in the papers over the years, of course, but all the little people like her, like Mary-Beth, had escaped notice.

“We got lucky. Nobody else died that year after Lenny and Hosea,” Mary-Beth answered. “I left a couple of weeks before the end of it all, Pearson and me together, but I’ve run into enough of them in the years since here and there.”

“Arthur died, though?” Margaret said in confusion. He clearly had been killed. The papers had blared it everywhere in triumph, the Pinkertons bagging one more significant quarry even if Dutch himself slipped through their fingers.

If there had been anyone else in the gang she probably should have let herself like and consider halfway to a friend, it might well have been Arthur. There was an awkward gentlemanliness and kindness towards her and all the women beneath that drawling uncouthness, as if he tried to keep the best of himself well hidden. Fetching her that mirror only because she mentioned wanting one? That was the sort of man Arthur Morgan had been, even if she’d been too much of a snob to see it at the time, far more swayed by Dutch’s smooth manners and darkly seductive charisma, the veneer of the proper gentleman of the sort she prized. She couldn’t say she had mourned Arthur at the time, but she had thought about him now and again since. He seemed like a better man than Dutch had let him be, and that felt like a shame.

Mary-Beth leaned closer, and she gave a knowing cat’s smile. “The reports of his death may have been exaggerated. The Pinkertons left him for dead, but it seems that wasn’t quite the case.”

“No!” Delicious gossip, that, even if she could never tell another soul. “Then--what? Who?”

“Sadie’s the one who got him out alive. They stayed together, ended up married, and they’re up in Canada with their children. We don’t write much, just the occasional Christmas card, but it sounds as though they’re well last I heard.”

Margaret had to shake her head, trying to not laugh. Arthur Morgan had married Sadie Adler? That brash, angry half-feral woman strolling around in her pants and swearing a blue streak and toting a rifle, who had made it clear she’d as soon kill a man if he looked at her wrong? But that was old Molly O’Shea talking, a posh lady looking down her nose at Sadie as a coarse farm wife who prided herself on being unnaturally mannish besides. Well, well. Hidden depths to her, I suppose. Or perhaps she changed herself to something finer when it was all said and done. She had done so herself. It seemed Mary-Beth had, at least in some ways.

“Some of the rest are up there in Canada as well. Charles, Karen, Abigail, and such. Pearson’s out in Rhodes, and the Reverend in New York, last I heard.” Abigail, still chasing the feckless boy-man father of her child when the boy was growing old enough to read. Karen, a loudmouthed, chubby creature who fancied herself a hellraiser, had even punched Margaret in the face once. Though I suppose deserved it, mocking her as I did. Saying Sean MacGuire was a brainless, reckless fool and I knew hundreds more Irishmen just like him. Certainly we both turned too much to the drink for the love of men who could never love us as we needed. Abigail never did that at least, though John wasn’t nearly worthy of her that I saw, but the heart wants what it wants. I made quite a solid proof of that lunacy. “Susan, Miss Grimshaw, she stayed around here for a bit, but she always was restless. She’s out in San Francisco now, moved there a year after the earthquake.” Margaret absorbed that, remembering the older woman and her need to feel relevant by bossing people around. The two of them had quite the mutual disdain, Dutch’s young lover versus his older former flame. Whereas back then she’d rolled her eyes at the jealous old biddy who clearly had it in for Dutch choosing another woman, now she was about the age Susan Grimshaw had been then. She could look on it with some sympathy--how much it had hurt to see Dutch already abandoning her, and Susan’s loyalty and love for Dutch had been there even so many years later. How hard must that have been? How hard must it have been to be an unmarried woman approaching fifty, who most men now didn’t value at all? Margaret had escaped that snare, but Dutch had kept Susan dependent on him all that time. Perhaps that was the softening of years, and wisdom, that she could see such things now.

Mary-Beth continued, “Tilly was actually here until earlier this year. She and her husband Henri headed north to Chicago. Better opportunities there for them there, though. I do miss her dreadfully. We used to try and meet every other Thursday at least, sometimes with the children. I’d spoil them with candy and books and toys, and Tilly would always just smile at it. Five children under twelve, quite the handful, but oh, how wonderful they all are. I wonder if baby Amelie will even remember me. She’s only two and a half now.” She wore a wistful, faded, sad little smile at recounting those memories.

Hearing Mary-Beth talk about all the women that had been with Dutch’s people then, it eased something in her to hear they all seemed to have done well and lived happy lives. She’d long since had to face the idea that her youthful dismissal of all of them as a pack of cheap, coarse unmannered creatures not worthy of her time, as different from her bearing and breeding as chalk and cheese, had been wrong. Learned that the line between being one of those women in the gutter and safely embroidering samplers in a graceful parlor was painfully razor thin. Then Mary-Beth shrugged in a sharp, almost dismissive way, and there was something striving too hard for chipper casualness in her tone when she said, “So now it’s only little old me left here in St. Denis.” “And me now, I suppose.” She said it before she could think better of it, laying claim to something she hadn’t cared about in so long, and hadn’t even felt a part of when she was in the thick of it. And yet.

She’d heard that loneliness in Mary-Beth’s voice, and recognized with a startle that she’d felt that same seemingly indefinable loneliness all too often, for all she hadn’t been around anyone else who ran with Dutch’s gang, let alone thought she’d wanted them there.

There was a part of her she couldn’t ever truly talk about, both from the shame of a foolish romance that would have labeled her as firmly ruined, and from the fear of being known as someone who’d been involved with all that unsavory outlaw business. To be with one person she didn’t have to fearfully conceal that behind an ironbound mask, and recognizing the sheer bloody effort it had been these past twenty years to do it, felt like an agonizing relief that she had never known she wanted. Like taking her corset off at the end of the day, laced stern and tight now against the ever-encroaching flesh of middle age, and breathing.

Mary-Beth looked at her, a gentle smile curving her lips. “And you now.” She hesitated, and then said almost shyly, “I did read ‘Odes to a Far Country’, you know. Though my favorite poem in it is ‘The Butterfly and the Phoenix’.”

“Oh!” She felt herself blushing, pleased but surprised. “That’s unusual. Nobody ever likes that one best.” One of her earliest published poems, and she looked back on it now as a somewhat mawkish, clumsy rumination from a woman facing an uncertain future, writing about metamorphosis, slumber, and fire from the ashes. The symbolism in it felt treacly and heavy-handed to her now. “It’s...very untidy.”

“Well, I like it.” Mary-Beth spread her hands and shrugged. “It’s honest. It’s a very messy thing to remake yourself, isn’t it?”

She thought she understood now, with a flash of insight. Mary-Beth had always seemed dreamy, even a bit dull at her insistence on painting everything in a romantic light, as if she simply couldn’t see the awful reality they lived in. How much of that was true then and how much was an act, Margaret couldn’t say, given she wouldn’t give herself much credit for being terribly perceptive in those days. But she had the suspicion Leslie Dupont now saw things clearer, and still chose to write those silly romances only because they brought some joy to the world. Perhaps she wrote about outlaws and pirates only to purge her own demons in some way.

She felt that flicker in her chest again, confessing, “I liked ‘Ribbons of Scarlet’ best.” That one was about a French noblewoman bound for the guillotine, and her love for the humble gardener who’d been her childhood friend. Who then, of course, helped break her out of the Bastille itself, and they fled together, escaped to freedom in America.

“Nobody ever likes that one best,” Mary-Beth said, imitating Margaret’s Dublin accent dreadfully, turning it into some God-forsaken stage Irish and a poor one at that, and Margaret found herself smiling helplessly at it. “People prefer their French Revolution stories with tragic and doomed endings, I’ve found.”

She sighed, looking out into the electric lamp-lit city at night, like a thousand fireflies glowing, fighting back the darkness. “I think we’ve had rather enough of tragic and doomed endings.”

They’d been young enough then, and foolish, and unable to see things clearly, let alone each other. She’d been twenty-six, and Mary-Beth, what, twenty-one perhaps? Now here they were, two middle-aged women brought together again in St. Denis by fate and literature both, and looking at the other woman, Margaret thought she felt something about Mary-Beth that just fit in some peculiar, easy way. “I think we have,” Mary-Beth answered softly. “I only wrote one. My first book. And I only implied it that way, and then, well, I undid it in the sequel anyhow when I thought better of it.” She turned to look at Margaret. “But here we are talking away and you’ve just gotten here to the gathering, and I’m keeping you all to myself.”

“I don’t mind, not at all,” she blurted, before she could help herself, and found herself blushing hotly again, and was surprised to see an answering blush in Mary-Beth’s cheeks. At their age, no less, blushing like two schoolgirls in braids! “But I probably should make the rounds, of course. See and be seen.”

“Of course.” Mary-Beth smiled at her. “Do you have plans for Christmas? I certainly don’t, not aside from the usual round of parties, but you know what I mean. Real plans for Christmas Day, not social ones. If not, you’d be welcome to come to my home, if you’d like.” She reached out to touch Margaret’s arm gently, and oh, how glad she was the fashion was no longer for elbow-length gloves along with an evening gown, because the touch of those fingers on her bare arm sent a frisson of longing through her like she hadn’t felt in years. She’d taken some to her bed discreetly when the mood struck, pleasant enough interludes, but there had never been anything of her heart in it. This, oh, this? This had destroyed her once and it could destroy her again, but how she suddenly wanted, something that wasn’t the overwhelming possession she had craved from Dutch, but something finer, brighter, something like kindred souls finding each other after so long.

She didn’t have a mean bone in her body then, and I very much doubt she does now. She’s not Dutch. Telling herself that, feeling her heart hesitantly peek open only a crack, it was enough for now. She looked up into Mary-Beth’s eyes, and smiled back. “I’d like that very much.”

A/N: Since it was a “Molly lives!” AU already, I decided to just go full “The gang members who died in Chapters 5 and 6 actually live!” AU, since neither Molly nor Susan are tough to spare their sad Beaver Hollow fates, Karen’s is ambiguous, and I’ve definitely explored the idea that there was a clear chance for Arthur if Sadie came back for him. Especially the chance for Molly to reflect a bit on Susan and Karen with greater age and wisdom and see the similarities felt too good to pass up.

#molly o'shea #mary beth gaskill #rdr2 #rdr secret santa 2020 #mollybeth #tiredcowpoke #getting to write two 40something bi literary women for the holidays was lovely #writing #holiday exchange

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years ago

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What Might Have Been - 11

(From my ongoing fic using @goodomenscelebration‘s theme prompts. This one is a bit lighter, but the next few will bring the angst again.)

Masterlist of previous parts here.

Old-Fashioned

Aziraphale stared at the sleeping angel. He’d never even asked her name. It hadn’t mattered, really.

He hated how callous that sounded. That was what Heaven had always wanted him to be, for six thousand years. Callous, disinterested, distanced from the beings who surrounded him, tending to them without caring, like a farmer preparing animals for slaughter. Until one day, he couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t ignore the pain. Couldn’t pretend it – they – everything – didn’t matter.

With a sigh, he walked over to the window, looking out across the remains of the shattered city.

Crowley’s the one who taught me, he thought, tugging at the curtain. What matters. What doesn’t. If the Aziraphale of this world had never learned…what did that mean? Did Crowley not exist? He didn’t know how these other worlds worked, but surely there couldn’t be an Aziraphale and no Crowley. The thought was too wretched to consider.

She’d said there were still humans out there, somewhere. New Eden. Under the thumb of the Archangels. Were they any kinder in this world than his own? It didn’t seem likely.

Six millennia of hard-won empathy. If he just walked away, could he say he’d changed at all?

“Don’t be a fool,” Aziraphale told himself. “This isn’t your world. It’s not your responsibility. Crowley must have come by now. You need to find him and get back home. Where you belong.”

He paused to adjust the blanket over the sleeping angel. She’d stay unconscious for at least a day, and he’d shielded her enough to ensure she wasn’t interrupted. After that, she’d be on her own.

Nothing more to do here, Aziraphale began searching for a way outside.

Halfway back to the villages of the South Downs, Aziraphale saw shapes moving in the sky.

Angels. Probably.

He fluttered down to land next to an abandoned car, rusted through so that he could tell nothing about it except that it was smaller than the Bentley.

Hundreds of angels, it appeared, weaving in a grid over the South Downs. Searching.

But not, he thought, searching for him.

A few shot by nearly overhead. He couldn’t get a good look at them, but it was enough to jog his memory. Cream jacket, gold buttons shining. Two rows. Winged pins at the collar. Tartan kilt. And a white pith helmet to complete the look.

One piece of glass still survived in the car’s wing mirror, which he used to inspect the result. The tartan had come out a little off – he’d tried to imitate a basic foot soldier’s pattern, but instead it was just his own with a bit more gold woven in. That might stand out.

Well, it he was going that route already, may as well give himself a promotion. He added some gold braid to his epaulettes, a smattering of ribbon bars on his chest, nothing too ostentatious. A bottom-choir angel, but one with an exemplary record. Perfect.

He almost wished he’d taken the other angel’s sword, but he was happier without it. Besides, she would almost certainly return to the fight before she’d even fully recovered. She needed it more than he did.

“Alright. A message. Just delivering a message. Top Secret. Priority. Yes.” Don’t overthink it, as Crowley habitually reminded him when Aziraphale’s cover stories became more complex than the plots of his favorite thrillers.

He kicked off from the ground and flew directly towards the other angels, hands out so they could see he was unarmed.

“Halt!” one shouted, almost immediately.

Aziraphale spread his wings to hover in the air and immediately wished he hadn’t. Six thousand years on Earth, certain muscles were far out of practice, and really, these wings weren’t designed for hovering even in the best of circumstances.

“Identify yourself!” another angel snapped.

“Kasbeel, Third Warden of the Fourth Heaven, Second Battalion, Fourth Platoon, recently transferred from Fourth Battalion, Third Platoon. Messenger of –” he hesitated for half a second, because messengers weren’t numbered. “—of, er, Venus.” He threw up his hand into what he hoped was the correct salute for his alleged station.

The other two angels glanced at each other. “Third Battalion you say?”

“No, Second Battalion, though, previously, I was in the Fourth Battalion, though, interestingly, when I was first created –”

“Alright,” the angel on the right said, saluting him back, “we don’t need your life story. But you can’t come through here. This area is under containment.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked, trying to look as though he knew nothing relevant. “Why would it be under containment?”

“That’s classified.”

“Ah. Well. I need to come through here. I have a message. Information on the most recent troop movements, for…” another hesitation. Gabriel’s name would get him anywhere, assuming Gabriel wasn’t currently in Heaven and willfully ignoring such petty details as death tolls and battle formations, which sounded very probable. Michael would work as well, but there was a chance she – or Uriel, or Sandalphon – was leading the charge back over the sea. If he gave the wrong name, they would know. “…for headquarters.” There was always a headquarters.

“That sounds very important,” said the angel on the left. “You still can’t come through here.”

“Classified,” the angel on the right added.

“But you don’t understand! I need to deliver this message as quickly as possible. Do you know how many battles have turned based solely on the arrival of timely information?”

“How many?”

“Lots! Think of the Battle of Marathon! The Charge of the Light Brigade, though that’s really more of a counterexample. Er.” Aziraphale was already near the end of his scanty military knowledge, but the two angels looked baffled already. “The Battle of the Iron Gate! The War of the Outlaws! The Boston Molasses Flood! The Great Wrath!”

“Did you say Molasses?”

Perhaps he’d overplayed it a bit. “Many died at the hands of Distilled Purity.”

The two angels exchanged another glance. He wished their faces weren’t so carefully blank. “I suppose you’re correct,” the one on the left started, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“We can take the message and deliver it for you. To save time.”

“You can’t,” Aziraphale jumped in, a little too quickly.

Now he could read their expressions: obvious suspicion. “Why not?”

“It’s…classified.”

“I can carry a sealed container without opening it,” pointed out the angel on the left.

“There is no physical message. I have it…memorized.”

“You have all the troop movements memorized?” The angel on the right had graduated from suspicion to downright distrust.

“Yes. Which is why I need to deliver it soon, before the memories start to decay.”

The angel on the right leaned closer. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Kasbeel, Third Warden of –”

“And what does your name mean?”

“Er.” Aziraphale glanced at the swarms of angels fluttering around the South Downs. “You know, I’m starting to think it would be much simpler to go around. Yes. Far less hassle. No tedious bureaucracy or other nonsense. I’ll just be on my way. Toodle-pip!”

He spun and folded his wings, gliding and diving above the twisted motorway. As near as he could tell, no one was following him.

With one last flutter of aching wings, Aziraphale settled down beside another rusted-out car. He stretched and flexed his wings, which had not been used this much since before the atmosphere was formed. The one on the right had developed something like a cramp. “Perhaps I’ll walk for a bit. Old-fashioned footwork and all that.” With one last arch of his back, he tucked his wings away and started walking, eyes still scanning the sky for any sign of pursuit.

Which was why he almost missed the sounds from the road up ahead. Voices, not loud, but numerous. Traveling in the same direction as he.

Crouching behind another car, Aziraphale watched them. Twenty, thirty – likely more – humans, traveling in a pack. A few had children, including the young woman at the back with short, dark hair. All of them were smudged with dirt, exhausted, and moving as fast as they could.

He shot another glance back towards the South Downs. There wasn’t much he could do to try and meet up with Crowley, not until the angels found whatever they were searching for. Assuming they weren’t searching for beings from another world, as that would make things immensely awkward.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Crowley was here. Crowley would find him. And in the meantime, a bit of detective work was in order.

A wave of his hands turned the battle outfit back to his usual suit. He did his best to shield himself, just in case, but it wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny. Hopefully the humans would be too distracted to notice his aura. Hopefully there would be no angels or demons.

“Right,” he muttered, adjusting his waistcoat and straightening his tie. “Time to get a few answers.”

(Kasbeel, according to my dictionaries of angels, means “He Who Lies to God.” Seemed accurate.)

#good omens #good omens celebration #good omens prime #goc2020 #aziraphale #light angst #bit of humor #good omens angels #My writing #What Might Have Been

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twentyghosts · 5 years ago

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9, 18, 19, 20, 22 😁

THANK YOU for doing the Lord’s work of distracting me from my actual work today!

9: Best month for you this year?

HMMM. I think I’ll go with June--it was my birthday month and I had a lovely birthday gathering in the WIZARD’S TOWER (the private room of the local board game cafe) and also went to Chicago to see friends, family, as well as the musicals Six and Hamilton and the play Ms Blakk for President. (Looking back at my calendar--it’s also the month I first saw an allergist which, though less exciting, has been very helpful for my terrible immune system!)

But also in February my friend Anna and I met up in New York and saw The Band’s Visit, Network, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, and Come From Away. Hmm are theater visits the only thing I use to measure my quality of life? Well maybe but that was a really good week.

18: A memorable meal this year?

My family did an early Christmas celebration in Las Vegas earlier this month and pretty much every meal we had was great. Maybe my favorite was, we went to Gordon Ramsay’s Hell’s Kitchen restaurant which I thought would be touristy garbage...obviously it was touristy but the food was fucking delicious and they had a whole separate vegetarian menu which was very fancy.

19: What’re you excited about for next year?

In February I’m going to New Orleans for a reunion of my Peace Corps class! It’s been 10 years since we finished?!

20: What’s something you learned this year?

I read 1919: The Year that Changed America by Martin Sandler and tbh I already knew a moderate amount about the Boston Molasses Flood but I didn’t know how directly it affected stuff like national building codes and insurance policies. Like after the sheer drama of the molasses flood was a lot of paperwork that had lasting repercussions!

22: Favorite place you visited this year?

Oh--you know, I don’t think I went anywhere new to me this year, that’s kind of sad. Goal for next year to be sure. Well, I didn’t go to any new cities or countries but...actually I see now that the question didn’t actually ask that it be somewhere new to me, I just immediately started feeling self-conscious about it. Anyway, I’d been to Las Vegas before but I hadn’t been to the Pinball Hall of Fame before and that was a really fun place to spend the afternoon. So maybe that was my favorite? Otherwise maybe just New York generally.

[End of year asks]

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tjp5 · 5 years ago

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Week 5 Weekend

Happy Valentines Day to you and yours! Yup, I’m late… No, I don’t really care. It’s the thought that counts…. Maybe. Idk Hakuna Matata that shit.

So, Saturday is the off day of off days. I literally don’t have anything going on, it drags a little bit, but it is nice to not have anything on the radar for the day. Plus, I got to dog sit, fuck yea dogs. I dipped a little Saturday, I’ve gotten a lot of bad new in the last two weeks, and unfortunately it is all starting to catch up. I don’t feel like getting into that shit storm on here, I just don’t think it would be beneficial to write about it when its still bothering me three days later.

Anyway, the apartment got cleaned, I had my cheat meal, which was Taco Bell… Do you remember the taco bell dog from the 90s? Maybe I’ll insert a gif here, maybe I won’t. Look at that, I did it, just for you.

Anyway, I loved those commercials. Along with moving around to clean up the apartment, there were of course walks for the pupper, so I wasn’t totally a lazy ass Saturday. I tried to get my mind off things and play some games, but when the shit storm ensues, there isn’t much out there that will really take my mind off it, unless I just keep myself crazy busy. Which I did at work. It is kind of comical that when things are worse for me, I am a better worker. I don’t know, I guess it is just my way of ignoring all the heavy stuff.

Yesterday was another day that was a little darker, unfortunately, and fortunately, things are coming to a head quicker than usual. I don’t know why this is, but who knows, maybe this rut won’t last as long. I need to invest in a scale. I don’t trust the scale at the gym, mainly because it moves like it was stuck in the molasses flood in Boston. Yes, that was a thing, check out this cool link (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Molasses_Flood) So I just don’t trust it. Plus, I am around the same weight I was, and my clothes are fitting way better than they were before. Literally, I don’t know what I would have ended up doing yesterday if it wasn’t for this program. It is getting me out of the problems that I am dealing with, even if it is only for about two hours.

With the workout main workout was barbell press, funny story real quick. I stole someone’s phone…. Because I thought it belonged to someone else and was trying to be a good gym bro. Literally thought I was going to have to fight two dudes. But, they understood, and even apologized for putting their stuff on a machine they weren’t using. Some gym bros aren’t total douches. Anyway, Barbell press was easy this week. I was dragging ass, so I had one of the Reign energy drinks before the workout. I think that might have something to do with it, but it makes you feel good inside. The only thing that was bad about the workout was the fact that my shoulder seems to be acting up. So, when I had to do Cable Lat raises, my shoulder was literally not cooperating. I had to change the workout a little bit there so I could get the reps in. Although it is frustrating at this point, I am okay with getting the reps in, even if they aren’t exactly right. The Arnold press is a lot more difficult than I thought it would be, I don’t think that it is difficult because of the weight, but the motion causes my shoulder to tire out rather quickly. I don’t think this happened last week, but I can’t remember. The cardio for the day was good, I tossed out the burpees because I didn’t think I would be able to do the pushup motion along with everything else that I had to do. 18-minute AMRAP, I love that shit. Partly because its not running, I’m not a runner at the moment. Maybe I will learn to be, but let’s work on one thing at a time, eh? Also, make sure you read the workout before you start the workout, because my warmup was supposed to be four rounds, I did seven, at an 8 min AMRAP.

CHICKEN. Chicken and eggs have become a large part of my diet in the last two weeks. I don’t know if it is bad for me or not, but I enjoy it. A few months ago, I did a whole month without eating meat. I think I need to incorporate more plant-based meals into what I am eating. It’s a balance. I need to take a picture to see the progress that I have made, maybe tomorrow morning. Probably not.

Cheers

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melagerie · 5 years ago

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@quite-actually-a-nacho thanks for tagging me!

1. Name/Alias

My name’s Mary! I have not been gifted with any nicknames

2. Birthday

August 9th

3. Zodiac Sign

Leo. It’s kind of accurate? I do enjoy creative and dramatic (like theater, not people drama) stuff, but I don’t think I’m that cocky/arrogant? I’d much rather go with what the group wants

4. Height

5′5″ ish

5. Hobbies

Reading, drawing, watching cartoons, telling people about the Boston Molasses Flood, listening to music, admiring clouds

6. Favorite Colors

Green. Like a grass/leaves with sun coming through them kind of green. But I’m really fond of all the secondary colors; orange was my favorite for a long while and there are some shades of purples I just love

7. Favorite Books

I really love Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series. Also, The Stand (Stephen King) and Dune (Frank Herbert) for just being epic reads. Also House of Leaves (Mark Z. Danielewski) because I had to write a paper on it last semester and it’s just a wild ride of a book. And more recently, the Johannes Cabal series. So all favorites, but the Discworld books are most favorite

8. Last Song I Listened To

Poor Baby from Company (specifically the London gender-swapped cast album). It’s a part of a playlist I have that’s just three different albums of Company. I’m still very much in love with that show

9. Last Film I Watched

Mune: Guardian of the Moon. I had vaguely heard of it? but it was on Netflix and my sister wanted to watch it, so we did, and it’s pretty darn good. The animation and visuals are absolutely GORGEOUS and it’s worth watching for that alone

10. Inspiration or Muse

Definitely the various media I consume, whether that’s a song, a show, or a book. Invader Zim is kinda what started me drawing for a hobby in the first place. I had always liked to doodle, but when I was watching IZ for the first time, every time Dib (my favorite character) showed up I had the thought of “hm. I wanna draw this kid.” So I’ve been having a good time since then

11. Dream Job

I really want to take statistics and organize surveys for research projects. Like those random stats that tell you approximately how many dogs there are in a country or how much chocolate is consumed every year? I want to help find those. Otherwise I’d love to do something creative-like

12. Meaning Behind Your URL

I was originally thinking melange, because mel are my initials and melange is an actual word (albeit taken from the name of a cat in Neko Atsume (but still an actual word)), but that was taken. So melagerie is just menagerie but with an “l” substituted in because I thought that looked cool and I still got to use my initials.

@half-blood-widow @beyondthebracken @writersturmoil @seitekedas @wantingtoexpire and of course only if you guys want to. No pressure/obligation whatsoever. And if you weren’t tagged but would like to do this, I formally invite you to

#tag game

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astudyinfic · 6 years ago

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Molasses in January || Zanewinder ficlet

Okay, in my defense, I had no idea I was going to write this today. But then I saw something about it being the one-hundredth anniversary of the Boston Molasses Flood and after a bit of reading, this fic happened. I absolve myself of all responsibility here. Unless you really like it, in which case, you’re welcome. -J

“While I assume this is a Sidewinder thing and therefore inexplicable and possibly illegal, tell me again why we are going to Boston. On a Tuesday.” For all Zane knew, it was an excuse to get out of work and drive the Mustang up the coast but when it came to Nick and Ty, one never knew.

Ty glanced over at him before settling his gaze back on the road. “Because it is January fifteenth and is we are all around, we go to Boston on January fifteenth.” That explanation did absolutely nothing to enlighten Zane and he just glared at his frustrating partner while waiting for Ty to elaborate. “It’s a Boston thing. I don’t understand. I just go for the rum.”

Zane sighed and ran his hand through his hair, eyes cast skyward as he asked for patience to deal with his husband and the Recon team he apparently married. “So we are going to Boston, missing work with no explanation, so that you can drink rum with the team because it is January fifteenth?” If anyone else told him that, Zane would have laughed in their faces. As it was, this seemed par for the course with Sidewinder.

Nodding, Ty didn’t take his eyes off the road and Zane dropped it for now. Surely there was another explanation but he couldn’t fathom what it would be. In his time with Ty, however, Zane had learned that expecting logic from Ty and his team was a lesson in futility. In battle, they were deadly. In civilian life, they were one step away from being committed. The lot of them.

Not that Zane was any better.

They pulled in to a bar in the northern part of the city and only then did Ty look over at Zane in concern. “I should have warned you about the rum ahead of time. Are you okay with this? I’m sure Nick would let you chill on the Fiddlers until we’re done if that’s better.”

“Oh hell no,” Zane said with a laugh. “I want to know what this is all about. Don’t worry about me, doll. I’ll be fine.”

Ty gave him a quick kiss before lacing their fingers together and leading the way into the bar. “Six! Zane!” Nick called from the back of the place. “Took you two long enough!”

They picked their way through the crowd, more people there than Zane would have expected for the middle of the day on a Tuesday. He hugged both Nick and Kelly when he got to the table and Ty did the same. “Just the four of us this year?” Ty asked, pulling out a chair for Zane before sitting as well. “Where are Digger and Johns?”

“Johns informed me that he works for a living and can’t fly to Boston for a day just to drink. Which we both know is bullshit because he’s flown farther for less. He’s just lazy. But he did say he’d drink tonight. And Digger...is on house arrest again.”

“Who’d he blow up this time?” Zane asked, snickering. There were three glasses filled with a warm amber colored liquid on the table, as well as a large glass of iced tea. Zane nodded his thanks to Nick and Kelly, always grateful when they remembered.

Kelly shrugged. “We’re not sure but I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Since the group is here,” Nick interrupted, raising his glass in toast. “To those that died and those that were hurt a hundred years ago today. May they never be forgotten.” The three men clinked their glasses together and Zane followed suit a moment later, still not sure what this was about but feeling this was a weird tribute to anyone.

As Ty sipped his drink, Zane leaned over. “Is this a Marine thing?” It was the only thing that made sense, and only just barely.

Shaking his head, Ty chuckled. “No, it’s a Boston thing. Enlighten him, Irish.”

“You didn’t tell him?” Nick looked flabbergasted. “A hundred years ago today, a huge vat of molasses broke, right here in Boston. Twenty-one people were killed in the ensuing wave, and over a hundred were injured. And by huge I mean a couple million gallons of the stuff, flowing through Boston and destroying everything in its path.”

“So you get together to drink to the memory of people who died in a tsunami of molasses?” Zane’s brows nearly reached his hairline and he only wished he was more surprised. With this group, that was almost...tame.

Seeing the look on his husband’s face, Ty laughed, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “And since molasses is used to make rum, that is how we honor them. By drinking that which killed them and making sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“You’re all batshit, you know that, right?” Zane asked, unable to keep the laugh out of his voice.

Kelly nodded while Nick and Ty laughed loudly, drawing the attention of some of the other patrons. “This is hardly the strangest tradition we have,” Doc explained and Zane figured that was probably truer than he wanted it to be.

Standing, Nick reached across the table and planted a kiss on Zane’s forehead before plopping back down in his chair and finishing his glass. He leaned against Kelly, an easy grin on his face. He’d obviously had a few glasses before they’d arrived. “Welcome to Recon, Zane!”

“Oohrah!” the others responded and Zane dropped his head to the table. For better or for worse, he muttered to himself, drawing a laugh from Ty who was close enough to hear him, even over the din of the bar. For better or for worse.

It certainly could have been worse, and in the end, Zane sighed, rolled his shoulders back and settled in to listen to their stories, appreciating that they always made an effort to treat him like he was one of the team. And seeing Ty’s face, flush with happiness and the after effects of the rum, made all the craziness worth it. Being with Ty was worth anything. Even toasts to disasters of old.

#jena writes #cut & run #sidewinder #tyzane #nickels #tumblr fic #i have no idea #don't ask me #boston molasses flood #it's a thing #long post

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angycryptid · 3 years ago

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Happy Boston Molasses flood anniversary! here's a story that i wrote about it and forced my entire history class to listen to me read it!

It was 12:15 pm on January 15th 1919, and Pasquale Iantosca had just gotten home for lunch. He stepped in the front door, and called to his father that he was home. Kicking down a small cobweb in the corner, he stuffed his hand in his pocket, awaiting his father’s response. There was a little bit of change he found on the street, not much, only a few pennies, their faint metallic scent still ringing in his brain. The sounds of crickets hiding in the house for the winter were silently deafening. Pasquale’s father walked into the room asking about firewood. Pasquale had forgotten to grab any on his way home, and so he left the house again.

Pasquale had always disliked the winter. It was far too dreary for his taste. He couldn’t wait for the spring to arrive, bringing buzzing bees that would bumble around and would fall into the pink and orange flowers. He always loved watching them while sitting in the dewy grass, fidgeting with a lively green leaf from a nearby bush or tree. Now the only signs that there was ever life in this world were frosted-over dead looking flowers, a couple bushes with needles instead of leaves in a cold bluish color, the occasional dead leaf, and the hope for the next summer to come.

About to cross the speckled grey street, Pasquale began to walk towards the large storage tank, because often small sticks and bits of wood would end up around it. The tank began to groan as it always did, although today the noise seemed a little more strained than usual.

After his trek across the pavement, Pasquale mostly found pieces of mulch, far too small too start a fire. After a bit more searching, he found a larger cut of bark that had tiny mushrooms growing out of it. He decided that it would do, and checked his pocket watch that he often ‘borrowed’ from his father to look cool. The time read 12:30 pm.

Turning to begin to walk back across the street, Pasquale heard a strange deep rumble, almost like what he imagined an earthquake would be like. He swiftly turned around only to be faced by a sideways railway car rushing towards him, being pushed by a large wave of molasses. The brown sticky goop was rushing towards him at a very high speed, rumbling across the road at nearly 35 miles per hour. Pasquale Inatosca was dead on impact.

In the following days, bodies slowly began to be identified, after being pulled from the sticky dark goop. The newspapers read that there were 21 casualties and 150 injuries. The tragedy took place at 529 commercial street when a storage tank containing 2.3 million gallons of molasses collapsed. However, Pasquale’s father had seen the 15 foot wave hit his son through his apartment window.

#boston molasses flood #story #original story #historical fiction #tw violence #tw death

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luv-engineering · 7 years ago

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A Moving Killer Wave of Molasses This was a horror story. A defective tank, built in a hurry, for molasses which was shipped in and out of Boston to make alcohol, started leaking. Some of the little children living in close quarters to the tank were able to collect little dishes of molasses from the ground surrounding the tank. Yet, nothing was done for the sake of time and money. Go to Amazon

Enlightening in many ways Not only does this book describe one of the most bizarre disasters that occurred, the failure of a hugh tank holding over 2 million gallons of molasses, but it gives a view of Boston and the USA prior to our entry into WWI. Our attitudes toward immigrants, big business, poverty, war, class consciousness and even the rum / molasses / slave trade. A look at the Anarchists and their actions is currently echoed by today's terrorists along with the government's reactions to them. There are other parallels that appear making this past tragedy surprising current. A very worthwhile read that grips you until the end. The author has done fine research, well documented and the bibliography is very interesting. One can see the cycle of no regulations, disaster, new regulations, memories fade regulations removed, and the looming next disaster to start it all again. Puts everything into a framework. Very educational. Go to Amazon

A molasses flood!?! A fascinating story! Walking through a bookstore, this title caught my eye... a molasses flood!?! I'd never heard about this event, so I picked up the book and flipped through it. It intrigued me enough to buy a copy. Puleo does a great job of bringing the story to us in terms of the people involved, as well as laying a back story of what what happening in the world, that contributed to the failure of the holding tank. Balancing just the right amount of that history, with the actual events up to, during and after the tragedy, Puleo's narrative was easy to follow and well written. He brings us into the lives of the victims, the corporate players and the legal drama that followed. All in all, this was a fascinating story and one that history fans should add to their libraries! Go to Amazon

Not so funny sounding anymore..... I had vaguely heard a few things about a molasses flood in Boston, as a New Englander there are many bits of history to hear. This sounded like a Month Python skit, or a Loony Tunes visual, which is perhaps why the august chronicles of Bean Town history have glazed over the event (bad pun intended) . Pulls not only cites the tragedy itself and the ensuing human suffering, he does a marvelous job of detailing why such a monster was built in a heavily crowded area and what happened after Mr. Ogden's judgement that USIA was culpable, not an anything's bomb. Go to Amazon

Interesting piece of New England history An interesting story about a part of New England history I did not know. I wasn't aware of the molasses industry and how it was used so intensely for ammunition during WWI - as well as for consumer products. I lived in MA for 40 years and had not heard of this industrial accident, but I know the area where it happened and all traces of that devastation are gone (maybe not to those who live directly where it happened).. it was interesting to see the event from different viewpoints and how the investigation was carried out. Good photographs. I recommend this book to anyone interested in New England history or history of molasses. Go to Amazon

Reality is not Funny I had read about this incident in the past so when I saw this book I knew I had to learn more. While previous articles regarded this real disaster in the past with humor, the events described in Dark Tide are no laughing matter. Along with a detailed history of the Boston waterfront, some delving into WWI and issues with immigration to the US, the book covers in detail the long court case and its results which continue to affect communities and corporate practices to this day. It is always a shame when people die due to poor planning and bad construction, but we learn from our mistakes. All of the paperwork and building inspections,engineering and architecture are for the most part, are derived from this terrible incident that took place early in the 20th century. Go to Amazon

Molasses flood? In Boston? Almost 100 years ago? Never heard of it! That's what made this book great for me! I'm a sucker for well researched historical accounts of things I don't know much about. A molasses flood that happened almost 100 years ago told in a compelling way by the author hit my interest perfectly. He introduces and develops characters in the first third of the book, tells of the flood in a "real page turner" way the middle third, and gives account of the court case that followed in the last part. How this event affected people is told. Also interesting is how what was going on in our country and society influenced attitudes concerning the flood. These items include WW1, racism, economy, anarchy (what we would call terrorism these days), and even a good lesson about the molasses trade, what it was used for, and it's importance at that time. I'd guess this book isn't for everybody but I loved it. Go to Amazon

Five Stars Five Stars Five Stars I was very pleased with this book Repetition is a Curse As a Bostonian I truly enjoyed this story It would have been nice for info of the steel metallurgical analysis and results ... Five Stars 35 mile area of north Boston covered in molasses I 1919 Five Stars

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biggy-habes · 4 years ago

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So we left off with me and Fennie moving in with Amanda. I was a bit nervous about this, because the last 2 girlfriends that I had lived with ended up crashing and burning. One took all of our shit with her while I was at work one day. Nothing better than coming home from a hard day's work to come home to…Nothing. Jack shit. The other one had pissed on our couches and threatened to cut my dick off in my sleep. I slept with a knife in my hand that night. Good times!

So you can probably understand the hesitance. There were some major lifestyle differences between us. She was high maintenance. I am a bit of a slob. She enjoyed being young and having a good time. I was heavily into the drug-free lifestyle of NA. Also…I was a vegetarian. Not just a vegetarian, but a vegan. And a super annoying self-righteous vegan at that. Now how did I get there? How does one go from downing 50 wings at Hooters during a wrestling Pay Per View to eating cashew cheese and lentils? Well it all started with a cat named George. In 2010 I was living in a shitty one bedroom downstairs unit in a shitty part of Lawton, Oklahoma. Every so often a grey cat would be wandering around the tree outside my door. I never saw a collar on him so I assume he just would just wander around the neighborhood. When I would see him from my window I would bring him cold cuts or what not. One day I looked outside and saw him climbing into the tree, however it looked like he had something stuck to his fur. I went out to see what the issue was and give him a hand. I certainly was not expecting to see what was actually in his fur. As I got closer I saw that it was actually burns and scars. It looked as if someone had poured boiling oil on him. I was horrified! This angered me beyond being able to put into words! I felt like I needed to do something. I needed to file a report or something! So I jumped onto my computer and I immediately started searching for ways to report animal cruelty. This would lead to me reading about animal cruelty in general. And this would lead me to reading about animal cruelty in the meat industry. And THIS…would lead to the videos of animal cruelty in the meat industry. And it was that day that I decided that I could not ethically participate in the anything that would promote the things that I have witnessed that day. So from then on I was all about that Vegan Lyfe, son! That was…until I got to Boston.

For my birthday in May we were able to take a few weeks off together and decided to do a bit of traveling. The plan was to spend a week in Boston, come back to Oklahoma, then drive to New Mexico to attend a wedding. Amanda and I had such an incredible time doing all of the touristy stuff that Boston had to offer. I knew a few friends from High School who moved to the Boston area so I had looked up a buddy and we ended up eating sushi at a low key Japanese bar near Boston Common. I figured a walk around after eating would be a nice end to the evening. Unfortunately my stomach had different plans. Soon after we started walking around the Commons I felt a rumble and a grumble. I turned to Amanda and informed her that we needed to find a restroom. STAT! Now here is the thing with large cities like Boston…they don’t just have a McDonalds or a WalMart that you can run into and use the bathroom. And as we continued walking around looking for ANY PLACE where I can duck in and do some damage the sense of urgency just kept rising. It is getting to the point where I am about to settle for an alley and a newspaper. And then, like a beacon of hope, I notice a familiar green mermaid a few blocks away. I immediately start booking with the gait of Abe Vigoda and reach the doors of the Starbucks in a nick of time. I tell Amanda to pull guard while I handle my business. For discretionary purposes I will not dive into the violent details but a few minutes later Amanda knocked on the door to ask if I was alright. And I was. I really was! That is…until I tried to flush. The toilet was broken. It was Dumb and Dumber, but in real life. And happening to me! By now I am looking like I ran a few laps. I am pale and covered with sweat. Like I said…violent. There is NO WAY I would have an explanation for what just went down. So…I did what any rational man would do. I pretended like nothing was wrong and walked out, all the time hoping that no one is waiting to use the bathroom after me. I don’t know what happened after I left that Starbucks that night, but my heart goes out to that poor employee who got assigned that mess.

The next day we had tickets behind the first base line to watch the Sox play the Twins. It was at this game where I came SO CLOSE to achieving a lifelong dream of catching a ball at Fenway Park. A foul ball came into the stands 2 rows behind me! I immediately scrambled to grab the loose ball when a pair of kids ran towards it. I backed off to let them snag an *official* Sox game ball. Good for that kid, right? WRONG! Because he started acting like the cockiest little prick. Talking about how quick he is and teasing his brother with his "trophy catch". I sat there thinking "Listen, you little shit. If you weren't 4 foot nothing and I would have gone after that ball as if you were a grown ass man. You would have ended up somewhere near the On Deck Circle so sit down and shut your fat ice cream covered face!" Now by this time I had been a hardcore vegan for about nine months. And I had gotten GOOD at it. I learned how to spot animal products hidden in labels. I learned which restaurants had off-the-menu vegan options. But being in Boston was going to be the ultimate test. Right now just thinking about being there and not being able to eat seafood is making me the sads. No scallops. No lobster. No chowdah. At the game I was ok with my bag of peanuts while I watched Amanda scarf down a Fenway Frank. But I have always had a weakness for cheese. Not just a weakness though. It is more like I have a problem with cheese. Not the lactose intolerance problem. It is more of an "I Binge Eat Cheese" kind of problem. If I get a night of the sads I will drown my sorrows in a 1 pound brick of muenster. Not just by the slice like a gentleman. No, I have to tear off chunks with my hands like a friggin savage. I happened to notice a lady an aisle over from us eating a slice of pizza. This was not just an ordinary slice of pizza at a baseball game though. This was perfect. The cheese was still hot and melty. The grease glistened from the stadium lights overhead. In a moment of weakness I just had to have a slice of pizza. I turned to Amanda and said "I think I am going to get a slice of pizza." She looked at me, puzzled, and asked "Are you sure? The cheese isnt…" I stopped her right there. I didn’t need to be reminded. #YOLO. So that was the last night that I was a vegan. I held on to being a vegetarian for a few years after that. We can cover that later. Anyways, back to hanging out in Boston.

We tried cramming as much as possible in the few days that we had there. We did a bit of shopping (for her. Amanda was a big fan! Me…not so much. But hey, whattayagonna do?) I took the time to just wander around looking at all the cool sights, the buidings, the people.

Our last night there we went on this super cool ghost tour around Boston Proper. It is one thing to read about these tales about Lizzie Bordon and the great molasses flood. It was a completely different ballgame when you are actually walking around their gravestones! The next day we headed back to Oklahoma, where we has just one day to rest up and pack what we needed for the wedding before hitting the road for Santa Fe, New Mexico.

I did not really know who was getting married. The bride had been a friend of Amanda for a while. Now I know that I am usually cooler than a polar bear's toenails but this was going to be the first time that I would be meeting all of Amanda's closest friends and I was fucking nervous! This was a time where I was very uncomfortable in my own skin and my anxiety was through the roof. The wedding was absolutely stunning! It was held in an adobe brick church that you could not help but marvel at when you walk inside. As the bride walked down the aisle she had a glow to her that caught my attention. It was here that I first imagined Amanda walking down the aisle in a wedding gown. After the wedding we had some time to kill before the reception. We got changed and I put on my game face. I was in recovery at the time and Amanda and her friends still enjoyed partying so I immediately felt out of place. There was also a fair amount of guilt from the feeling that I was preventing her from having a good time. These days when I am in uncomfortable social situations I will usually just start rambling until the conversation gets awkward. However, back then I would just shut down and be the large, weird, reclusive guy. And that is how the wedding reception was. It was just a lot of sipping my coffee and smiling creepily. Thankfully we did not stay long at the reception. I feel like she knew how out of place I felt but was trying my best to power through. Due to the fact that we drove up we were able to bring Fennie along for this leg of the trip so he was a valid excuse for us to leave early.

We took a cab back to the hotel and spent the rest of the night watching TV with the pup. We spent the next day wandering around the city with a few of Amanda's friends. I felt much more comfortable in this setting as I can become charming as fuck in small group situations. Jon Haber is King of the Dinner Table. I spent most of the afternoon getting to know some of her closest friends and let them get to know me a little better now that I was more in my element. There was also something about New Mexico that made me feel at east. The Land of Enchantment has a breathtaking backdrop of mountains and mesas. The architecture of Santa Fe maintains the Pueblo culture and feel.

Amanda had recently started selling jewelry (Translation: She entered a pyramid scheme) and enjoyed looking at the street vendor shops selling various turquoise trinkets. I enjoyed the laid back pace and fresh air. And the food. The food was fucking INCREDIBLE! We went to bed early so that we could head back to Oklahoma the next morning. And that was the end to yet another memorable birthday week. Despite constantly being on-the-go I felt refreshed and grounded. As it turns out I was a hit with Amanda's friends. This was relieving, as the impression that I left on them was constantly in the back of my mind. Overanalyzing the perception that I leave on others has been the one regrettable trait that I have carried in me my entire life.

We returned to Oklahoma and had a week of rest before we hit the road again. This time our destination would be to visit Amanda's mother outside of Vegas. I have never set foot in Las Vegas and was excited to see the bright lights and strange folk that I have heard so much about. For someone who often requires visual stimulation this was perfect!

I am not much of a gambler so I mostly entertained myself by watching the surroundings. It reminded me of something out of one of those In-The-Near-Future sci fi movies. Strangers crowded in the streets wearing any clothing that you could possibly imagine. Celebrity impersonators would have you making constant double takes. Tom Cruise, Pee Wee Herman, Liberace, and of course the stereotypical Vegas strip Elvis. As we were preparing to make our way back to the car the sky lit up like Broadway and an easily recognizable George Thorogood riff blares from all around. Next thing you know Lonesome George is on overhead screens everywhere playing a killer 15 minute set as I sat with my mouth wide open in awe! Being sober I could not take in the FULL Vegas Strip experience but for my first time I was it was thrilling nonetheless.

The next day we went strolling through some of the (free) attractions around Vegas. We had dropped some major coin the past few weeks and were on a tight budget. Amanda's mother lived right outside of Vegas so we had a place to stay. This was the first time meeting her mother. She reminded me a lot of my own. She had a very boisterous laugh and had a light, fun personality. She immediately fell in love with Fennie and was ecstatic to have us staying with her for a couple of days. While we were there I also met Amanda's brother and his family. So if you have been keeping track, in the course of 3 weeks I met the close friends, the mother, the brother, the sister-in-law, and the nephew. This was a pretty significant advancement in our relationship. We had to leave the next morning for Oklahoma so we opted for a nice relaxing day walking around the strip and watching the college kids having their foam parties and beer funnels. It was a great trip and I really enjoyed meeting Amanda's family. I knew that we would be back soon.

And that is where I think we will end this chapter. Join me next time as we wrap up 2011.

And perhaps a big proposal.

#Spotify

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kissingwithcannibals · 6 years ago

Text

Jan 18, 2019

We’re going to get ass-blasted with snow tomorrow. A foot on Saturday and three to five inches on Sunday. (No need to worry about me. I have two boxes of Frosted Mini Wheats and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. Nothing can hurt me now.) The birds were on my mind, as they often are. Temperatures will be brutally low in the coming days, and food will be hard to find, so I wanted to give my pals some help. I glooped more bark butter on the trees. I saw a red-bellied woodpecker nibbling some this morning, which felt like a small victory. Later, as I was standing under a tree filling one of the bird feeders, I realized that a tiny fleet of chickadees and titmice were watching me from the branches above. They darted through the tree’s crown, talking to each other as they angled for a look at me from different branches. It became clear to me that these birds knew that I was refilling the feeder, and they were waiting for me to clear out. A chickadee landed on a branch perhaps not even two feet from my face. It’s remarkable how comfortable chickadees will be around people. I’ve read that they will eat food from your hand. I scraped some bark butter onto my palm, holding it out in front of me for the taking. No dice.

I’m reading this book called “Dark Tide: The Great Boston Molasses Flood of 1919″. Has anyone ever heard of this disaster before? Okay, if you haven’t, it’s wild. During WW1, the United States had a huge demand for explosives. A key ingredient of which is distilled alcohol. How do you make distilled alcohol? By fermenting molasses. (This is also you make rum.) So there was this one alcohol distiller in Boston called the Purity Distilling Company, and they were importing shitloads of molasses from places like Puerto Rico. To store all of this molasses, they constructed this giant tank in the North End of Boston. Two things: when I say tank, it isn’t like one of those tanker trucks you see these days hauling gasoline to gas stations. This tank in the North End held 2.3 million gallons, and it was like bigger than several houses combined. Just a massive structure. The second thing: why the North End? In Boston today, the North End is stupid expensive. But in the early 1900s, it was this densely packed slum, filled, at the time, with immigrants, mostly from Southern Italy. These Italians were often very poor and couldn’t speak English, so the distilling company knew that they could get away with putting this massive industrial installation right in their backyard, because this community couldn’t and wouldn’t offer an effective political protest.

So the U.S. army has a huge need for distilled alcohol, and the distilling company is under massive pressure to fill this demand. Purity Distilling never bothers to test their new tank for leaks. And, wouldn’t you know it, it begins to show signs of leaking over the coming months. People hear the metal groaning from the stress of all this molasses. Little streams of it leak down its sides and onto the street below, where kids are scooping it up because it’s like a dessert treat. Several workers quite rightly freak the fuck out about this, and they alert the company boss, who’s like, “whatever dude, it’s fine.” But it’s NOT fine. And on one unseasonably warm day in January, after the tank is filled to the max, the whole thing fucking blows. And these giant waves -15 feet high, going at initial speeds of 35 miles per hour - come barreling through the streets. Entire buildings are completely obliterated. Like 21 people are killed, and 150 injured. People and animals are getting destroyed from the impact of the waves and debris, or they literally drown to death in this thick, sticky molasses. Insane.

Anyway, that’s where I am now in the book. It’s pretty crazy. You can read more on the Wikipedia page.

Now I wanna go to the same streets in Boston where this took place. Such a crazy story!

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stevesblog · 7 years ago

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United 257

A short story by Stephen Stromberg

It wasn’t the room he wanted. A week of time spent at the world economics summit in Switzerland, as the keynote speaker no less, left him wanting. The retired accountant from Seattle had fared the summit just fine. It was the people who attended the conference. They used their risk assessments based on data farming to guide their future. Indeed, they had faith in these numbers. An air of confidence could be felt from these respective heads of the industry, subject matter experts. Charles McCoy, himself being the chief stock broker of a firm spearheaded out of Chicago. They were all just so convinced in themselves, in their knowledge. To an extent, so was he. It exhausted him.

“The substitute room wasn’t that bad” He thought. When the airline informed him on arrival in New York that his checked luggage was missing they were quick to offer a complimentary room at the Marriot to be redeemed whenever most convenient. It just so turned out that his reservation at the Hilton had been double booked due to yet another conference. He looked at this as a happy coincidence. In another time he would have said “God sent.” To this thought he let out a chuckle.

He had planned to be in New York for three days, the first being his for leisure. The last two would require him to check in on his firm’s local branch and partake in overpriced business dinners. “Would the room be enough penance?” he thought. During the trip the flight attendant had managed to spill orange juice on his suit. His first day in New York would now see him trapped in his hotel room, trying to get important papers faxed from his home office, waiting for his only suit to get back same day from the dry cleaners downstairs.

At least the breakfast had no surprises. It was that traditional American breakfast that one can’t possibly screw up. Even the yokes were perfectly over medium upon arrival to his room. Almost as if the chef had accounted for the time it took to be carted to the 5th floor, still cooking slowly on the tray until it reached its destination. As he ate his breakfast he tried to calm his nerves by reading the morning paper; a cathartic tradition passed down through the generations. With coffee in hand, he read the headline for Monday the 5th of June, 2016…“United 257 lost over the Atlantic, all presumed lost.” He seemed to be entranced by the words. “257? That’s my flight,” he said aloud, “that’s…no it can’t be…that’s my flight…right now.” He was awoken by a flustered stewardess leaning over him saying something about orange juice.

The apologetic and embarrassed flight attendant hastily returned with a flurry of napkins. She offered club soda for the stain- a quick witted suggestion by the elderly woman in the aisle seat across from his. The flight had just started. As soon as the plane came to cruising altitude snacks were ordered and dispensed. So tired from his previous weeks business engagements, Charles fell asleep within minutes of taking his seat. Now in a confused stupor, he found himself abruptly awoken and attending to the to the salvage efforts presently at hand. The attendant came back asking if there was anything else that she could get him.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

She insisted, “A snack, this morning’s newspaper perhaps?”

“Newspaper…? Yes, please…I’ll have the newspaper,” he replied.

As Charles accepted the offer a haze could be seen covering his expression. “What struck me so that concerned the paper?” he wondered. A faint memory came to him. “Had I been dreaming? I seem to remember a hotel, New York, and I was…” Just then the attendant came into sight, newspaper in hand.

His eyes widened, memory flooded back to him. He practically snatched the paper from her hand. The now further flustered attendant rushed to her station near the back. He looked at the date, Sunday, the 4th, a day before the printed dream paper. The headline of the paper referred to a new British trade policy concept nicknamed “Brexit”; a topic he had actually presented on at the conference. He started to breathe normally, color returned to his face. “Of course it had all been a dream, how silly of me to have not dismissed it sooner” he thought. Still, something left him somewhat unsettled. A part of the dream still clouded in haze. He searched for it. “A silly dream to be sure” he thought, but he couldn’t shake this feeling that he was missing this seemingly important detail. There had been a phone call in the dream, when he had been talking to his fellows back in Seattle. His coworker John had said something; it seemed out of place.

Just then, as John’s words came to him he could hear them spoken at the same time, as in chorus, “I am. Through me you will right what is wrong, fix what is broken.” The warm voice which brought peace seemed to come from everywhere. He searched the plane for the source of the voice, His voice. All was normal, no one else seeming to try to find this omniscience. Could it be? It had been years, an eternity ago. He had long ago thrown away this fantasy and all connections his life had to it. However, for all his efforts…this piece of him that was once an intricate aspect of his life was never farther than a stones throw from his conscience; a phantom of the past that haunted him. The peace in his heart quickly turned to anger, a thick molasses like poison boiling over, quickly smothering this temporary tranquility. “What was this sick new joke? Am I supposed to reopen this door? How dare He? How dare He choose now to show himself?”

Charles’s parents met in Seattle in 1977. His father, Jonathan, moved from his home in Boston to escape the drugs, alcohol, and violence that stole so many of his friends and family. Raised Roman Catholic, with some experience in carpentry, Jonathan came to this new city to live with his cousin, to look for a job and start anew. He began as an apprentice carpenter with the local union. It wasn’t long until he made journeyman. He had dreams of going to college for architecture. Two years after arriving in the Emerald City he met his bride to be, Maloney. They fell in love, married, and rented their first apartment. Within a year Charles was born. Now with a wife and child to take care of, mounting bills, and an ever busy schedule that was quickly solidifying his position at the Union, he decided that his plans for college would have to wait. He fully intended to go back one day.

One year later they had moved out of the apartment and bought their first house. It was a turn-of the-century, two-story brick house on the southeast side with three rooms and a full, unfinished basement. Enough room could be found in this modest home for a budding new family. This was a happy, fruitful period for the young family that saw another son born two years later. He was named Mathew, baptized under the same Roman Catholic traditions as his brother, father, and all who came before in the line of the McCoys. The young Charles soon learned what it meant to be the older brother. He was his baby brother’s protector. He loved him dearly.

The happy times were not meant to last. When Mathew was two years old he came down with pneumonia. The doctors did what they could for the infant. Within a week he had passed. Charles didn’t fully understand what had happened to his dear brother. He knew he was gone, but not why. His mother, fighting through her broken heart, tried to help him understand. All attempts to convey strength and atonement were betrayed by the pleading in her eyes. They asked, begged the question. He did not comprehend it at the time. Later on in life, upon a similar tragedy, he would see them again; this time in his wife’s eyes. Their eyes, a generation apart, searched for the explanation to the simple question… “Why?”

Happiness never came back to his mother. When his father realized that nothing he could do would help he gave into drinking, trying to drown his own memories. Soon his drinking led to violence. Theirs became yet another household that kept the garbage out of sight, problems behind closed doors. The violence and substance abuse he had left in Boston had finally come home. One day his mother decided she had endured enough. She said she didn’t love him anymore. She took Charles and left their home to move in with his uncle, on his mother’s side. His parents, still being of faith and his father being a head figure in the union, never officially divorced. Every year Charles would receive a birthday card in the mail from his father with some spending money. Every summer they’d go to a baseball game. By the time he was 13 his father died from liver failure. His parting gift, a trust fund made in Charles’ name, eventually to be used to send him to college.

Charles’ mind was racing furiously. Never before had he received the slightest indication that his upbringing in the Church was anything but a lie wrapped in false promises and meaningless traditions. His family never had a taste of this “unending love,” only death and sadness. He now knew better than that. To accept that there was in fact a god was to accept that there was a good enough reason for the pain he had endured. For him to accept what he had been told since childhood would be madness. Any attempt to stop this plane’s “destiny” a sign of this acceptance. But he knew what he had heard. What he was experiencing was starting to be too much for him. For fear that his behavior might start scarring other passengers he left his seat to go to the plane’s lavatory. He would have to come to terms in what privacy might be found in that three square foot room.

In the lavatory he found himself lost in self-reflection. He had learned to fight for what was his, faith never had given him anything. He had lost his faith in “God’s truth.” He abandoned all belief in creationism. He now believed that life was gained via a primal struggle for dominance of the fittest encroached by luck. Even to quote life’s eventualities as “fate” would mean giving credit to a “something greater.” His “faith” was now in the harmony of chance and chaos. His heart was stone, but even after his brother’s death as a child he had still believed. It was not until later in life that the crux of his abandoned beliefs took place.

Charles met his wife when he was 30. It was at his accounting firm’s Christmas party. Her name was Michelle. The first drink they shared was bowl punch, spiked courtesy of Charles. He stole their first kiss New Year’s Night as the ball dropped. Hope in faith and the freedom it brings to love were still very much alive in Charles. He dated Michelle for two years. He allowed himself to be consumed by the love he felt for her. She returned this love and they became engaged. He dreamed of having a large family, his firstborn son to be named Mathew. Despite having not been brought up as a Roman Catholic Michelle shared her husband’s dream. He was sure he could bring her to the faith and then raise their children in the Church. They set on their journey to parenthood.

They tried for two and a half years. At first they were calmed by the wisdom and advice of their closest friends who had raised children. They told the worried couple that “These things take awhile sometimes.” Eventually the counsel wasn’t enough. The results came back from the doctor. Michelle was barren. At that moment the dreams they shared together were lost. The emotions in her eyes reminded him of his past. A fear started growing inside him. He started distancing himself from her. He came home late from work, drank too much at dinner. They started going on fewer dates. This fear he couldn’t name, which was quickly dissolving their marriage, was self-fulfilling. He was afraid that he was to relive the suffering his parents had endured. Every time he saw his wife he could only feel the echo of that life cut short, a family torn apart. He had lost hope. He turned to his faith in anger. He looked for answers to his frustrations. He was not satisfied. His fear caused him to turn on his faith and abandon their marriage. All he could do was run. After three years of marriage they were divorced.

Now at the age of 38 he was a changed man, having blotted out any semblance to who he had been. His heart had gone cold, a defense against becoming vulnerable again. Now, on this plane, he had experiences he could not ignore. He felt the pangs of an array of conflicting emotions. In the lavatory he continued his search for answers. “I know there is no one there, you never were before!” He thought to himself. “Now you come out of nowhere AND EXPECT TO USE ME?!” He broke out into an audible yell. Someone tried for the door, asked if he was alright. He continued with a subdued tone. “Even if you are there, what have you ever done for me?!” Thoughts of those in the church who had been there during the rough times came to mind. Sweat was beading down his face, wiped away by trembling hands. “What am I doing? There’s no one here, who am I entertaining? …No one.” He tried to convince himself, switching from verbal words to thoughts in quick, indiscriminate succession. He tried to rationalize the dream, but each time he would remember the voice, how it filled the room. Memories kept rushing in…of when Mathew died. The Church took care of them. Made dinners, cleaned laundry, watched Charles so that his parents might fully grieve. “No!” Of when they left his father his uncle raised him as his own. “Stop!” He slammed his fists on the sink. Neither he nor his mother ever wanted for a roof or food. “No more!!” He smashed the mirror…His wife…had suggested adoption. Charles collapsed on the floor.

“No, no, I can’t believe, or above all, be used…what my family endured, my wife…I…” He realized that if God were real that all of this was for his plan. That he had left his wife when he should have stayed strong. He let that happen when he bowed to it, his fear. He didn’t hear the words, but just then, he felt them. “It’s alright; I’ll take you as you are. Believe and be forgiven”… It was then that his defiance was complete. “No, I can’t” Charles said. “I can’t take responsibility for this. This is your fault. You did this.” He stood up. “You want a solution to this mess? Fine, but it sure as hell won’t be yours.” His forehead dry, his hand firm, he opened the door. Now outside the lavatory he said “I’m fine, thank you” to the flight attendant waiting outside. He passed his seat, ignored all of the eyes that were now on him. With one swift upward motion he pulled the latch. His breath was gone well before it happened. It was not until he could see the street lamps that he realized what he had done.

June 5, 2016

New York Times

UNITED 257: OPENED “E” LATCH BY IRATE PASSENGER LEADS TO FORCED LANDING; MAJOR ENGINE MALFUNCTION DISCOVERED

While making a June 4, transatlantic flight from Sweden to New York on United Airlines Flight 257 a passenger, Charles McCoy, a stockbroker from Chicago, became disturbed. The ill McCoy had gone to the plane’s lavatory for around 30 minutes. Witnesses said McCoy, upon leaving the lavatory, activated the emergency escape latch. The plane’s cabin lost pressure at high altitude. McCoy is said to have been ejected from the cabin. The airline stated that United 257 performed a successful emergency landing. The flight sustained no further injuries upon landing. Upon arrival to the nearest airport in Dublin, the plane underwent a thorough inspection. A major fault was reported to have been discovered in one of the two engines.

A United Airlines spokesperson said “The fault might have led to a major engine failure. Fortunately the flight was still over the British Isles having just left a layover in London. We share our condolences with the family of Mr. McCoy. We pray the knowledge that Mr. McCoy prevented further loss of life to be of consolation in your time of grief.”

#short story #united 257

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